“Yes.”
“What the hell for?”
“Talk to McMahon. That's police work.”
Ryan followed me out to the parking lot. As I was sliding behind the wheel, he shot off one more question.
“What kind of twisted mutant would snatch old people, choke them to death, and play with their bodies?”
The answer would come from an unexpected source.
Back at High Ridge House, I made myself a ham salad sandwich, grabbed a bag of Sunchips and a handful of sugar cookies, and headed out to dine with Boyd. Though I apologized profusely for my negligence over the past week, his eyebrows barely moved, and his tongue remained firmly out of sight. The dog was annoyed.
More guilt. More self-censure.
After giving Boyd the sandwich, chips, and cookies, I filled his bowls with water and chow, and promised him a long walk the following day. He was sniffing the Alpo as I slipped away.
I reprovisioned myself and took the snack to my room. A note lay on the floor. Based on the mode of delivery, I suspected it had come from McMahon.
It had. He asked that I stop by FBI headquarters the next day.
I wolfed down my dinner, took a hot bath, and phoned a colleague at UNC-Chapel Hill. Though it was past eleven, I knew Jim's routine. No morning classes. Home around six. After dinner, a five-mile run, then back to his archaeology lab until 2 A.M. Except when excavating, Jim was nocturnal.
After greetings and a brief catch-up, I asked for his help.
“Doing some archaeology?”
“It's more fun than my usual work,” I said noncommittally.
I described the strange nicks and striations without revealing the nature of the victims.
“How old is this stuff?”
“Not that old.”
“It's odd that the marks are restricted to a single bone, but the pattern you're describing sounds suspicious. I'm going to fax you three recent articles and a number of my own photos.”
I thanked him and gave him the morgue number.
“Where is that?”
“Swain County.”
“You working with Midkiff?”
“No.”
“Someone told me he was digging up there.”
Next, I phoned Katy. We talked about her classes, about Boyd, about a skirt she'd seen in the Victoria's Secret catalog. We made plans for the beach at Thanksgiving. I never mentioned the murders or my growing trepidation.
After the phone call, I climbed into bed and lay in the dark, visualizing the skeletons we'd recovered from the cellar. Though I'd never seen an actual case, I knew in my heart what the strange marks meant.
But why?
I felt horror. I felt disbelief. Then I felt nothing until the sun warmed my face at 7 A.M.
Jim's photos and articles lay on the fax machine when I arrived at the morgue.
Still, I could not believe it. Ancient times, ancient peoples, yes. These things didn't happen in modern America.
A sudden synapse.
One more phone call. Colorado. Twenty minutes later, another fax.
I stared at it, the paper trembling slightly in my hand.
Dear God. It was undeniable.
I found McMahon at his temporary headquarters in the Bryson City Fire Department. As with the incident morgue, the function of the FBI office had changed. McMahon and his colleagues had shifted their focus from crash to crime scene investigation, their paradigm from terrorism to homicide.
Space formerly occupied by the NTSB was now empty, and several cubicles had been merged to create what looked like a task force squad room. Bulletin boards that had once featured the names of terrorist groups and militant radicals now held those of eight murder victims. In one cluster, the positive IDs: Edna Farrell. Albert Odell. Jeremiah Mitchell. George Adair. In another, the unknown and those still in question: John Doe. Tucker Adams. Charlie Wayne Tramper. Mary Francis Rafferty.
Though every name was accompanied by a date of disappearance, the amount and type of information varied considerably from board to board.
On the opposite end of the room, more boards displayed photos of the Arthur house. I recognized the attic cots, the dining room table, the great room fireplace. I was examining shots of the basement murals when McMahon joined me.
