Fatal Voyage (40 page)

 “Do you know an archaeologist named Simon Midkiff?”

 “Yes.”

 “He may be involved with this H&F bunch.”

 “Midkiff?”

 “His was the sixth number Davenport dialed before his death. If he
tries to contact you, agree to nothing.”

 As we talked, Larke photocopied the pictures and articles. When he was
done, I told him what Crowe had said. He posed a single question.

 “Why?”

 “Because they’re crazy,” I answered, still distracted by Crowe’s
comment about Midkiff.

 “And Parker Davenport was one of them.”

 He slid the photocopies into his briefcase, impaled me with exhausted
eyes.

 “He tried professional sabotage to keep you from that house.” Larke
swept an arm in the direction of the tables. “To divert you from this.”

 I did not reply.

 “And I was suckered in.”

 Still, I remained silent.

 “Is there anything I can say to you?”

 “There are things you can say to my colleagues.”

 “Letters will go to the AAFS, the ABFA, and the NDMS immediately.” He
grabbed my wrist. “And I will phone the head of each organization first thing Monday to explain
personally.”

 “And the press?” Though I knew he was suffering, I could force no
warmth into my voice. His disloyalty had hurt me, professionally and personally.

 “That will come. I must determine how best to handle it.”

 Best for whom? I wondered.

 “If it’s any consolation, Earl Bliss acted on my orders. He never
believed anything against you.”

 “Most who know me did not.”

 He released my arm but his eyes held firm. Overnight he’d come to look
like a tired old man.

 “Tempe, I was trained as a military man. I believe in respecting the
chain of command and carrying out the lawful orders of my superiors.

 That predisposition led me not to question things I should have
questioned. The abuse of power is a terrible thing. Failure to resist corrupting pressure is
equally contemptible. It’s time for this old dog to rouse and get off the porch.“

 I felt a deep sadness as I watched him leave. Larke and I had been
friends for many years. I wondered if we could ever be friends again.

 As I made coffee, my thoughts shifted to Simon Midkiff. Of course. It
all made sense. His intense interest in the crash site. The lies about excavating in Swain
County. The photo with Parker Davenport at Charlie Wayne Tramper’s funeral. He was one of
them.

 A sudden flashback. The black Volvo that had almost run me down. The
man at the wheel had looked vaguely familiar. Could it have been Simon Midkiff?

 I was completing my report on Edna Farrell when my cell phone rang a
second time.

 “Sir Francis Dashwood was a prolific guy.”

 The statement came from a different galaxy than the one in which my
mind was orbiting.

 “I’m sorry?”

 “It’s Anne. I was organizing stuff from our London trip and came across
a pamphlet Ted bought at the West Wycombe caves.”

 “Anne, this is not ”

 “There are gobs of Dashwoods still around.”

 “Gobs?”

 “Descendants of Sir Francis, later known as Lord Le Despencer, of
course. Just for fun I popped the name Prentice Dashwood into a genealogical site where I’m
registered. I couldn’t believe how many hits I got. One was particularly interesting.”

 I waited.

 Nothing.

 I cracked.

 “Do we do this with twenty questions?”

 “Prentice Elmore Dashwood, one of Sir Frank’s many descendants, left
England in 1921. He opened a haberdashery in Albany, New York, made bundles of money, and
eventually retired.”

 “That’s it?”

 “During his years in America, Dashwood wrote and self-published dozens
of pamphlets, one of which recounted tales of his great-great-great-something, Sir Francis
Dashwood the Second.”

 “And the other pamphlets?” If I didn’t ask, this would take
forever.

 “You name it. The song lines of the Australian Aboriginals. The oral
traditions of the Cherokee. Camping. Fly-fishing. Greek mythology. A brief ethnography of the
Carib Indians. Prentice was quite the Renaissance man. He penned three booklets and several
articles that focused exclusively on the Appalachian Trail. Apparently Big P was a real mover in
getting the trail started back in the twenties.”

 Oh? A mecca for hikers and trekkers, the AT starts at Mount Katahdin in
Maine and runs along the Appalachian ridgeline to Springer Mountain in Georgia. Much of the trail
lies in the Great Smoky Mountains. Including Swain County.

 “Are you still there?”

 “I’m here. Did Dashwood spend time here in North Carolina?”

 “He wrote five pamphlets on the Great Smokies.” I heard paper
rustle.

 “Trees. Flowers. Fauna. Folklore. Geology.”

 I remembered Anne’s tale of her visit to West Wycombe, pictured the
caves under the H&F house. Could this guy Anne was talking about be the Prentice Dashwood of
Swain County, North Carolina? It was a striking name. Could there be a connection to the British
Dashwoods?

 “What else did you find out about Prentice Dashwood?”

 “Not a thing. But I can tell you that old Uncle Francis hung with a
wild

 crowd back in the eighteenth century. Called themselves the Monks
of

 Medmenham. Listen to the list. Lord Sandwich, who at one point
commanded

 the Royal Navy, John Wilkes “

 “The politician?”

 “Yep. William Hogarth, the painter, and poets Paul Whitehead, Charles
Churchill, and Robert Lloyd.”

 “Impressive roster.”

 “Very. Everyone was a member of Parliament or the House of Lords. Or a
poet or whatever. Our own Ben Franklin dropped in now and then, though he was never an official
member.”

 “What did these guys do?”

 “Some accounts claim they engaged in satanic rites. According to the
current Sir Francis, author of the booklet we picked up on our trip, the monks were just jolly
fellows who got together to celebrate Venus and Bacchus. I take that to mean women and wine.”

 “They held wild parties in the caves?”

 “And at Medmenham Abbey. The current Sir Francis admits to his
ancestor’s sexual frolics but denies the devil worship. He suggests the satanism rumor came from
the boys’ somewhat irreverent attitude toward Christianity. They also referred to themselves as
the Knights of Saint Francis, for example.”

 I could hear her biting an apple, then chewing.

 “Everyone else called them the Hell Fire Club.”

 The name hit me like a sledgehammer.

 “What did you say?”

 “The Hell Fire Club. Big in Ireland in the 1730s and 1740s. Same
deal.

 Overprivileged devos mocking religion and getting drunk and laid.“

 Anne had a way of cutting to the quick.

 “There were attempts to suppress the clubs, but they weren’t
effective.

 When Dashwood gathered his little group of philanderers, the label Hell
Fire naturally transferred.“

 Hell Fire, H&F.

 I swallowed.

 “How long is this booklet?”

 “Thirty-four pages.”

 “Can you fax me a copy?”

 “Sure. I can get two pages on one sheet.”

 I gave her the number and went back to my report, forcing myself to
concentrate. Within minutes the fax rang, screeched, and bonged, then began to spit out pages. I
stayed with my description of Edna Farrell’s facial trauma. Some time later the machine
reengaged. Again, I resisted the impulse to rush to it and gather Anne’s pages.

 When I’d completed the Farrell report, I began another, a million
thoughts screaming for ascendancy. Though I tried to focus, images broke through again and
again.

 Primrose Hobbs. Parker Davenport. Prentice Dashwood. Sir Francis. The
Hell Fire Club. H&F. Was anything connected? The evidence was growing. There must be a
connection.

 Had Prentice Dashwood rekindled his ancestor’s idea of an elitist boys’
club here in the Carolina mountains? Had the members been more than hedonistic dilettantes? How
much more? I pictured the cut marks, suppressed a shudder.

 At four the guard came in to say that a deputy had fallen sick, another
was stranded with a malfunctioning cruiser. Crowe sent her apologies but needed him to control a
domestic situation. I assured him I’d be fine.

 I worked on, the silence of the empty morgue wrapping around me like a
living thing except for the hum of a refrigerator. My breath, my heartbeat, my fingers clicking
the keyboard. Outside, branches scraped windowpanes high overhead. A train whistle. A dog.
Crickets. Frogs.

 No car horns. No traffic noises. No living person for miles.

 My sympathetic nervous system kept the adrenaline in front row,
center.

 I made frequent errors, jumped at every squeak and tap. More than once
I wished for Boyd’s company.

 By seven I’d finished with Farrell, Odell, Tramper, and Adams. My eyes
burned, my back ached, and a dull headache told me that my blood sugar was in the cellar.

 I copied my files to floppy, closed down my laptop, and went to collect
Anne’s fax.

 Though I was anxious to read about the eighteenth-century Sir Francis,
I was too tired, too hungry, and too edgy to be objective. I decided to return to High Ridge
House, walk Boyd, talk with Crowe, then read the pamphlet in the comfort and safety of my
bed.

 I was gathering pages when I heard what sounded like gravel
crunching.

 I froze, listening.

 Tires? Footsteps?

 Fifteen seconds. Thirty.

 Nothing.

 “Time to boogie,” I said aloud.

 Tension made my movements jerky, and I dropped several papers from the
basket. Gathering them from the floor, I noticed that one differed. The type was larger,-the text
arranged in columns.

 I flipped through the other pages. Anne’s cover sheet. The front of the
pamphlet. The rest were brochure text, two pages to a sheet, each numbered sequentially.

 I remembered the machine’s pause. Could the odd page have arrived as a
separate transmission? I looked but found no return fax number.

 Taking everything to my office, I placed Anne’s material in my
briefcase and lay the mismatched sheet on my desk. As I read the contents, my adrenaline rocketed
even higher.

 The left column contained code names, the middle one real names. Dates
appeared after some individuals, forming an incomplete third column.

 Ilus Henry Arlen Preston 1943

 Khaffre Sheldon Brodie 1949

 Omega A.A. Birkby 1959

 Namer Martin Patrick Veckhoff Sinuhe C.A. Birkby

 Itzmana John Morgan 1972

 Arrigatore F.L. Warren Rho William Glenn Sherman 1979

 Chac John Franklin Battle Ometeojtl Parker Davenport

 Only one name was unfamiliar. John Franklin Battle.

 Or was it? Where had I heard that name?

 Think, Brennan. Think.

 John Battle.

 No. That’s not right.

 Franklin Battle.

 Blank.

 Frank Battle.

 The magistrate who’d stonewalled the search warrant!

 Would a mere magistrate qualify for membership? Had Battle been
protecting the H&F property? Had he sent me the fax? Why?

 And why was the most recent date more than twenty years old? Was the
list incomplete? Why?

 Then a terrifying thought.

 Who knew I was here?

 Alone.

 Again I froze, listening for the faintest indicator of another
presence.

 Picking up a scalpel, I slipped from my office to the main autopsy
room.

 Six skeletons stared upward, fingers and toes splayed, jaws silent
beside their heads. I checked the computer and X-ray sections, the staff kitchenette, the
makeshift conference room. My heart beat so loudly it seemed to overpower the stillness.

 I was poking my head into the men’s toilet when my cell phone sounded
for the third time. I nearly screamed from the tension.

 A voice, smooth as a double latte.

 “You’re dead.”

 Then empty air.

 I CALLED MCMAHON. NO ANSWER. CROWE. DITTO. I LEFT MESSAGES: Seven
thirty-eight. Leaving Alarka for High Ridge House. Call me.

 Picturing the empty lot, the deserted county road, I punched Ryan’s
number.

 Another image. Ryan, facedown on an icy drive. I’d asked for his help
that other time in Quebec. It had gotten him shot.

 Ryan has no jurisdiction, Brennan. And no personal responsibility.

 Instead of “send,” I hit the delete button.

 My thoughts ricocheted like the metal sphere in a pinball game.

 Someone should be told of my whereabouts. Someone I would not be
placing in danger.

 Sunday night. I dialed my old number.

 “Hello.” A woman’s voice, mellow as a purring cat.

 “Is Pete there?”

 “He’s in the shower.”

 I heard a wind chime tinkle. A wind chime I’d hung years ago outside my
bedroom window.

 “Is there a message?”

 I clicked off.

 “Fuck it,” I muttered. “I’ll take care of myself.”

 Slinging purse and laptop over one shoulder, I rewrapped my fingers
around the scalpel and readied my keys in the other hand. Then I cracked the door and peered
out.

 My Mazda was alone with the exiled hook-and-ladder trucks. In the
deepening twilight, it looked like a wart hog facing off with a herd of hippos.

 Deep breath.

 I bolted.

 Reaching the car, I threw myself behind the wheel, slammed down the
locks, revved the motor, and raced from the lot.

 When I’d gone a mile, I began to calm, and an ill-focused anger seeped
over the fear. I turned it on myself.

 Jesus, you’re like the heroine in a B-grade movie. One crank call and
you scream for the help of a big strong man.

 Seeing deer on the shoulder, I checked my speed. Eighty. I slowed,
returned to chiding myself.

 No one leaped from behind the building, or grabbed your ankle from
under the car.