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
Narmer
Martin Patrick Veckhoff
Sinuhe
C. A. Birkby
Itzmana
John Morgan
1972
Arrigatore
F. L. Warren
Rho
William Glenn Sherman
1979
Chac
John Franklin Battle
Ometeotl
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 warthog 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.
True enough. But the fax was not a crank. Whoever sent that list knew I'd be the one to receive it. Knew I was alone at the morgue.
As I drove through Bryson City, I checked the rearview mirror repeatedly. The Halloween decorations now looked menacing rather than festive, the skeletons and tombstones macabre reminders of the hideous events that had unfolded nearby. I gripped the wheel, wondering if the souls of my skeletal dead wandered the world in search of justice.
Wondering if their killers wandered the world in search of me.
At High Ridge House, I cut the engine and peered down the road I'd just climbed. No headlights wound their way up the mountain.
I wrapped the scalpel in a Wendy's napkin and zipped it into my jacket pocket for return to the morgue. Then I gathered my belongings and dashed to the porch.
The house was quiet as a church on Thursday. The parlor and kitchen were empty, and I passed no one on my way to the second floor. I heard no rustling or snoring from behind Ryan's or McMahon's doors.
I'd barely removed my jacket when a soft knock made me jump.
“Yes?”
“It's Ruby.”
Her face was tense and pale, her hair glossier than a page from Vogue.
When I opened the door she handed me an envelope.
“This come for you today.”
I glanced at the return address. Department of Anthropology, University of Tennessee.
“Thank you.”
I started to close the door but she held up a hand.
“There's something you need to know. Something I need to tell you.”
“I'm very tired, Ruby.”
“It wasn't an intruder that wrecked your room. It was Eli.”
“Your nephew?”
“He's not my nephew.”
She halted.
“The Gospel of Matthew tells us that whoever shall put away his wife—”
“Why would Eli trash my things?” I was not in the mood for religious discourse.
“My husband left me for another woman. She and Enoch had a child.”
“Eli?”
She nodded.
“I wished terrible things for them. I wished them to burn in hell. I thought, if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. I plucked them from my life.”
I heard the muffled sound of Boyd's barking.
“When Enoch passed, God touched my heart. Judge not and ye shall not be judged; condemn not and ye shall not be condemned; forgive and ye shall be forgiven.”
She sighed deeply.
“Eli's mother died six years ago. The boy had no one, so I took him in.”
Her eyes dropped, returned to mine.
“A man's foes shall be they of his own household. Eli hates me. Takes joy in tormenting me. He knows I take pride in this house. He knows I like you. He was just getting at me.”
“Perhaps he just wants attention.”
Look at the kid, I thought, but didn't say it.
“Perhaps.”
“I'm sure he'll come around in time. And don't worry about my things. Nothing was taken.” I changed the subject. “Is anyone else here?”
She shook her head.
“I believe Mr. McMahon's gone off to Charlotte. Haven't seen Mr. Ryan all day. Everyone else has checked out.”
Again, I heard barking.
“Has Boyd been a nuisance?”
“Dog's been ornery today. Needs exercising.” She brushed her skirt. “I'm off to church. Shall I bring dinner before I leave?”
“Please.”
Ruby's roast pork and yam pudding had a calming effect. As I ate, the panic that had sent me racing through the twilight gave way to a dismal loneliness.