I nodded, too revolted to reply.
“Same deal. Only our gentlemen cannibals restricted themselves to sharing the flesh of one thigh from each victim. It was like a blood brotherhood pact. Though the whole club met regularly at the Arthur house, Midkiff swears that only members of the inner circle knew what really went on at these initiations.”
I thought of Ralph Stover's words to me. “I found my offering.”
“Tucker Adams was killed in 1943 when inner-circle member Henry Arlen Preston died, and Anthony Allen Birkby joined the elite. When Sheldon Brodie drowned in 1949, Martin Patrick Veckhoff was the new inner-circle choice and Edna Farrell was his victim. Anthony Allen Birkby perished in a car wreck a decade later, his son was given the inner-circle nod, and Charlie Wayne Tramper ended up on the Communion table.”
“Wasn't Tramper killed by a bear?”
“Young Birkby may have cheated a bit. The Tramper funeral was where Parker Davenport met Simon Midkiff, by the way. Midkiff knew Tramper through his research on the Cherokee.”
“Did Midkiff know what had happened to Tramper?”
“Claims he had no clue.”
“How did Midkiff get hooked up with H&F?”
“In 1955 the young professor was newly arrived from England, and had been told to look up Prentice Dashwood, an old family friend. Dashwood recruited Midkiff into H&F.”
“He never made it to the inner circle.”
“No.”
“But Davenport did.”
“Following the Tramper funeral, Midkiff gradually introduced Davenport to the brothers. The idea of an intellectual elite appealed to Davenport, and he joined up.”
“Even though he was from Swain County, Davenport had never known about the lodge?”
“Not before he joined. Apparently no one did. These guys were amazing at keeping themselves hidden. They'd sneak in and out after dark. Over the years, everyone forgot the place was there.”
“Everyone except old Edward Arthur and Luke Bowman's father.”
“Right.” McMahon perused the contents of a drawer as if unsure whether to pack or discard them.
“And the club put nothing on paper.”
“Very little.”
He emptied the drawer into the box, reinserted it in the desk, opened another.
“What is all this shit?” He straightened and looked at me. “Continuing with the chronology, John Morgan died in 1972, Mary Francis Rafferty was killed, and F. L. Warren moved up. By this time, Midkiff was getting disenchanted. He quit shortly after that.”
“So he may not have been a party to any murders.”
“It looks that way. But Davenport's dirty. In 1979 he was chosen to replace William Glenn Sherman in the inner circle. Davenport's canapé was the unidentified black male.”
“Was it significant that the victims were drawn from different races and both sexes?”
“The idea was to maximize the breadth of spiritual intake.”
“Jesus.”
“Kendall Rollins succumbed to leukemia in 1986 and his son Paul took his place.”
“Albert Odell was the victim?”
“Correct.”
McMahon dumped the second drawer.
“What happened with Jeremiah Mitchell and George Adair?”
“Major fuck-up. When Martin Patrick Veckhoff checked out last February, Roger Lee Fairley was slated for coronation. He was informed of the requirements, and Mitchell was grabbed and killed. Fairley's sudden death on the way to the Veckhoff funeral created a problem, and Mitchell was put on ice while the succession issue was resolved.”
“By whom?”
“Ralph Stover was told that it would soon be his turn to move from the outer to the inner circle, was advised of the conditions, and was asked to perform a few extra duties. He stored Mitchell's body in a freezer at the Riverbank Inn.”
I suppressed a shudder.
“That's why the volatile fatty acid readings were off.”
“Exactly. In early September Stover was officially proposed to succeed Veckhoff, and Mitchell's body was taken back and placed in the courtyard in preparation for an induction ceremony. That's when things began to unravel. Some within the inner circle opposed Stover's promotion, seeing him as too zealous, too unstable. The dispute dragged on, decomposition began, meaning the body couldn't be used for the ritual and the corpse had to be buried in the cave.”
“But not before a coyote visitation.”
“Bless them.”
“Stover did the dirty work again?”
“He's our man.”
McMahon upended another drawer, taped the box, and labeled it with a felt-tip pen.
“Anyway, after weeks of wrangling, the Stover faction prevailed. George Adair was abducted on October first. The crash occurred on October fourth.”
“I retrieved the foot on October fifth.”
He stacked the box with the earlier ones and opened a file drawer.
“As you know, Stover also killed Primrose Hobbs. Lucy Crowe found Stelazine in his apartment at the Riverbank Inn. The prescription was written by a Mexican doctor for none other than Parker Davenport. Stover had four capsules in his pocket Sunday night. The same drug he used on Primrose.”
He looked at me.
“She also found a length of wire that matches the garrote from Hobbs's neck.”
The cold fist. It still didn't seem possible that Primrose was dead.
“He told me he did it because he could.”
“An order may have come from the inner circle, or he may have been acting on his own. Perhaps he feared she'd discovered something. He probably stole her key and password to remove the foot from the morgue and alter the file.”
“Has the foot been found?”
“Never will be, I suspect. Hang on.”
McMahon disappeared into the hall, returned with two more empty boxes.
“How can so much crap accumulate in one month?”
“Don't forget the rubber snake.”
I pointed to an artifact on his desk.
“I'm curious how Crowe found me.”
“She and Ryan hit High Ridge House minutes apart Sunday night, well past the time you should have arrived. Finding your car in the lot but no sign of you in the house, they went looking. When they found the dog—”
He glanced up, quickly back to the box. I kept my face neutral.
“Apparently your chow got hold of Stover's wrist before he was shot. Ryan found a medical bracelet with Stover's name on it lying next to the dog's snout. Crowe made the connection based on something Midkiff had told her.”
“The rest is history.”
“The rest is history.”
He threw the snake into the box, changed his mind and took it out.
“Ryan headed back to Quebec?”
“Yes.”
Again, I kept my face neutral.
“I don't know the monsieur that well, but his partner's death really turfed him.”
“Yes.”
“Throw in the niece, and I'm amazed the guy held it together.”
“Yes.” The niece?
“‘Danielle the Demon,’ he called her.”
McMahon crossed to his jacket and tucked the snake into a pocket.
“Said we'd probably read about the kid in the papers one day.”
The niece?
I felt a smile tug the corners of my mouth.
At times neutrality is difficult.
I found Simon Midkiff bundled in overcoat, gloves, and muffler, dozing in a rocker on his front stoop. A brimmed cap hid most of his face, and I suddenly thought of another question.
“Simon?”
His head snapped up and the watery eyes blinked in confusion.
“Yes?”
He wiped a hand across his mouth, and a filament of saliva glistened on wool. Removing the glove, he dug under layers of clothing, withdrew glasses, and slid them onto his nose.
Recognition.
“I'm glad to see you are all right.” Chains looped to either side of his head, throwing delicate shadows across his cheeks. The skin looked pale and paper-thin.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course. Perhaps we should go inside.”
We entered a combination kitchenette–living area with one interior door, which I presumed led to a bedroom and bath. The furnishings were lacquered pine, and looked like they'd come from a home workshop.