I did not answer. I'd seen other trauma on the skeletons. Trauma I found puzzling. Trauma I would not mention until I understood more.

When he hung up, I went to burial four, picked up the thighbones, and brought them to the magnifier light.

Yes. It was there. It was real.

I collected the femora from every skeleton, and took the bones to a dissecting scope.

Tiny grooves circled each right proximal shaft and ran the length of each linea aspera, the roughened ridge for muscle attachment on the back side of the bone. Other gashes ran horizontally, above and below the joint surfaces. Though the number of marks varied, their distribution was consistent from victim to victim.

I cranked the magnification as high as it would go.

When I focused, the grooves crystallized into sharp-edged crevices, V-shaped in cross section.

Cut marks. But how could that be? I'd seen cut marks on bone, but only in cases of dismemberment. Except for Charlie Wayne Tramper and Jeremiah Mitchell, these individuals had been buried whole.

Then why? And why only the right femora? Was Was it only the right femora? it only the right femora?

I was about to begin a reexamination of every bone when Andrew Ryan burst through the door.

Maggie, Stan, and I looked up, startled.

"Have you been listening to the news?" Ryan asked, flushed and perspiring despite the coolness.

We shook our heads.

"Parker Davenport was found dead about three hours ago."

"DEAD?"

Emotions snapped inside me. Shock. Pity. Anger. Wariness.

"How?"

"A single bullet to the brain. An aide found him at his home."

"A suicide?"

"Or a setup."

"Is Tyrell doing the post?"

"Yeah."

"Has it hit the media?"

"Oh, yeah. They're pissing their pants for information."

Relief. The pressure would lift from me. Guilt. A man is dead and you think first of yourself.

"But the thing's wrapped tighter than the U.S. war plan."

"Did Davenport leave a note?"

"None found. What's up here?" He gestured toward the autopsy tables.

"Got some time?"

"The crash was due to carelessness and mechanical failure." He spread his arms. "I'm a free man."

The wall clock said seven forty-five. I told Stan and Maggie to call it a day, then led Ryan to my cubicle and explained the Veckhoff diary.

"You're suggesting that random elderly persons were murdered following the deaths of prominent citizens?" He tried but failed to keep the skepticism from his voice.

"Yes."

"And no one noticed."

"The disappearances weren't frequent enough to suggest a pattern, and the selection of aged victims created less of a ripple."

"And this granny-napping has been going on for half a century."

"Longer."

It did sound preposterous, and this made me edgy. When edgy, I get mouthy.

"And gramps was fair game, too."

"And the perps used the Arthur house to dispose of the bodies."

"Yes, but for more than just disposing."

"And this was some sort of group in which everyone had a code name."

"Has," I snapped.

Silence.

"Are you talking cult?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think so. But I do think the victims were used in some sort of ritual."

"Why is that?"

"Come with me."

I walked him from table to table, making introductions and pointing out details. Finally, I took him to the dissecting scope and focused the lens on Edna Farrell's right femur. When he'd studied it, I inserted one of Tucker Adams's thighbones. Rafferty. Odell.

The pattern was unmistakable. Same nicks. Same distribution.

"What are they?"

"Cut marks."

"As in knife?"

"Something with a sharp blade."

"What do they mean?"

"I don't know."

Each bone made a soft thunk as I replaced it on the stainless steel. Ryan watched me, his face unreadable.

My heels clicked loudly as I crossed to the sink, then walked to my cubicle to remove my lab coat and put on my jacket. When I returned, Ryan was standing over the skeleton I believed to be the apple farmer, Albert Odell.

"So you know who they are."

"Except for that gentleman."

I indicated the elderly black male. "And you think they were strangled."

"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. A.M. Except when excavating, Jim was nocturnal. 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. A.M.

Jim's photos and articles lay on the fax machine when I arrived at the morgue. Nature, Science, Nature, Science, and and American Antiquity. American Antiquity. I read each and studied his pictures. Then I reexamined every skull and long bone, taking Polaroids of anything that looked suspicious. I read each and studied his pictures. Then I reexamined every skull and long bone, taking Polaroids of anything that looked suspicious.

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.