When I arrived McMahon was packing the contents of his cubicle into cardboard boxes.

'Breaking camp?' I asked from the doorway.

'Hey, girl, you're back in town.' He cleared a chair, gestured me into it. 'How are you feeling?'

'Bruised and scraped but fuly functional.'

Amazingly, I'd sustained no serious injury during my romp in the woods with Ralph Stover. A slight concussion had sent me to the hospital for a couple of days, then Ryan had driven me to Charlotte. Assured I was fine, he'd flown back to Montreal, and I'd spent the rest of the week on the couch with Birdie.

'Coffee?'

'No thanks.'

'Mind if I keep working?'

'Please.'

'Has someone regaled you with the whole strange tale?'

'There are stil gaps. Take it from the top.'

'H&F was some kind of hybrid between Mensa and the Bilionaire Boys Club. It didn't start out that way, was originaly just a bunch of businessmen, doctors, and professors coming to the mountains to hunt and fish.'

'Back in the thirties.'

'Right. They'd camp on Edward Arthur's land, hunt during the day, drink and party al night. Applaud themselves on their extraordinary inteligence. The group got to be very close over the years, eventualy formed a secret society which they caled H&F.'

'The founding father being Prentice Dashwood.'

'Dashwood was the first prior, whatever the hel that means.'

'H&F stands for Hel Fire,' I said. 'Hel Fire Clubs flourished in eighteenth-century England and Ireland, the most famous being the brainchild of Sir Francis Dashwood.

Prentice Dashwood of Albany, New York, was a descendant of Sir Francis. Mama was an unnamed Hel Fire lady.' I'd done a lot of reading during my time on the couch. 'Sir Francis had four sons named Francis.'

'Sounds like George Foreman.'

'The man was proud of his name.'

'Or the least creative progenitor in history.'

'Anyway, the original Hel Fires had a healthy skepticism for religion and loved lampooning the church. They referred to themselves as the Knights of Saint Francis, to their parties as "devotions," to their steward as "prior."'

'Who were these assholes?'

'The rich and powerful of Merry Old England. Ever hear of the Bohemian Club?'

McMahon shook his head.

'It's a highly select, al-male club whose members have included every Republican president since Calvin Coolidge. They gather for two weeks every year at a secluded campground in Sonoma County, California, caled the Bohemian Grove.'

McMahon paused, a folder in each hand.

'That does ring a bel. The few journalists that have gotten in over the years have been thrown out and their stories kiled.'

'Yep.'

'You're not suggesting our political and industrial bigwigs plot murder at these rendezvous?'