'Was it Stover who tried to run me down in Cherokee?'

'I heard it was a black Volvo. Stover has a black Volvo. That incident convinced me that he realy was dangerous.'

I gestured at the boxes.

'You're digging here, aren't you, Simon?'

'Yes.'

'Without permission from Raleigh.'

'The site is crucial to the lithic assemblage sequence I'm constructing.'

'That's why you lied to me about working for the Department of Cultural Resources.'

He nodded.

I set down my cup and stood.

'I'm sorry things haven't turned out as you'd hoped.' I was sorry, but couldn't forgive what he had known and not reported.

'When the book is published people wil recognize the value of my work.'

Outside, the day was stil clear and cool, with no haze in the valeys or along the ridges.

Twelve-thirty. I had to hurry.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The turnout for Edna Farrel's funeral was larger than I expected, given that she'd been dead more than half a century. In addition to members of her family, much of Bryson City, and many from the police and sheriff's departments had gathered to lay the old woman to rest. Lucy Crowe came, and so did Byron McMahon.

Stories of the Hel Fire Club now eclipsed accounts of the Air TransSouth crash, and reporters were there from across the Southeast. Eight seniors butchered and buried in the basement of a mountain lodge, the lieutenant governor discredited, and more than a dozen prominent citizens jailed. The media were caling them the Cannibal Murders, and I was forgotten like last year's sex scandal. While I was sorry that I could not shield Mrs. Veckhoff and her daughter from the publicity and public humiliation, I was relieved to be out of the spotlight.

I hung back during the graveside service, thinking of the many exits our departing lives can take. Edna Farrel didn't die in her bed but departed through a much more melancholy door. So did Tucker Adams, at rest under the weathered plaque at my feet. I felt great sadness for these people, so long dead. But I felt comfort in the knowledge that I had helped bring their bodies to this hil. And satisfaction that the kilings were at last at an end.

When the mourners dispersed, I approached and laid a smal bouquet on Edna's grave. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned. Lucy Crowe was walking in my direction.

'Surprised to see you back so soon.'

'It's my hard Irish head. Impossible to crack.'

She smiled.

'It's so beautiful up here.' My gaze swept over the trees, the tombstones, the hils and valeys spreading to the horizon like orange velveteen.

'It's why I love the highlands. There is a Cherokee creation myth that tels how the world was created from mud. A vulture flew over, and where his wings beat down, there were valeys. Where his wings rose, there grew mountains.'

'You are Cherokee?'