The interviewer interrupted with a garbled comment. Campbell continued:

I condone nothing, sir. I observe and I theorize. This was, 1896? 1897? Sacrifice is an ancient custom. Constructions of . . . power must be consecrated in blood, else all this effort comes to naught and the spirit of the forest turns a blind eye to the supplicants’ travails.

The doctor went on at length. Unimportant at that moment. Dr. Campbell’s words echoed and reinforced what Adeyemi said to me. Blood, not science. I’d begun to entertain the wild idea that both men were right.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Sneaking around Horseheads would’ve been the safest course. We could’ve staked out Linda Flanagan and her beau and pounced at an opportune moment. We probably could’ve done it without alerting anyone to our presence. To what purpose, though? Nobody was going to roll over and confess his or her role in a murder. Nobody would help me wrap my case in a pink ribbon. Adeyemi and the doctors said something that stayed with me—whatever Redlick and associates were up to with the Jeffers Project was bigger than one man’s death.

When conflict is inevitable, take the fight to the enemy. As far as I was concerned, conflict was absolutely inevitable.

I ate supper at the Hotel Roan, my home away from home. I wore an okay suit and comfortable shoes. Gun, knife, and my grandfather’s jade war club. Wireless lightweight two-way radio. The idea was to be seen. The FIN on Mandibole’s pocket square bobbed to the surface of my consciousness.

The Hotel Roan restaurant did a better-than-average T-bone steak. Bloody with a baked potato, salad, and a pitcher of ice water. I savored the meal, then stepped into the lounge for a drink. Four tables on the cramped floor, four stools at the bar, and a window booth. Behind the bar was a mirrored alcove shaped like an altar to a scant yet discerning selection of bourbon, scotch, and liqueur. Toward the tippy-top of the alcove perched a signed photograph of Donald Sutherland aping his iconic spine-chilling doppelgänger pose at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

The bartender switched the channel to boxing.

Two fighters bludgeoned away at center ring in some grimy overseas arena. I didn’t recognize either of them offhand. Harsh lights splashed upon tattered posters and partially whitewashed graffiti. Men and women in sock hats and wool coats yelled encouragement. Chilly venue, wherever it was. Steam mantled the boxers—a heavyweight from the Republic of Congo and a Russian built like a tree. The middle rounds had arrived and the Congolese fighter was intent upon chopping the Russian down. The Russian had no answer for his opponent’s left jab or short, clubbing right. He circled, threw an occasional haymaker that was easily slipped, clinched, and lost every exchange. He gulped and flailed like a drowning man. A drowning man who received a punch to the snout every time he surfaced for air.

“It’s the straight right that puts you to sleep,” the bartender said, watching the action. “He needs one to put him out of his misery.”