'What are you doing?' said Morland.
'Putting the fnishing touches to thermite and Semtex devices,' said the man. 'We're about to destroy your town, starting here. Now put down your gun. I want to talk. The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.'
But Morland wasn't about to talk to anyone.
Instead, he simply started shooting. *
Nobody lived on Prosperous's Main Street. It was strictly businesses only. As midnight approached, the street and its surroundings stood empty.
Slowly, men began to emerge from the shadows, eight in all. Ronald Straydeer led them, his features, like those of the others with him, concealed. Beside him walked Shaky.
'You sure you're okay to do this?' asked Ronald.
'I'm sure,' said Shaky.
He held an incendiary device in his good hand. A cold wind was blowing from the east. That was good. It would fan the fames.
There came the sound of breaking glass.
Minutes later, Prosperous started to burn.
Morland was running for his life. Shots struck the old gravestones, or whistled past his ear to vanish into the forest beyond. He stayed low, using the monuments for cover, fring, weaving and dodging, but never stopping. He was outnumbered, and these men could easily surround and kill him. Anyway, staying in the cemetery was not an option, for it was now one massive explosion waiting to occur.
He didn't head for the gate. That would be too obvious. Instead he sprinted for the railings and scrambled over them. He took a shot to the upper arm but did not stop. The forest was ahead of him, and he lost himself in its darkness. He risked only one look back and saw that the church door was now closed. The shooting had stopped, and in the silence Morland heard Warraner's voice raised in song from behind the old stone walls. Somehow, in the confusion, he had managed to lock himself inside.
'When men begin to weed,' sang Warraner, 'The thistle from the seed . . .'
The fgures in the churchyard started to run. Morland reloaded his gun and drew a bead on the nearest man. Perhaps he could yet stop this. His fnger tightened on the trigger.
But he did not fre. Was this not what he wanted, what he sought? Let this be an end to it. He lowered his gun and retreated deeper into the forest, faster now, putting as much distance between him and the church as he could. If he could get to his car and return to town, he and Dackson could hole up in the Town Offce while they called for backup.
He reached the road and saw an orange glow rising from Prosperous. His town was already burning, but he barely had time to register that fact before a massive blast rent the night. The ground shook, and Morland was knocked from his feet by the force of it. Debris was hurled high into the air, and earth, stone and wood rained down on him where he lay. He could feel the heat of the detonation, even from the road.
He covered his head with his hands, and prayed to every god and none.
57
Main Street was gone, reduced to brick shells and vacant,
charred lots. At least one of the ruined buildings had dated back to the eighteenth century, and others were only marginally younger. Historians and architecture experts described it as a tragedy.
The Church of the Congregation of Adam Before Eve & Eve Before Adam was scattered over woods, roads, and what was left of the cemetery, which wasn't much at all. Charred human remains, most of them long interred, would be dis covered for years after. Incredibly, the total number of fatalities amounted to just three: Pastor Michael Warraner, who had been inside his church when it was blown sky high; Bryan Joblin, killed in cold blood at Warraner's house; and Thomas Souleby, the senior selectman of the town, who was said to have accompanied Chief Morland to the cemetery when the original call was received about a homeless trespasser, and who had not been able to get clear of the cemetery before the explosion occurred. Frank Robinson conducted the autopsy on Souleby, just so there could be no confusion about the matter. Unlike Pastor Warraner, Souleby's body remained undamaged enough to allow for a proper burial. Morland had suffocated him, just as he had done with Hayley Conyer.
The newspapers and TV cameras were back. It would be a long time before they left. When asked about plans to rebuild, the town's chief of police, Lucas Morland, said that work would begin on Main Street almost immediately, but he was unsure about plans for the church. The damage caused by the high explosives used meant that rebuilding the original church would be ruinously expensive if it were possible at all, which was doubtful. Perhaps a monument might be erected in its place, he suggested. Discussions on the issue would begin, said Morland, once the new board of selectmen was elected.
It remained unclear who might be responsible for what was described, almost immediately and inevitably, as an 'act of terrorism'. Attention was focused variously on Muslims, fascists, secessionists, opponents of the federal government, radical socialists and extreme religious organizations, but Morland knew that none of those avenues of inquiry would ever yield any results.
The truth was that they should never have gone after the detective.
The Town Offce had suffered signifcant damage, mostly in a successful effort to destroy the engines in the fre department. Offcer Connie Dackson had watched it burn. Her captors had removed her from her cell and left her tied up at a safe distance from the confagration. She thought that they might have been Asian, judging by their accents and their unusual politeness, but she couldn't be certain. The Prosperous Police Department had immediately moved to temporary lodgings at the VFW meeting hall.
On the third day after the attack on his town – for that was what it now was, 'his' town – Lucas Morland watched the thawing snow from his window in the VFW hall. Meltwater ran down what remained of Main Street, starting clear at the top and ending up black as oil by the time it reached the bottom. More snow might come, but it would not last long. They were done with winter, and winter was done with them. They had survived – he had survived – and the town would be better and stronger for this purging. He felt a deep and abiding sense of admiration for its people. No sooner were the fres extinguished than the cleanup operation had begun. Buildings were being assessed for demolition or restoration, according to the damage they had sustained. Pledges of aid numbering into six fgures had already been received. Calls had been made to the heads of the insurance companies involved warning them that any weaseling out of their commitments would not be tolerated, those calls having signifcant impact since they came from members of their own boards with ties to Prosperous.
Morland was under no illusions that the town's troubles – or, more particularly, his troubles – were at an end. Those responsible for the partial destruction of his town might well decide to return. He recalled the words of the man at the cemetery – 'The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.' Even in his fnal moments, Warraner had found a way to screw him over. At least Bryan Joblin was dead, too. He was one loose end about whom Morland no longer needed to worry.
Let them come, Morland thought. Let them come and I will face them down. Next time, I will be ready, and I will kill them where they stand.
Morland didn't hear the woman approach. He no longer had his own offce. His desk was just one part of the jumble of town services in the old hall. People were constantly arriving and departing, and there was a steady hum of noise.
'Lucas.'
He turned from the window. Constance Souleby was standing before him. She held a gun in her hand: an old Colt. It did not shake, for the woman holding it was a picture of calm.
'You could have spared him,' she said.
He was aware of movement behind her, of someone approaching fast. He heard cries of shock. The gun had been noticed.
'I am—' Morland said.
The gun spoke in denial, and he ceased to be.
IV
RETURNING
The forenoon is burn-faced and wandering And I am the death of the moon.
Below my countenance the bell of the night has broken And I am the new divine wolf.
Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said Esber), 'The Divine Wolf'
58
Ronald Straydeer was standing in his yard when the car
arrived. Winter was surely departing, and he was piling the snow behind his woodshed, where it could melt away and be damned without him having to see it.
He rested his hands on his shovel as the car drew to a halt, and felt a small ache of fear when the two men emerged from it. He had not seen or spoken to them since that night in Prosperous, but they were not men who liked to leave loose ends. They had no cause for concern on his part, nor on the part of those whom he had brought with him to put Prosperous to the torch. Some had already left the state. Those who remained would keep silent.
The two men leaned on their car doors and regarded him.
'Beautiful day,' said Angel.
'Yes, it is.'
'Looks like winter may be ending.'
'Yes.'
Angel looked at Louis. Louis shrugged.
'We came to thank you,' said Angel. 'We're going to see Parker, and say goodbye. It's time for us to get back to civilization.'
'I have called at the hospital,' said Ronald. 'They tell me there is no change.'
'There's always hope,' said Angel.
'Yes,' said Ronald. 'I believe that's true.'
'Anyway,' said Angel, 'we have a gift for you, I guess, if you want it.'
He opened the rear door of the car, and reached inside. When he emerged again, he held a female German Shepherd puppy in his arms. He walked up to Ronald, placed the dog at his feet, and held out the leash. Ronald did not take it. He looked at the dog. The dog sat for a moment, scratched itself, then stood and placed its front paws against Ronald's right leg.
'Parker talked about you,' said Angel. 'He used to tell us it was time you got another dog. He thought you might be starting to feel the same way too.'
Ronald put the shovel aside. He leaned down and scratched the puppy's head. It wriggled with joy and continued trying to climb his leg.
Ronald took the leash from Angel and unclipped it from the dog's collar.
'You want to come with me?' he said to the dog.
He began walking toward his home. Without looking back at Angel, the dog followed, leaping to keep up with the long strides of its master.
'Thank you,' said Ronald Straydeer.
Louis got back in the car. Angel joined him.
'Told you he'd keep the dog,' said Louis.
'Yeah. I think you're getting soft in your old age.'
'That may be.'
He reversed down Ronald's drive.
'How come we never got a dog?' said Angel.
'I don't need a dog,' said Louis. 'I got you.'
'Right,' said Angel.
He thought about it for a moment.
'Hey . . .'
59
Isat on the bench by the lake, my daughter by my side. We
did not speak.
On an outcrop of land to the east stood a wolf. It watched us as we watched it.
A shadow fell across the bench, and I saw my dead wife refected in the water. She touched my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of her.
'It's time,' she said. 'You must decide.'
I heard the sound of a car approaching. I glanced over my shoulder. Parked on the road was a white 1960 Ford Falcon. I had seen pictures of it. It was the frst car that my father and mother ever owned outright. A man sat in the driver's seat, a woman beside him. I could not see their faces, but I knew who they were. I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to tell them that I was sorry. I wanted to say what every child wishes to say to his parents when they are gone and it is too late to say anything at all: that I loved them, and had always loved them.
'Can I talk to them?' I asked.
'Only if you go with them,' said my dead wife. 'Only if you choose to take the Long Ride.'
I saw the heads of the people in the car turn toward me. I still could not see their faces.
No more pain, I thought. No more pain.
From the hills beyond the lake arose a great howling. I saw the wolf raise its muzzle to the clear blue sky in response to the summoning, and the clamor from the hills grew louder and more joyous, but still it did not move. Its eyes were fxed on me.
No more pain. Let it end.
My daughter reached out and took my hand. She pressed something cold into it. I opened my fngers and saw a dark stone on my palm, smooth on one side, damaged on the other.
My daughter.
But I had another.
'If you take the Long Ride, I'll go with you,' she said. 'But if you stay, then I'll stay with you too.'
I stared at the car, trying to see the faces behind the glass. I slowly shook my head. The heads turned from me, and the car pulled away. I watched it until it was gone. When I looked back at the lake, the wolf was still there. It gazed at me for a moment longer, then slipped into the trees, yipping and howling as it went, and the pack called out its welcome.
The stone felt heavy in my hand. It wanted to be thrown. When it was, this world would shatter, and another would take its place. Already I could feel a series of burnings as my wounds began to sing. My dead wife's hand remained on my shoulder, but its touch was growing colder. She whispered something in my ear – a name, a warning – but I was already struggling to remember it once the fnal word was spoken. Her refection in the water began to dim as mine started to come into focus beside it. I tried to hold on tighter to my daughter's hand.
'Just a little while longer,' I said. 'Just—'
Acknowledgments
First of all, the Family of Love did exist, and much of their history as recounted in this book is true. Whether they ever made it to the New World, I cannot say, but I am grateful to Joseph W. Martin's Religious Radicals in Tudor England (Hambledon Continuum, 1989) for increasing my small store of knowledge of them. The history of the foliate heads on churches is also true, and The Green Man in Britain by Fran and Geoff Doel (The History Press, 2010), The Green Man by Kathleen Basford (D.S. Brewer, 1998) and A Little Book of the Green Man by Mike Harding (Aurum Press, 1998) proved highly illuminating, and slightly disturbing.
The Oxford Street Shelter, the Portland Help Center, Skip Murphy's Sober House, and Amistad are all real agencies that provide critically important services to the homeless and the mentally ill in the Portland area. Thanks very much to Karen Murphy and Peter Driscoll of Amistad. Sonia Garcia of Spurwink, and Joe Riley of Skip Murphy's for permission to mention these organizations by name. If you would like to donate to any of them, or receive more information about their services, you may do so here:
Amistad
www.amistadine.com
PO Box 992
Portland, ME 04101
Oxford Street Shelter
City of Portland
207–761-2072
The Portland Help Center, a Spurwink agency www.spurwink.org
899 Riverside Street Portland, ME 04103
Skip Murphy's Sober Living
www.skipmurphys.com/soberhouse
PO Box 8117
Portland, ME 04104
My thanks, as always, go to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Auriol Bishop and all at Hodder & Stoughton; Breda Purdue, Ruth Shern, Siobhan Tierney and all at Hachette Ireland; Emily Bestler, Judith Curr, Megan Reid, David Brown, Louise Burke and the staff at Atria/Emily Bestler Books and Pocket Books; and my agent Darley Anderson and his wonderful team. Clair Lamb and Madeira James do sterling work looking after websites and much, much more. Jennie Ridyard has now become my fellow author as well as my other half in life, but continues to show remarkable forbearance with me, as do our sons, Cameron and Alistair. To you, the reader, thank you for continuing to read these odd little books. Without you, there really wouldn't be much point to all this.
And hello to Jason Isaacs.
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