A Game of Ghosts

by John Connolly

‘Hey, that’s worse.’

  ‘Maybe all these folk were in touch with one another,’ suggested Angel, ‘or exchanging notes on the Internet.’

  ‘I considered that, but Eklund didn’t think so. Some of the people he spoke with were so old they might have considered computers sorcery.’

  ‘So,’ Angel continued, ‘random individuals, all of whom later died violently, or just went missing, claimed to have seen similar ghosts, identified by Eklund as members of an extended family killed during a siege in the nineteenth century. Have I got that straight?’

  ‘As straight as I do.’

  ‘Well then, the solution is to track down the descendants of the Brethren and ask them just what the hell they think might be going on.’

  ‘Eklund was ahead of you. He just couldn’t find them. If they’re still around, they’ve hidden themselves well. And it’s not exactly the kind of family history about which one likes to boast.’

  ‘But otherwise there’s nothing to connect the victims?’ asked Louis.

  ‘Not until we get to Caspar Webb’s brother, and the wife and child.’

  ‘Could be coincidence.’

  ‘True, but it’s the first point of contact I can find between cases, and it resonates with something I found in Eklund’s notes: when they could, the Brethren would go looking for the family of an earlier victim, figuring they’d be vulnerable.’

  ‘Smart,’ said Louis. ‘Not classy, but smart.’

  ‘So it seems like the best place to begin. Eklund spoke with a man named Tobey Thayer when he first began looking into MacKinnon’s disappearance. He runs a discount furniture business. He’s also, according to Eklund’s notes, a psychic.’

  Angel paused in the consumption of a second cookie.

  ‘A furniture salesman?’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Aren’t psychics supposed to be, like, little old ladies?’

  ‘Might be onto a good thing,’ said Louis. ‘He could rent out his own tables for séances.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Parker. ‘Maybe you can suggest that to him when you meet him.’

  ‘I don’t want to meet him.’

  ‘You want me to do this alone?’

  ‘Hey, you’re the one who decided to take Ross’s nickel.’

  ‘You think the deal with Ross doesn’t buy you two some breathing space as well? Anyway, there’s Philip and Mother to consider. Mother in particular strikes me as a goal-oriented person.’

  ‘And Philip?’

  ‘I suspect his goals are self-oriented, and he may also have father issues.’

  ‘From what I know of Webb,’ said Louis, ‘he never owned up to any kids.’

  ‘If Philip was your child, would you?’

  ‘Possibly not. Then again, I’m not sure I’d have got close enough to old Mother to do the deed.’

  ‘She might have been prettier when she was younger.’

  ‘Maybe. Still don’t mean she was pretty.’

  Parker had been considering the problem of Philip.

  ‘Here’s my take on it. Webb has a relationship with Mother, which becomes sexual at some point, although for how long is anyone’s guess. Long enough to produce Philip, in any case. But Webb doesn’t acknowledge the boy, although he provides for Mother and for him. Mother, meanwhile, develops into something more than a lover to Webb, or ceases to be a lover entirely and morphs into a part of the operation. Eventually, she manages to make herself indispensable, and it’s to her that he entrusts the disposal of his operation after his death. She’s probably happy to do it because she doesn’t want to be Ma Barker. She’s put a little aside for her old age, and Webb has left her more in his will, so she can look after herself and her son.

  ‘Except Philip doesn’t want to see his father’s business liquidated. He’d like to take on the running of it, if only to piss on his old man’s grave. He suggests as much to Mother, but she isn’t biting, either because she’s smart or afraid, and one goes with the other, because she’d be smart to be afraid. A lot of people out there, some only as far away as Boston, would regard her as an easy target. The sooner she divests herself of all Webb’s interests, and the income flow begins naturally to redirect itself into other pockets, the more likely it is that she’ll survive long enough to buy a condo in Miami or Tucson, and not end up dumped in Narragansett Bay as bait for crabs.’

  ‘But her son isn’t as clever as she is,’ said Angel.

  ‘I think we’ve established that her son is crazy, and crazy cancels out clever every time.’

  ‘You figure Mother knows?’

  ‘That he’s ambitious? Oh yeah. That he’s crazy? That’s a whole other conversation. She might suspect it, but I haven’t met a mother yet who’d admit her child was out where the buses don’t run, not without a fight.’

  ‘But Mother must have signed off on Vincent Garronne taking an unscheduled flight off the top of a building,’ said Louis.

  ‘Probably because Garronne wanted the same thing her son does, except Garronne was too obvious about it.’

  ‘And Mother was watching her back.’

  ‘And her son’s.’

  ‘But now she’s exchanged one problem for another,’ Louis noted, ‘because while Garronne is no longer around, her son is, and Garronne’s absence could be viewed by Philip as a power vacuum. If he steps up, Mother might be reluctant to have him thrown from a great height.’

  ‘But would he be as reluctant when it came to Mother?’ asked Parker.

  ‘I think Philip could spend an afternoon throwing puppies from the top of the Empire State and only stop when his arm got tired.’

  ‘It’s not the same as killing your mother. You need cold blood to do that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to commit until we have Philip’s DNA examined by a herpetologist.’

  ‘But if Philip hates his father, and might not be averse to killing his mother, why did he go to the trouble of bugging our cars?’ asked Angel.

  ‘Because Mother told him to?’ Parker suggested.

  ‘Possibly, but that doesn’t mean he had to do it.’

  ‘Let’s assume the listening devices and GPS trackers were his idea,’ said Parker, because the possibility was interesting. ‘Why would he be anxious to find out who might have killed his aunt and cousin, or caused his uncle to disappear?’

  ‘Because if it’s something personal to do with Webb,’ Louis offered, ‘then Philip could be next.’

  ‘But the possibility that Philip is Webb’s son isn’t common knowledge, because Webb kept himself so far in the background that only a handful of people knew for sure what he looked like. I mean, the first we heard of it was when we met Philip, saw his old man’s picture, and joined the dots. So, if it is personal, he’s not the next one in the sights. Mother is.’

  ‘Then,’ said Louis, ‘Philip, like a good son, wants to make sure nothing happens to his mommy.’

  ‘Or that something does.’

  ‘Families,’ said Angel, with some feeling. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t have them killed without complications.’

  ‘So we avoid Philip, keep Mother at a safe distance, and then go see Thayer, the furniture-dealing psychic?’ Louis asked.

  ‘The discount furniture-dealing psychic,’ Angel corrected. ‘He’s low rent.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Parker, ‘in the absence of anything better.’

  ‘And what about Ross?’ Angel reminded him. ‘What are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Everything. He’s paying the bill.’

  ‘Even about Mother and Philip?’

  ‘Especially about Mother and Philip.’

  ‘Gonna bring trouble down on their heads,’ said Louis.

  ‘You feel like that’s a shame?’

  ‘Only because I won’t get to watch.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll send pictures.’

  ‘We can only hope.’

  48

  Not only did Kirk and Sally Buckner discourage their fellow parishioners from entering their h
ome, they rarely entertained at all. Their nearest neighbors, the Ferriers, could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times they had seen strangers come to the Buckners’ door and actually be admitted for any length of time.

  The Ferriers were not particularly religious, beyond making an effort at Christmas because they both liked carols and enjoyed the decorations in St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. Their two kids were raising families of their own, and were no more observant in their faith than their parents. If the Ferriers – parents and children – believed in anything, it was that people should try not to be assholes most of the time. End of lesson.

  But even bearing that principle in mind, David Ferrier found it hard to warm to the Buckners. Oh, they were friendly enough, and didn’t do anything that could give cause for complaint. They weren’t holding wild parties, and kept their home and yard well looked after. Kirk designed and maintained websites, and Sally made fancy cakes and pastries that she sold to some of the stores, cafés, and restaurants in town, as well as taking special orders for birthdays and other celebrations. Ferrier had learned to identify her creations by sight, just so he wouldn’t accidentally ingest them.

  Etta, Ferrier’s wife, thought he was nuts. She figured he had too much time on his hands, and should never have retired as early as he did. She also believed that he was too reclusive, and if he took the time to socialize a bit more, and involve himself in the institutions of the community, then he might not find cause to judge others so easily. It was true that Ferrier liked his own company, admittedly a little too much, but there was a lot to be said for a man’s capacity to be comfortable while alone, and Ferrier was never bored or lonely. There were books to read, movies to watch, poetry – okay, bad poetry – to write, and walks to take with his dog. As things stood, he barely had enough hours in the day to fit in all this important stuff without getting distracted by damned meetings and committees. He had enough friends for his needs – four, two of them close – and wasn’t about to start auditioning more at this stage in his life. He actively disliked very few people, and most of those were lawyers, politicians, golfers, and preachers.

  So locally it was really only the Buckners who set his teeth on edge, and if a gun had been put to his head, and the hammer cocked, he still wouldn’t have been able to explain why. His wife might have thought him an old curmudgeon, and in that she wouldn’t have wanted for company, but David Ferrier was an observant man, and something of a student of humanity, even if only from a distance. He’d been a good accountant, and a stickler for detail. You could tell a lot about people from how they managed their money, and Ferrier had spent more than forty years examining the financial minutiae of the lives of others.

  He’d like to have seen the Buckners’ accounts because he was certain they’d be clean and neat, without a single detail amiss to bring the IRS to their door. This would be in character for them, because that was what Ferrier was convinced the Buckners were: characters, façades. They were playing roles. Their smiles never lit up their eyes, and they were always watchful. He also caught a dissonance in their interactions with each other, a kind of emotional and physical distance that made him wonder about the nature of their relationship and the state of their marriage. He didn’t doubt that they were clever. The town was small enough for Ferrier to have learned how they’d managed to secure themselves a position of authority and influence within their own church without appearing to have tried too hard to do so, and that was no easy trick to pull off.

  But clever wasn’t the same as honest.

  Ferrier had tried researching the Buckners on the Internet, but hadn’t come up with very much: some links to Kirk’s website, and the same for Sally’s. He couldn’t discover where or when they’d tied the knot, or even where they’d come from before settling in Turning Leaf. He’d tried raising it once with Kirk, just in passing, shortly after the Buckners first moved into the neighborhood. They’d both found themselves working in their yards on the same warm day, and Ferrier decided to offer Kirk a cold soda as an opening gambit. The conversation didn’t last long – just enough time for Kirk to down his soda and exchange some observations on the weather – and all Ferrier could get out of him on the subject was that Kirk and his wife had moved around a lot.

  ‘You know,’ said Kirk, all smiles and dead eyes, ‘like free spirits.’

  ‘Hippies,’ Ferrier offered.

  ‘Nah, not for us. Don’t like pot, and never could listen to the Grateful Dead for long.’

  Kirk scrunched up his empty soda can and tossed it over by his front door to pick up later.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘Got to be getting back to work. This lawn won’t mow itself.’

  He flipped the switch on his mower and it growled to life. Ferrier continued sipping his soda, but didn’t move.

  ‘My wife would like to have you and Sally over for dinner some evening,’ he said, over the sound of the machine.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’ve been here awhile, and we haven’t really gotten to know one another.’

  ‘Oh, we’re pretty quiet. Not much interesting about us.’

  He was guiding the mower away from Ferrier, who gently kept pace with him, even though it meant intruding not only on Kirk’s personal space but also his private property.

  ‘All the interesting people say that,’ Ferrier told him.

  ‘Except that in our case it’s true.’

  ‘We don’t even know how long you two have been married.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well, you never said.’

  Kirk tried to make a joke of it, but it didn’t take.

  ‘Too long,’ he said, but he seemed to be struggling with his smile more than usual.

  ‘I hear that,’ said Ferrier. ‘Etta and I got married at St. Joseph’s, right here in town. We could have got married in the city, but we already had our eye on a house so we decided that we should exchange our vows in the same place we were going to live. Like putting down a marker. What about you two?’

  ‘City clerk’s office. Nothing fancy.’

  ‘But you two are Baptists, right? I thought you’d be pretty strict about these things.’

  ‘We had a church ceremony later.’

  ‘Really? Huh. Where was that?’

  Kirk killed the mower. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, underpinned by gasoline. It was one of those heavy days when even birds appeared reluctant to fly, but Kirk didn’t seem to be sweating much.

  He looked at Ferrier. He wasn’t smiling any longer.

  ‘We’re really very private people, Mr. Ferrier,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we just want to keep to ourselves. We don’t socialize much beyond church. We like our own company just fine.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ferrier, very slowly, as though Kirk Buckner had just flashed a gun at him. ‘Well, I’ll be getting off your lawn, then.’

  ‘Thanks again for the soda.’

  ‘Anytime.’

  Ferrier crossed the road and returned to his house. He wasn’t feeling angry or offended in any way. He was actually kind of pleased with himself. He believed he had confirmation of a suspicion, and that was enough.

  The Buckners were hiding something.

  Later that same evening, when his wife returned from a lecture on integration at the local community center, he told her about how he’d gone over to speak with Kirk Buckner.

  ‘I invited him to dinner,’ said Ferrier.

  If his wife didn’t quite keel over with shock, she still paused in the act of adding hot water to a herbal tea bag, just in case she burned herself, and considered her husband with surprise.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I asked him and his wife to dinner.’

  ‘Did aliens come and abduct my husband while I was away?’ asked Etta. She raised a fist and shook it at the ceiling. ‘Damn you, space monsters, bring him back!’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He avoided
the invitation.’

  ‘Were you rude about it?’

  ‘How can I be rude about an invitation to dinner?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if anyone could, it’s you.’

  ‘I wasn’t rude. He told me they were private people who wanted to keep to themselves. He didn’t run me off his property, but he came close.’

  ‘And why would you have asked them to dinner? I can’t even get you to take me to dinner.’

  ‘Just curious, I guess.’

  ‘Oh, David!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wanted to pry into their affairs. What else did you ask him – his shoe size, how often he goes to the bathroom? You really are something, you know that?’

  ‘I only wanted to know where he got married. And, uh, when.’

  ‘Jesus. I’ll have to apologize to them both next time I see them.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being married to you!’

  She took her mug of tea and stormed out.

  ‘I only asked them to dinner,’ said Ferrier, but there was no one to hear him except Slipper, their basset hound.

  Slipper looked at Ferrier. Ferrier looked at Slipper.

  ‘I was trying to be polite,’ said Ferrier.

  Slipper closed her eyes.

  Across the street, Kirk had stood by Sally’s bed and told her about his conversation with Ferrier.

  ‘It’s natural that he’d be curious,’ she said. ‘We’re his neighbors.’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t have to like him. You only have to tolerate him.’

  ‘I think he’s been trying to find out about us.’

  ‘Let him.’

  ‘There may be gaps, details we’ll have to lie about.’

  ‘Then we will.’

  ‘You don’t understand. It’s harder now because of the Internet.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot.’

  She turned her attention from him and back to the book she was reading. It was one of those Oprah novels, the kind he always avoided.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest anything of the kind. But Ferrier was prying.’

  ‘I’ll speak to his wife. She seems okay.’