Ronald remained seated silently in his chair. He appeared to be contemplating something, even if it was only how he was going to get out of the chair now that he’d found out what he wanted to know.
“How did the people who killed Jude find him?” said Ronald at last.
People: Ronald knew that it took more than a single person to stage a hanging, even one involving a man seemingly as weak as Jude.
“They watched the shelters,” I replied. “He was, as you remarked, a distinctive figure.”
“Someone might have noticed them. The homeless, the sharp ones, they’re always watching. They keep an eye out for the cops, for friends, for men and women with grudges against them. It’s hard and merciless at the bottom of the pond. You have to be careful if you don’t want to get eaten.”
Ronald was right. I hadn’t asked enough questions on the streets. I had allowed myself to become sidetracked by Prosperous and what it might represent, but perhaps there was another way.
“Any suggestions as to whom I might talk with?”
“You go around using words like ‘whom’ and nobody will talk to you at all. Leave it with me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll get more out of them than you will.”
I had to admit the truth of it.
“One thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I’d be discreet about it. If I’m right, and Jude was murdered, the people who did it won’t be reluctant to act if they have to cover their tracks. We don’t need any more bodies.”
“I understand.”
Ronald rose to leave. As anticipated, he had some trouble extricating himself from his seat, but by pressing down hard with his arms he somehow managed it. Once he was free, he regarded the chair in a vaguely hostile manner.
“Next time, I will not sit,” he said.
“That might be for the best.”
He looked out the window at the moonlight shining on the marshes.
“I’ve been thinking about getting another dog,” he said.
Ronald hadn’t owned a dog since Vietnam.
“Good,” I said.
“Yes,” said Ronald, and for the first time since he arrived at my door he smiled. “Yes, I believe it is.”
WHEN HE WAS GONE, I called Angel and Louis in New York. Angel answered. Angel always answered. Louis regarded telephones as instruments of the Devil. He used them only reluctantly, and his conversation was even more minimal over the phone than it was in person, which was saying something—or, in Louis’s case, nothing at all.
Angel told me that he was working on finding more of the Collector’s nests, but so far he’d come up empty. Maybe we’d taken care of all of them, and the Collector was now living in a hole in the ground like a character in a book I’d read as a boy. The man had tried to assassinate someone who might have been Hitler, and failed. Hunted in turn, he had literally gone underground, digging a cave for himself in the earth and waiting for his pursuers to show their face. Rogue Male—that was the title of the book. They’d made a movie of it, with Peter O’Toole. Thinking of the book and the movie reminded me of those holes in the ground around Prosperous. Something had made them, but what?
“You still there?” said Angel.
“Yes, sorry. My mind was somewhere else for a moment.”
“Well, it’s your dime.”
“You’re showing your age, remembering a time when you could make a call for a dime. Tell me, what did you and Mr. Edison talk about back then?”
“Fuck you, and Thomas Edison.”
“The Collector’s still out there. He can rough it, but the lawyer can’t. Somewhere there’s a record of a house purchase that we haven’t found yet.”
“I’ll keep looking. What about you? Whose cage are you rattling these days?”
I told him about Jude, and Annie, and Prosperous, and even Ronald Straydeer.
“Last time I talked to you, you were process-serving,” said Angel. “I knew it wouldn’t last.”
“How’s Louis?”
“Bored. I’m hoping he’ll commit a crime, just to get him out of the apartment.”
“Tell him to watch a movie. You ever hear of Rogue Male?”
“Is it porn?”
“No.”
“It sounds like gay porn.”
“Why would I be watching gay porn?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re thinking of switching teams.”
“I’m not even sure how you got on that team. You certainly weren’t picked first.”
“Fuck you again, and your team.”
“Tell Louis to go find Rogue Male. I think he’ll like it.”
“Okay.” His voice grew slightly fainter as he turned away from the phone. “Hey, Louis, Parker says you need to go find some rogue male.”
I caught a muffled reply.
“He says he’s too old.”
“Rogue Male, starring Peter O’Toole.”
“Tool?” said Angel. “That’s the guy’s name? Man, that’s gotta be porn. . . .”
I hung up. Even “hung” sounded mildly dirty after the conversation I’d just had. I made some coffee and went outside to drink it while I watched the moon shine on the marshes. Clouds crossed its face, changing the light, chasing shadows. I listened. Sometimes I wished for them to come, the lost daughter and the woman who walked with her, but I had no sense of them that night. Perhaps it was for the best. Blood flowed when they came.
But they would return, in the end. They always did.
CHAPTER
XXXIV
Morland told the board what he knew of the detective. He spoke of his history, and the deaths of his wife and child many years earlier. He told them of some of the cases in which the detective had been involved, the ones that had come to public notice, but he also informed them of the rumors that circulated about other investigations, secret investigations. It was a delicate line that Morland was walking; he wanted them to understand the threat that the detective posed, but he did not want them to feel concerned enough to act rashly. Morland was certain that Hayley already knew most of what he had to say. His performance was for the benefit of the rest of the board, and Warraner too.
“You say that he has crossed paths with the Believers?” said Souleby.
There was a rustle of disapproval from the others. The board of selectmen had been in existence in Maine longer than the sect known as the Believers, and it regarded them with a mixture of unease and distaste. The Believers’ search for their brethren, for lost angels like themselves, was of no concern to the citizens of Prosperous. On the other hand, neither did the town wish to attract the attentions of others like the Believers, or those in whose shadows the Believers toiled. The Believers were only one element of a larger conspiracy, one that was slowly encroaching upon the state of Maine. The board wanted no part of it, although unofficial channels of communication with certain interested parties were kept open through Thomas Souleby, who retained membership in various clubs in Boston, and moved easily in such circles.
“He has,” said Morland. “All I’ve heard are whispers, but it’s safe to say that they regretted the encounters more than he did.”
Old Kinley Nowell spoke up. He had to remove the oxygen mask from his face to do so, and each word sounded like a desperate effort for him. Morland thought that he already looked like a corpse. His skin was pale and waxen, and he stank of mortality and the medicines that were being used to stave it off.
“Why has the detective not been killed before now?”
“Some have tried,” said Morland. “And failed.”
“I’m not talking of thugs and criminals,” said Nowell. He put his mask to his face and drew two deep breaths before resuming. “I’m not even speaking of the Believers. There are others in the background, and they do not fail. They’v
e been killing for as long as there were men to kill. Cain’s blood runs in their veins.”
The Backers—that was how Morland had heard them described. Men and women with great wealth and power, like the board of selectmen writ large. Souleby’s people.
“If he’s alive,” said Souleby, as if on cue, “then it’s because they want him alive.”
“But why?” said Nowell. “He’s clearly a threat to them—if not now, then in the future. It makes no sense for them to let him live.”
Hayley Conyer looked to Warraner for the solution, not to Souleby. It was, in her view, a theological issue.
“Pastor, would you care to offer a possible answer to this conundrum?”
Warraner might have been arrogant and conniving, thought Morland, but he wasn’t a fool. He gave himself almost a full minute before he replied.
“They’re afraid to kill what they don’t understand,” he said, finally. “What do they want? They wish to find their buried god and release him, and they feel themselves to be closer to that end than they have ever been before. The detective may be an obstacle, or it may be that he has a part to play in that search. For now, they do not understand his nature, and they’re afraid to move against him for fear that, by doing so, they may ultimately harm their cause. I have listened to what Chief Morland has to say, and I confess that I may have underestimated the detective.”
This surprised Morland. Warraner rarely admitted weakness, especially in front of Hayley and the board. It caught Morland off guard, so that he was unprepared when the blade was thrust into his back.
“That said,” Warraner continued, “Chief Morland underestimated him as well, and should not have brought him to the church. The detective should have been kept far away from it, and from me. I was forced into a situation where I had to answer questions, and I dealt with them as best I could, under the circumstances.”
Liar, Morland wanted to say. I saw you preening. You wretched man; I will remember this.
“Chief?” said Conyer. “Is this true?”
She was amused. Morland could see it. She enjoyed watching her pets snap at each other. He felt her willing him to grow angry. The small humiliations that she had aimed at him earlier hadn’t been enough to make him lose his temper. It might be that she already had someone else in mind to succeed him, but Morland didn’t believe she had thought so far ahead. She knew only that he was beginning to doubt her, and she wished to retain her position. If she had to sacrifice him in order to survive, she would.
But Morland said only “I did what I thought was best,” and watched with some small satisfaction as disappointment clouded the old woman’s face.
Souleby, ever the diplomat, chose that moment to intervene.
“Throwing blame around isn’t going to help us,” he said. “Chief Morland, the question is this: will the detective give up?”
“No, but—”
Morland thought hard about how he was going to phrase his next words.
“Go on,” said Souleby.
“He has no evidence, no clues. He has only his suspicions, and they aren’t enough.”
“Then why did he return to the town a second time?”
“Because he’s taunting us. In the absence of evidence, he wants us to act. He wants us to move against him. By acting, we’ll confirm his suspicions, and then he’ll respond with violence. He isn’t just the bait but the hook as well.”
“Only if he lives,” said Nowell, filled with malice as the end neared, as though he were intent on expending all his viciousness before he passed on.
“He has friends,” said Morland. “They would not allow any action against him to go unpunished.”
“They can die too.”
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Don’t!” cawed Nowell. He raised a withered finger, like an ancient crow clawing against the darkness. “I understand better than you think. You’re afraid. You’re a coward. You—”
The rest of his accusations were lost in a fit of gasps and coughs. It was left to Luke Joblin to secure the mask to Nowell’s face and leave it in place. For now, the old man’s contributions to the meeting, however worthless they might be, were over. Why don’t you just die, Morland wished—die and free up a place for someone with an ounce of sense and reason left to him. Nowell eyed him over the mask, reading his thoughts.
“You were saying?” said Souleby.
Morland looked away from Nowell.
“The detective has killed,” he said. “He has victims who are known, and I guarantee you there are just as many who are unknown. A man who has acted in this way and is not behind bars, or has not been deprived of his livelihood and his weapons, is protected. Yes, some on the side of law would be glad to see him removed from the equation, but even they would be forced to act if he was harmed.”
There was quiet among the members of the board, broken only by the tortured breathing of Kinley Nowell.
“Could we not approach the Backers and seek their advice?” said Luke Joblin. “They might even work with us.”
“We don’t ask the permission of others to act,” said Hayley Conyer. “Their interests and ours are not the same, not even in this case. If they’re unwilling to move against him on their own behalf, they won’t do so on ours.”
“And there’s the matter of another girl,” said Calder Ayton. They were his first words since the meeting began. Morland had almost forgotten that he was present.
“What do you mean, Calder?” asked Conyer. She too seemed surprised to hear him speak at all.
“I mean that we have received a warning, or four warnings, depending upon one’s view of the current dilemma,” said Ayton. “Our people are worried. Whatever threat this detective poses, another girl has to be found and delivered—and quickly. Can we take the chance of having this man nosing around at such a delicate moment in the town’s history?”
“What news from the Dixons?” Souleby asked Morland. “Has there been progress?”
“Bryan is watching them,” said Luke Joblin, answering for Morland. “He thinks they’re getting close to finding someone.”
But Morland had his own view of the situation.
“Bryan tells me that he’s been out scouting with Harry, but—and please don’t take this the wrong way, Luke—your son isn’t the sharpest tool in the box. My view is that the Dixons aren’t to be trusted. I think they’re leading Bryan on. We should have given the job of finding a girl to someone else.”
“But, Chief Morland, it was your suspicions that led us to test them with the hunt,” said Conyer.
“There might have been better ways to satisfy ourselves as to their loyalty,” said Morland.
“It’s done now,” said Conyer. “Your regrets are a little late.”
Again, it was Thomas Souleby who intervened.
“But if they are leading Bryan on—and, by extension, the rest of us—they’re doing so to what end?” he asked.
“I think they’re planning to run,” said Morland.
His opinion went down badly. People did leave Prosperous. After all, it wasn’t a fortress, or a prison, and a larger world existed beyond its boundaries. But those who left were secure in their loyalty to the town, and many of them eventually returned. Running was another matter, for it brought with it the possibility of disclosure.
“There is a precedent for it on Erin’s side,” said Ayton.
“We don’t blame the children for the sins of the adults,” said Conyer. “And her mother more than made up for the failings of the father.”
She returned her attention to Morland.
“Have you taken steps?” she said.
“I have.”
“Could you be more precise?”
“I could, but I would prefer not to,” said Morland. “After all, I may be wrong about them. I hope that I a
m.”
“But the detective,” Ayton insisted. “What of the detective?”
“We’ll vote on it,” said Conyer. “Reverend, do you have anything to add before we start?”
“Only that I believe the detective is dangerous,” said Warraner.
A nicely ambiguous reply, thought Morland. Whatever they decide, and whatever the consequences, no blame will fall on your head.
“And you, Chief?
“You know my views,” said Morland. “If you attack him and succeed in killing him, you will bring more trouble down on this town. If you attack him and fail to kill him, the consequences may be even worse. We should not move against him. Eventually he’ll grow weary, or another case will distract him.”
But Morland wondered if he was indulging in wishful thinking. Yes, the detective might leave them in peace for a while, but he would not forget. It was not in him to do so. He would return, and keep returning. The best they could hope for was that his visits might bring no reward and, in time, someone else might do them the favor of killing him.
Around him, the board meditated on what it had heard. He couldn’t tell if his words had made any impact.
“Thank you both for your contributions,” said Conyer. “Would you mind waiting outside while we make our decision?”
The two observers rose and left. Warraner wrapped his coat tightly around himself, thrust his hands into his pockets, and took a seat on the porch. It was strange, but Morland had the sense that something of his own words of warning had penetrated Warraner’s carapace of blind faith and deluded self-belief. He could see it in the pastor’s face. Warraner lived to protect his church. For him, the town’s continued safety and good fortune were merely a by-product of his own mission. It was one thing for him to assent to the killing of a homeless man, one whom Warraner believed would not be mourned or missed; it was another entirely to involve himself in an attack on a dangerous individual which could well have negative consequences whether they succeeded in killing him or not.
“Bait,” said Warraner.
The Wolf in Winter Page 23
