The Wolf in Winter

by Connolly, John

  He stared down at his hands. He had never even fired his gun in anger until the evening he killed Erin Dixon and her relatives, and now he had more deaths on his conscience than he could count on one hand. He had even fired the bullet that killed Harry Dixon. Bryan Joblin had offered to do it, but Morland wasn’t sure that Joblin could do something that was at once so simple, yet so dangerous, without botching it. He’d let Bryan watch, though. It was the least he could do.

  He should have been more troubled than he was, but, Kayley Madsen’s final moments apart, he felt comparatively free of any psychological burden, for he could justify each killing to himself. By fleeing, Harry Dixon had given Morland no choice but to move against him. Eventually, he would have told someone about Annie Broyer and how she had come to die in the town of Prosperous. The town’s hold on its citizens grew looser the farther from it they moved. This was true of any belief system. It was sustained by the proximity of other believers.

  A car pulled up outside, and he watched Frank Robinson emerge from it. Morland wished that he could get into his own car and drive away, but he had come too far now. A line from a play came to him, or the vaguest memory of it. It had to be from high school, because Morland hadn’t been to a play in twenty years. Shakespeare, he guessed, something about how, if it were to be done, then it was best to do it quickly.

  If Morland could get rid of Souleby, the board would be his.

  The board, and the town.

  THE NEWS OF HAYLEY Conyer’s passing made the papers, as anything involving Prosperous now tended to do. The general consensus was that the old woman’s heart had been broken by the troubles visited on her town, although this view was not shared by everyone.

  “Jesus!” said Angel to Louis. “If it goes on like this there’ll be nobody left for us to kill.”

  He remained surprised by Louis’s patience. They were still in Portland, and no move had yet been made on Prosperous.

  “You think it was natural causes, like they’re saying?” said Angel.

  “Death is always by natural causes, if you look hard enough.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’d be surprised if she didn’t die kicking at something,” said Louis. “Zilla Daund told us that the order to hit Parker came from the board of selectmen, and this Conyer woman in particular. Now she’s dead. If I was on that board, I’d start locking my door at night. It’s like that Sherlock Holmes thing. You know, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable it seems, is the truth.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Angel.

  “Once everyone else in the room is dead, the person left standing, no matter how respectable, is the killer.”

  “Right. You have anyone in mind?”

  Louis walked over to the dining room table. An array of photographs lay on it, including images of the town, its buildings, and a number of its citizens. Some of the pictures had been provided by the Japanese “tourists.” Others had been copied from Web sites. Louis separated pictures of five men from the rest.

  “Souleby, Joblin, Ayton, Warraner, and Morland,” he said.

  He pushed the photographs of Joblin and Ayton to one side.

  “Not these,” he said.

  “Why?” said Angel.

  “Just a feeling. Souleby might have it in him, I admit, but not the other two. One’s too old; the second’s not the type.”

  Louis then separated Warraner.

  “Again, why?”

  “Makes no sense. If this is all connected to something in their old church, then Conyer and the board acted to protect it. The church is Warraner’s baby. He has no reason to hurt anyone who took measures for its benefit.”

  Louis touched his fingers to Souleby’s picture. A file had been compiled on each of the selectmen, as well as on Warraner and Morland. Souleby was an interesting man—ruthless in business, with connections in Boston. But . . .

  “Lot of killing for an old man,” said Louis. “Too much.” And he put Souleby’s photograph with the rest.

  “Which leaves Morland,” said Angel.

  Louis stared at Morland’s photograph. It had been taken from the town’s Web site. Morland was smiling.

  “Yes,” said Louis. “Which leaves Morland.”

  CHAPTER

  LIV

  Thomas Souleby tried to pack a bag as his wife looked on. Constance was growing increasingly disturbed at the casual way in which her husband was tossing his clothing into the big leather duffel. He never could pack for shit, she thought. She didn’t say this aloud, though. Even after forty years of marriage, her husband still professed to be shocked by what he termed her “salty tongue.”

  “Here, let me do that,” said Constance. She gently elbowed Thomas aside, removed the shirts and pants, and began folding them again before restoring them to the bag. “You go and get your shaving kit.”

  Thomas did as he was told. He didn’t opine that there might not be time for the proper folding and placement of his clothing. She was working faster and yet more efficiently than he could have done anyway—he was all haste without speed—and there was little point in arguing with his wife, not when it came to the organizational details of his life. Without her involvement, they would never have achieved the degree of financial security and comfort they now enjoyed. Thomas had never been a details man. He worked in concepts. His wife was the meticulous one.

  When he returned to the bed, she had half filled the bag with shirts, a sweater, two pairs of pants, and a second pair of shoes with his socks and underwear neatly fitted inside. To these he added his shaving kit and a Colt 1911 pistol that had belonged to his father. The Colt was unlicensed. Long ago, his father had advised him of the importance of keeping certain things secret, especially in a place like Prosperous. As Souleby had watched the slow, steady ascent of Lucas Morland, he came to be grateful for the bequest. Thomas Souleby considered himself a good judge of character—he couldn’t have succeeded in business if he weren’t—and had never liked or trusted Lucas Morland. The man thought he knew better than his elders, and that wasn’t the way Prosperous worked. Souleby had also noticed a change in Morland in recent weeks. He could almost smell it on him, an alteration in his secretions. Conyer had sensed it too. That was why, before her death, she had been planning to remove Morland from his post and replace him with one of his more malleable deputies. Souleby could still feel the old woman’s hand on his arm, the strength of her grip, as she had spoken to him for the last time the day before.

  “You listen, Thomas Souleby, and you listen good,” she said. “I’m as healthy as any woman in this town. My mother lived to be ninety-eight, and I plan on exceeding that age with room to spare. But if anything happens to me you’ll know. It’ll be Morland’s doing, and he won’t stop with me. You’re no friend to him, and he sure as hell doesn’t care much for you. He doesn’t understand the town the way we do. He doesn’t care for it the way we care. He has no faith.”

  And then the call came from Calder Ayton: Calder, who was everyone’s friend, but hadn’t been the same since the death of Ben Pearson. Souleby figured that Calder had loved Ben, and had Ben not been resolutely heterosexual, and Calder not a product of a less enlightened, more cloistered time, the two of them could have lived together in domestic bliss, protected by the amused tolerance of the town. Instead, Calder had settled for a sexless relationship of a sort, aided by Ben’s status as a widower and Calder’s share in the store, the two of them clucking and fussing over each other, snipping and sniping and making up like the old married couple that they secretly were. Calder wouldn’t last long now, thought Souleby. Morland wouldn’t have to kill him, even if Calder had the backbone to stand up to him, which Souleby doubted. Calder had been widowed, and without Ben to keep him company he would fade away and die quickly enough.

  It was Calder who got in touch to tell Souleby of Hayley Cony
er’s passing. That didn’t surprise Souleby. They were two of the last three selectmen, and he had always been closer to Calder than to Luke Joblin, who was too flash for Souleby’s liking. What did surprise Souleby was Calder’s tone. He knew. He knew.

  “Who found her?” Souleby asked.

  “Chief Morland,” Calder told him, and it was there, in the way that he said “Chief.” “He thinks she might have had a heart attack.”

  “And I’ll bet Frank Robinson is signing off on it as we speak.”

  “That’s what I hear.” A pause. “Morland will be coming for you, Thomas.”

  The phone felt slick in Souleby’s hand. His palms were sweating.

  “I know,” he said. “What about you?”

  “He’s not afraid of me.”

  “Maybe he’s underestimated you.”

  Souleby heard Calder chuckle sadly.

  “No, he knows me inside and out. This is my little act of defiance, my last one. I’ll be resigning from the board.”

  “Nobody resigns from the board.”

  Only death brought an end to a selectman’s tenure. The elections were just for show. Everyone knew that.

  Calder was sitting in the back of Ben Pearson’s store. In reality it was as much his as it had been Ben’s, but Calder didn’t regard it as anything other than Ben’s store, even with Ben no longer around. He looked at the bottles of pills that he had been accumulating since Ben’s death.

  Soon, he thought. Soon.

  “There are ways, Thomas,” he said. “You step lively.”

  Now, with his bag packed, Thomas kissed his wife and prepared to leave.

  “Where will you go?” asked Constance.

  “I don’t know. Not far, but far enough to be safe from him.”

  Calls had to be made. Souleby still had plenty of allies in the town, although he couldn’t see many of them standing up to Morland. They weren’t killers, but Morland was.

  “What will I tell him when he comes?” asked Constance.

  “Nothing, because you know nothing.”

  He kissed her on the mouth.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  She watched him drive away.

  He had been gone less than an hour before Lucas Morland arrived at her door.

  SOULEBY DROVE AS FAR as Portland and parked in the long-term garage at the Portland Jetport. He then took a bus to Boston, paying cash for the ticket. He didn’t know how far Morland would go to track him, and he was no spy, but he hoped that, if Morland did somehow discover the whereabouts of the car, it would throw him a little. He asked his son-in-law to book a room for him under the name Ryan at a club off Massachusetts Avenue that advertised through Expedia. Souleby knew that the club didn’t ask for ID, but simply held a key for the name listed on the reservation. He then walked over to Back Bay, sat in a coffee shop across from Pryor Investments, and waited. When Garrison Pryor eventually appeared, cell phone to his ear, Souleby left the coffee shop and followed him. Souleby caught up with Pryor when he stopped at a pedestrian signal.

  “Hello, Garrison,” he said.

  Pryor turned.

  “I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up the phone. “What are you doing here, Thomas?”

  “I need help.”

  The light changed. Pryor started walking, but Souleby easily kept up with him. He was considerably taller than Pryor, and fitter too, despite his age.

  “I’m not in the helping business,” said Pryor. “Not for you or your board.”

  “We’ve exchanged information in the past.”

  “That was before tridents began appearing in the woodwork of houses in Scarborough, Maine. Have you any idea of the trouble you’ve caused me?”

  “I counseled against that.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “We’re having difficulties in Prosperous. Serious difficulties.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Our chief of police is out of control. He has to be . . . retired before we can restore stability. Recompense can be made to you and your colleagues.”

  “It’s gone too far.”

  “Garrison.” Souleby put a hand out to stop Pryor, forcing the shorter man to look up at him. “Morland is going to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Thomas,” said Pryor. “Truly, I am. But we’re not going to intervene. If it’s any consolation to you, whatever happens, Prosperous’s days are drawing to a close. In the end, it doesn’t matter who’s left standing—you, Morland, the board. There are men coming to wipe you from the map.”

  Souleby’s hand dropped. “And you’ll let this happen?”

  Pryor took out his cell phone and redialed a number. He watched it connect, raised the phone to his ear, and patted Souleby on the shoulder in farewell.

  “Thomas,” said Pryor, as he walked away, “we’re going to watch you all burn.”

  MORLAND SAT IN HIS office. He was frustrated, but no more than that. Souleby would have to return. His life was here. In Souleby’s absence, Luke Joblin and Calder Ayton had agreed that elections to the board should be held just as soon as Hayley Conyer was safely interred. Neither had objected to Morland’s list of nominees for the three vacant positions.

  Morland had a fourth name ready too. He had a feeling that another vacancy would soon arise.

  CHAPTER

  LV

  Chief Morland next faced Thomas Souleby as they stood over Hayley Conyer’s open grave. In recognition of her long and generous service to the town of Prosperous, she was buried in the old cemetery, in the shadow of the church whose legacy she had done so much to protect, and in which her body had reposed on the night before its burial. Only a handful of the most important citizens were permitted to enter the church for the funeral service, although a temporary sound system relayed the proceedings to the townsfolk who stood outside. God played a part, but so too did nature, and the metaphor that ran through Warraner’s oratory was of the changing of the seasons, a life’s journey from spring to winter, and thence to a new form of rebirth.

  Once the coffin was lowered into the ground, it was left to the selectmen, assisted by Morland and Warraner, to fill in the grave. It was a sign of respect, but Morland was inevitably reminded of the last time he had wielded a spade in service of a body. The townsfolk started to leave. Tea and coffee were being served at the Town Office, where memories of Hayley Conyer would be exchanged, and talk would turn to the election of the new selectmen. In addition, nobody wanted to miss the chance to gossip a little under the flag of mourning: Thomas Souleby’s absence until the morning of the funeral had not gone unremarked, and the tension between him and Chief Morland was common knowledge in the town, even if the catalyst for this particular bout of hostilities—Hayley Conyer’s forced departure from this world—was not.

  Morland caught up with Souleby halfway across the churchyard. He grabbed the older man’s arm, steering him away from the gate.

  “Walk with me awhile, Thomas,” he said.

  Souleby’s wife was waiting for him outside the railings. Morland thought that she might spring over them to protect her husband when she saw the chief approach him, but Souleby raised a hand to let her know that he was okay. If Morland intended him harm, he would do so another day, and under other circumstances.

  “We missed you,” said Morland. “Your absence was unfortunate. The town was in mourning. It looked to the board for leadership, and the board, in its turn, looked to you as the senior selectman, but you weren’t there.”

  Souleby wasn’t about to accuse Lucas Morland of murder—not here, not anywhere. There remained a possibility that he could still survive this, and even turn the situation to his advantage. The three nominees to the board were comparatively young, and open to manipulation. They were not his creatures, but neither were they Morland’s. He could not giv
e Morland an excuse to act against him, although the flaw in this line of reasoning was easily apparent, for Morland might not even need a reason to act.

  “I had business to conclude,” said Souleby.

  “You mind my asking what kind of business?”

  “Private. Personal.”

  “You sure about that? Because if it had to do with the town I really ought to know about it. This is a delicate time. We all need to pull together.”

  Souleby stopped walking and faced Morland.

  “What do you want, Chief Morland?”

  “I want you to give up your place on the board.”

  “You know that’s not possible. Under the rules—”

  “The rules have changed. The board met while you were away.”

  “There was no board,” said Souleby. “Two members isn’t a quorum.”

  “Like I said, this is a delicate time. We didn’t know what had happened to you, and your wife was of little help. Decisions had to be made. Calder Ayton and Luke Joblin consented to temporary measures pending the election of a new board and the permanent retention of those rules. Selectmen will no longer serve for life, and no selectman will be able to serve more than two terms in succession. I’d have informed you of the changes before now if I’d been able to find you.”

  Souleby understood what was happening. If he resigned from the board, any power that he had would disappear. He would have no protection.

  And, eventually, Morland would come for him. He would do so because, alive, Souleby would always be a threat. Calder Ayton would soon be dead, while Luke Joblin was on Morland’s side, and perhaps always had been. Only Souleby knew the details of what had been done in the board’s name, and what Morland himself had done.