Parker ate some steak. It was perfect, but Ross’s presence at the table – in fact, in the state of Maine – was inhibiting his enjoyment of the dish.
‘You could just have called and asked me to look into this,’ said Parker. ‘You didn’t have to come all the way up here to do it.’
‘I look upon you as an investment. I wanted to see how it was maturing.’
‘And Eklund is just some small-time investigator who’s dropped off the radar, leaving you mildly concerned.’
‘You have it.’
Lies, all lies. Eklund was important. Ross wouldn’t have been here in person if he were not.
But then, this was all a game. Parker had in his possession a list of names retrieved from a plane in the Great North Woods. The list contained details of men and women who had been compromised in ways large and small, individuals who had made a pact, either knowingly or not, with the servants of an old evil. Parker was drip-feeding some of those names to Ross, and Ross would occasionally complain about the pace at which this information was being shared, but Parker felt certain that Ross was doing little more with it than memorizing those identified, and perhaps moving discreetly against them when the opportunity presented itself.
Mostly, Ross was waiting.
In theory, Parker could have handed over the list in its entirety, enabling Ross to run it through some massive computer in the FBI’s basement, at the end of which process a name would be spat out, for they were both convinced that hidden in this directory of human failings were clues to the identity of a single individual. That person, male or female, was leading a search for the Buried God, the God of Wasps, the One Who Waits Behind the Glass. If God existed, then this was the Not-God, but the names ascribed to it were irrelevant. Even whether or not such an entity might actually exist was relatively unimportant. What mattered was that those who believed in it, or simply professed to do so, used it to justify acts of immense depravity. Yet if the one who manipulated them all could be neutralized, that search would be set back for generations, perhaps forever.
But Ross was unable to carry out such an operation alone, no matter how quietly, because he couldn’t be sure that his search would remain a secret. Some of those being hunted occupied positions of power and authority. They were wary, and vigilant. They listened. For now, these people believed the list remained lost. If they knew it had been retrieved, they would act to secure it.
So for all Ross’s concerns about Parker, he acknowledged that Parker’s continued possession of the list, and his investigation of those on it, might be their best chance for success. That was why Parker’s retainer was so generous. Through it, Ross was funding a search in which his own agency could not be trusted to engage.
And now here he was, spearing fish with his fork and speaking of a missing investigator while Tony Bennett played in the background.
‘How long has Eklund been missing?’ Parker asked.
‘He was scheduled to get in touch four days ago. I let it go to five before I contacted you.’
‘Don’t you know about the importance of the first forty-eight hours in any investigation?’
‘I tend to eschew alarmism.’ He gestured at Parker’s plate. ‘You’ve barely touched your steak.’
‘I think I’ll ask them to bag it for me. I may have it with eggs in the morning.’
Ross’s own plate was already just a scattering of greens interspersed with fragments of white flesh. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, finished off his wine, and called for the check. There was no suggestion of dessert or coffee. His business in Portland was almost done.
‘What makes you think Eklund isn’t just taking some time to himself?’ Parker asked.
‘Because that’s not the arrangement I have with him. The conditions of our agreement are very clear.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘I don’t think you’d care much for the kind of errands Eklund runs.’
Another lie. Ross had put just a little too much effort into being dismissive.
‘I’ve placed the relevant information on Eklund in a drop box,’ he told Parker. ‘You’ll find a series of e-mail links to it when you check your in-box.’
The check came. Ross paid it in cash. When he had finished counting out the bills, he wrote down a cell phone number on a piece of blank paper that he took from his wallet.
‘If you need to contact me, use this number,’ he said. ‘You’ll be reimbursed for any expenses. I don’t need receipts, just an estimate. I’ll also make an ex gratia payment to your account to cover any incidentals. If you could avoid drawing too much attention to yourself, I’d be most grateful.’
He stood, but told Parker not to get up.
‘Stay. Finish your wine.’ His hand rested uncomfortably heavily on Parker’s left shoulder as he leaned down and spoke his next words very softly.
‘And if you ever try to record one of our conversations again, I’ll set the dogs on you and your psychotic friends, and let them tear you all apart.’
He patted Parker on the shoulder, then left.
A few minutes went by before Angel and Louis joined Parker.
‘Where did he go?’ asked Parker.
‘The car was waiting for him,’ said Louis. ‘He obviously had the pleasure of your company timed to the minute. We didn’t figure he was worth following. You want to talk to him, you can always knock on the door of Federal Plaza and ask if he can come out and play.’
‘And we didn’t hear a word either of you said after something about oysters,’ Angel added. ‘All we got was dead air.’
Parker reached for his tie and detached the pinhead microphone before removing the tie as well. Recording Parker’s interactions with Ross had been Moxie Castin’s idea. Even in its amended form, Moxie regarded Parker’s contractor’s agreement with Ross as being as close to toxic as it was possible for a document to come without requiring the addition of a biohazard symbol. Federal law permitted the recording of telephone or in-person conversations as long as one of the parties consented, which in this case Parker,
as one of the parties, did, although Ross clearly held dissenting views.
‘He knew, or suspected,’ said Parker. ‘He jammed me shortly after I arrived.’
‘I think he has issues with trust,’ said Angel. ‘And charm, although we always figured about the charm part.’
‘He called you and Louis psychotic, by the way.’
Louis scowled, or at least his permanent scowl deepened slightly.
‘I’m hurt,’ he said. ‘I’m not psychotic. I’m sociopathic.’
Angel, who didn’t seem bothered either way, pointed at Parker’s steak.
‘You eating that?’
‘I—’
Before Parker could reply, Angel took Ross’s seat, drew the plate toward him, and commenced feeding. Louis borrowed a chair from the nearest table and began scanning the wine list, ‘since we’re here.’ A couple of the other diners glanced at them in mild alarm. Angel in particular looked like he might have been called to fix the boiler and become distracted by patrons’ unfinished meals. One woman nearby was now huddled protectively over her lobster thermidor.
Louis ordered a glass of the Malbec and some bar snacks: bruschetta, meatballs.
‘So,’ he said, once he was done, ‘what did Ross want from you?’
‘To find a private investigator named Eklund who’s gone off the reservation.’
‘You going to do it?’ asked Angel through a mouthful of steak.
‘You know,’ said Parker, ‘I don’t think I’ve been given a choice.’
3
As Ross had promised, the links to the Eklund file were waiting in Parker’s in-box when he returned home that night. They required him to jump through some hoops to download the material, but eventually he retrieved everything. It didn’t amount to much. Eklund was fifty-two, divorced for five years, with no children. He had been a licensed private investigator for nearly a decade, having first serv
ed time with law enforcement in New Hampshire and Rhode Island without ever rising very high in the ranks or, it seemed, serving with any particular distinction. Parker could find no tales of bank robberies foiled, no shoot-outs with hardened gunmen, no murderers apprehended in the course of routine traffic checks. It was a standard law enforcement career. Eklund had simply served his twenty, retired, and gone into business for himself. What might have drawn him into Ross’s orbit, Parker did not know. Eklund appeared to be remarkably nondescript, but maybe that was the point. He wouldn’t attract attention, and Parker only had to glance in a mirror to figure out why that quality might have appealed to Ross.
Nevertheless, he wondered if Eklund had ever come to regret striking his deal with the FBI man. At least Parker knew what he was getting himself into, or hoped that he did. He was playing Ross, but he was also being played. Parker was the bait on a hook, the tethered goat in the forest, while Ross waited to see what might come to take a bite. But what was Eklund’s role? He watched, he listened, or so Ross had claimed. But whom was he watching, and to whom was he listening?
If Ross knew – and Ross must have known – then he wasn’t telling Parker, and the bare details of Eklund’s life contained in the drop box file offered no clues. Ross had supplied little more than business and home addresses, license plate number, the name and address of Milena Budny, Eklund’s ex-wife, professional affiliations, bank account details – that much was useful, in any case – along with the access code to Eklund’s cell phone. Parker wasn’t about to ask how Ross had secured the latter information. The bank accounts he could understand, especially if Ross was paying Eklund for his services, but the code was another matter. Either Ross did not entirely trust Eklund, or this was simply the preferred operating procedure in all of Ross’s dealings with those outside, and possibly even inside, the bureau. Whatever the reason, it made Parker glad he had gone to some lengths to secure his own computer, and was careful in the use of his landline and cell phone. In addition, he had his laptop and desktop computer regularly swept for viruses or Trojan horses; changed his passwords on a weekly basis; and, most adroitly of all, recorded little that was important or essential on-screen, preferring instead to rely on notebooks, his own system of shorthand, and a memory that was, as yet, showing no signs of decay beyond an occasional inability to recall the names of actresses in old movies.
With nothing else to do, Parker called Eklund’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail, but he used the code provided to access the messages. He listened to eighteen, including one from Eklund’s ex-wife expressing concern at not hearing from him in a while, two from old cop buddies looking to meet up for a drink, and the rest from clients, either actual or prospective. Most left numbers, which Parker noted down, but none of the messages stood out as significant. He was also under no illusion that Ross was not already familiar with their contents, probably having accessed them without causing their deletion, and had come to the same conclusion as Parker had: if there was anything of use, it was well hidden.
Parker returned to the phone messages. They might have appeared mundane, but that didn’t mean they contained no interesting information, merely that Ross – or someone acting on his behalf – hadn’t been able to spot it. The same might well be true of Eklund’s computer, once it was found. Ross’s notes indicated that both the laptop and the phone were missing, and it didn’t take a trained investigator to assume both were wherever Eklund currently happened to be. Parker knew he’d have to go to Eklund’s office and home and perform a thorough search of all material he found in those locations, as well as track down each of the callers who had left messages in order to ascertain if Eklund had been in touch since they’d tried to make contact with him. The messages covered a period of five days, just as Ross had indicated. Eighteen messages over five days, almost a quarter of them personal. It wasn’t much for a working private investigator.
Parker set what little he had learned aside, turned off his office light, and went to bed. It was late, and he couldn’t do much for Eklund at this hour. He wasn’t even sure he would be able to get started in earnest for a day or two, at least. He had promised Rachel, his former partner and the mother of his daughter Sam, that he would travel to Burlington for a meeting with Emily Ferguson, the child psychologist who had been dealing with Sam in the aftermath of her recent abduction.
Parker had met Ferguson twice before: once at the start of Sam’s sessions, and the second time a week or so later, when he’d come across Ferguson and her children at the Maine Mall. Apparently her mother lived in Falmouth, and Ferguson had taken the opportunity to combine a visit with some shopping. As far as Parker could tell, Emily Ferguson had given birth to three monsters; that, or she had taken three kids and turned them into monsters. Either way, they were monsters. Given the time and opportunity, they could probably have reduced the Maine Mall to a pile of rubble and twisted metal. Rachel thought highly of Ferguson, and Parker bowed to Rachel’s professional knowledge, but he doubted that she had ever met the Ferguson tribe at its marauding best. If she had, it might have caused her to reconsider.
Sam: his daughter’s problem, at least as far as her mother and Ferguson were concerned, was not that she was traumatized by her abduction, but that she appeared almost entirely untroubled by it. A man had taken her from her home, locked her in the trunk of his car, and brought her to a remote motel, but he had suffered some form of hemorrhage before he could visit any harm on his captive. Sam had been very lucky, but an element of post-traumatic stress might have been expected. Instead, it was as though nothing had ever happened. Both Rachel and the psychologist were convinced Sam was burying her true feelings. Parker wasn’t so sure, but he kept his own counsel. He knew only that his daughter was stronger, and far stranger, than even her own mother could have suspected.
He lay in the dark. He hadn’t bothered to draw the drapes, and through the window the snow-clad Scarborough marshes shone in the moonlight, white on black, like a landscape image in negative. He opened and closed his left hand, stretching the fingers, just as he had been doing all evening. The action hurt, but it would mean less pain for him in the morning, or so he hoped. Sometimes his entire life felt like a series of such trade-offs, a little suffering now for the possibility of a reduction in suffering down the line. Perhaps it was a vestige of his Catholicism. In a past life, he might have been an ascetic, or a mortifier of his own flesh.
He fell asleep to the sound of waves lapping at the shore, in this world and another.
4
In a house far to the west, a conversation ensued as blood was washed from skin to sink, and swirled away in a rush of pink.
‘Others may come.’ It was a man who spoke.
‘Let them’ was the reply. A female voice, but colder. ‘They’ll get the same.’
The woman stared out the window. Snow swirled as the storm moved east. She was glad that her brother could not see her face. She did not want to add to his concern. He did not like this part of their lives. Neither did she, but unlike her brother, she was capable of doing what was necessary, however unpleasant it might be.
‘Whose work do we do?’ she asked, dredging up the question from their shared childhood.
The response came automatically, even though he had not used it in years.
‘Our father’s work.’
His sister came to him, and kissed him softly on the lips. His mouth opened, and her tongue found his.
From the shadows the Brethren watched, and smiled their approval.
5
Parker rose early for the drive to Burlington. Knowing that he would soon be in a car for hours, he poured coffee into a Thermos mug and walked the margin of the marshes, through pitch pine and red maple, through foxglove and winterberry holly, alone with his thoughts.
He was stricken by a fleeting sense of melancholy. He did not want to make the trip west, but could not have said why. He walked back to his house and reflected on how he missed having a dog. Dogs were gene
rally incompatible with melancholy.
Before he left, he made a series of calls to those who had left messages for Eklund, confirming that they had not been returned. Finally, he called Milena Budny, who now lived in Florida with her second husband. He identified himself, and informed her that he was acting on behalf of a client who was concerned about her ex-husband after he failed to make contact at an agreed time and date.
‘Has something happened to Jaycob?’
The worry in her voice sounded genuine. Parker didn’t mention that he’d already listened to the voice message left by her on Eklund’s phone.
‘I really don’t know,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve only recently been engaged to look for him.’
‘I haven’t spoken to him in more than a month.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Yes and no. We try to speak every couple of weeks, but a month without contact wouldn’t be untypical.’
Not too many divorced couples stayed in touch in this way, or not in Parker’s experience, an opinion he now shared with Budny.
‘Our divorce was pretty amicable,’ she said.
Parker picked up on something in her tone. ‘Pretty’ amicable wasn’t the same as ‘amicable’, not by some distance.
‘May I ask why you separated?’
‘We’d been drifting apart for a long time.’
‘Okay.’
‘And I met someone else, someone with whom I wanted to be more than I wanted to be with Jaycob.’
‘So you instigated the divorce proceedings?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m reluctant to pry, Mrs. Budny, and anything you tell me will be held in confidence, but—’
‘You can ask what you want. If I feel something is too private, I’ll let you know.’
‘Well, there are degrees of amicability. I’m wondering, I guess, if your husband was angry, or upset, when you informed him that you wanted to end your marriage.’
A Game of Ghosts: A Charlie Parker Thriller: 15. From the No. 1 Bestselling Author of A Time of Torment Page 2
