Parker gave up.
‘I believe that somewhere out there are individuals connected to the Capstead Martyrs, or the Brethren, or whatever you or anyone else might choose to call them,’ he said. ‘For some reason, they don’t want people delving into their history, and that’s why Souliere was killed. If Eklund is dead, then he died for the same reason. If he’s not dead, then it’s possible he may have killed Souliere. While he’s missing, he’ll remain a suspect, for the police if not for me.’
‘You don’t think he could have murdered her?’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘And what about Mr. Webb’s brother and his family? How do they connect to these Brethren?’
‘If we accept that Michael MacKinnon is dead, then possibly just bad luck in his case, and punishment in the case of his wife and son. She kept looking for her husband, and they wanted to stop her. But I still don’t understand why they’d target someone who wasn’t a threat to them. If they killed MacKinnon, then his death caused more trouble than it was worth.
‘And there are a lot of missing people: MacKinnon, Eklund, even Claudia Sansom, at least until her remains showed up. In addition, Eklund had marked any number of other disappearances as being of interest. If even a quarter of them involve the Brethren, then that’s a significant figure, and it suggests deliberation. It’s hard to make a case without a body, although they’ve left some of those in their wake as well.’
He had purposely included Claudia Sansom, just to hear what Mother might say.
‘You believe there’s a link between Claudia Sansom and the others?’
So Mother knew about Sansom, which confirmed that she’d gone through Eklund’s records.
‘Eklund is the connection.’
‘But Eklund didn’t uncover any sightings in her case. There are no ghosts where Claudia Sansom is concerned.’
Parker was tempted to correct her. In his experience, there were ghosts where everyone was concerned, if rarely of the uncanny kind. Instead he contented himself with saying, ‘She was important to Eklund, and whatever was important to Eklund is important to me.’
They were already long past Souliere’s house, with the driver heading south along the Naugatuck River. Parker hoped that he intended to turn north again before they left the state, or else the walk back to his car would put the trot from the Waterbury PD building into grim perspective. Although it was bleak outside, Parker tried unsuccessfully to roll down his window. In the contained environment of the car, Mother’s scent was moving from cloying to nauseating. But even as the smell grew stronger, so too did the stink of what it was designed to hide. Mother reeked of sweat, sickness, and disease, but whether it issued from her or her clothing wasn’t clear. Parker had a terrible suspicion that, for the most part, it might be the latter. Up close, he could see stains on her dress: food, what might have been oil or grease, and other fluids that weren’t immediately identifiable without the aid of a laboratory, but were almost certainly bodily in origin. If they weren’t her own, then they came from Caspar Webb. How long had she been wearing that dress: since his death? Perhaps she just kept it for special occasions. Parker had to fight the urge to move farther away from her, or break the glass. He opted for breathing through his mouth, and tried not to focus on the particulate nature of odors.
‘You still haven’t told me who hired you to look for Eklund,’ said Mother, ‘although I have my suspicions.’
‘I’m not going to confirm them.’
‘Julian could make you.’
She gestured at the driver, who again glowered at Parker from the rearview mirror.
‘Julian?’ said Parker. ‘For real? No wonder he looks so unhappy.’
Julian smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. If Mother let him off his leash, he was likely to do some damage, but Mother didn’t pursue the matter, leaving Julian – or Julie, as Parker now thought of him, albeit silently – to simmer away.
‘I do have one question to which I need an honest answer,’ she said.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How much did you tell the Waterbury PD about Mr. Webb, or about me and my son?’
‘Nothing. You didn’t come up. Unless, of course, you had Michelle Souliere killed, in which case you probably should have.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you kept us out of your conversation.’
Parker didn’t bother to tell her that he’d discussed everything about her circumstances with Ross, since that wasn’t the question he’d been asked. He also noticed that she hadn’t responded to the second part of his answer.
‘And Michelle Souliere?’ he prompted.
‘I think you know I wasn’t involved.’
‘What about your son?’
It was like watching an iceberg shudder from some unseen collision in the ocean depths.
‘My son doesn’t care enough about any of this to become involved.’
‘What does he care about?’
‘His reputation.’
Mother kept her face turned away as she spoke, although Parker could see it reflected in the window. It bore an expression he’d seen before: love poisoned by disappointment.
‘I wasn’t aware that he had a reputation.’
‘That would be part of the problem.’
‘And does he care about you?’
‘He loves me.’
‘Which would be another part of the problem.’
‘Love covers a multitude of sins.’
Julian turned into a lot overlooking the river and brought the car to a halt. Parker didn’t like this one bit. All it would take was for Julian to turn around with a gun in his hand, and all his worries would come to an end. The body of the Chrysler would muffle most of the sound, suppressed or otherwise. With low velocity ammunition or hollow points, his death wouldn’t even leave a stain on the upholstery. But Julian kept his hands on the wheel, and his eyes on the river.
‘I’m concerned about Philip,’ said Mother.
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way,’ Parker replied, ‘by which I mean don’t think that I’m not serious, but if he was my son, I’d be concerned too.’
‘We have issues to resolve. It’s important that we be given the time and space to do so.’
‘Without the police asking awkward questions, you mean.’
‘Without anyone asking awkward questions.’
‘Caspar Webb was a criminal, and you’re engaged in the disposal of a criminal empire. Nothing you do will be unobserved. A lot of people are curious to see what happens next.’
‘Including your employer?’
She turned to face him, and he looked her in the eye as he answered. He’d had enough of Mother’s company. He shifted position. If Julian made a move he didn’t like, he’d be able to land a blow to his temple that would stun him for long enough to ensure he could be hurt more seriously in the aftermath.
‘My employer cares only about Jaycob Eklund,’ said Parker. ‘You could say he sees the bigger picture, and Eklund is part of that. You and your son are not. Neither was Caspar Webb. Like him, you’ll die, and your son will die, and you’ll all be forgotten. Your pond is going dry, but your son isn’t smart enough to spot it. He’ll only realize it when he’s gasping in the mud, but I won’t be there to see it. If you’re lucky, neither will you. But it won’t matter in the end, not any of it.’
He stopped talking, but remained wary of Julian, even though the driver’s hands had still not moved from the wheel.
When it came, Mother’s reply was not what he had anticipated.
‘Good,’ she said.
She patted the back of the driver’s seat. Julian turned the Chrysler around, and they headed back to South End, stopping at the end of Souliere’s street. Parker’s car remained just beyond the police cordon, surrounded by TV trucks and gawkers. He was fairly certain that no one in the local media would have any idea who he was, but he intended to keep his head down, just in case.
Julian got out and opened Parker
’s door.
‘When you discover what happened to Mr. Webb’s brother-in-law and his family,’ said Mother, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d call and let me know.’
‘If I find out.’
‘I have faith in you, Mr. Parker,’ she said. ‘You aspire to completeness.’
The door closed. Julian bestowed one last scowl for bad luck, then returned to his seat and drove away. Parker restored the ammunition to his gun, and the gun to its holster, before at last calling Angel and Louis.
It was Angel who picked up.
‘It’s me,’ said Parker. ‘What’s the situation?’
In the background he could hear sirens, and a woman screaming.
‘Well,’ said Angel, ‘I have good news and bad news …’
76
Sumner had always thought of himself as a rational, organized man; it was hard to remain successful in the construction business and be any other way. On the other hand, he occasionally found it hard to balance the physical world of wood and cement, of feet, inches, and angles, with a state of existence that encompassed the existence of ghosts. He’d never killed anyone, but he was complicit by blood in more deaths than he cared to consider, and was about to become intimately involved in at least one more. It was strange, he thought, what the human mind could inure itself to, if required.
Sumner was now behind the wheel of the Blazer. Beside him, Richard was humming to himself, and bouncing with excitement in his seat. Richard, Sumner felt, had a lot of rage in him. While it was nice that he’d discovered an outlet for it, his obvious enthusiasm for making Tobey Thayer his second victim suggested that he had simply exchanged an old set of problems for a whole new set.
Thayer lived far outside town, in a big, isolated house set back from the road and surrounded by trees and bushes for added privacy. The ornate wrought iron double gates stood open as they passed, and they could see a short driveway leading to the house itself. Sumner, whose own home was just the right size for the needs of his four-member family, looked at Thayer’s and decided that it was exactly the kind of house in which he would have expected to find someone who made tacky adverts for discount furniture: six bedrooms at least, he reckoned, and enough bathrooms for a man to be able to take a dump once a day for a week and never use the same one twice. Two cars were parked in front, and to the right was a separate two-car garage with the doors closed.
They knew from a newspaper profile that Thayer and his wife now lived alone. Thayer had spoken about how his kids had left home, and maybe it was time to consider downsizing. There were mentions of vague aspirations to visit Europe, or even Asia, which would never come to pass, not if Richard and Sumner had anything to do with it. At no time, though, did Thayer refer to the abilities that had brought death to his door. He was, to all appearances, just another successful businessman with a wife who had been forced to make the aging woman’s choice between her face and her body, and had, judging by the photographs accompanying the article, opted for the body. She was okay from the lower neck down – a bit scrawny for Sumner’s liking, and with the kind of raised veins on her arms that would have given him the shivers to touch – but her features had the drawn, rapacious look of someone who spent too much time wishing she could eat more.
Thayer had returned Sumner’s call just fifteen minutes earlier. He sounded like he was nursing a head cold, although he described it as flu, which Sumner, who was no doctor, could have told him it wasn’t. Sumner had been laid low with the real thing a couple of years back, and it took him a week to work up the strength to get out of bed, never mind call a stranger to shift a couple of sticks of chipped furniture. At least it had confirmed for them that Thayer was at home. In an ideal world, his wife would have been elsewhere when they came for him, but from the cars in the drive – a Lexus and a chick-car BMW Z4 Roadster – it looked like she was in the house with her husband.
Richard was untroubled by the wife’s presence. He had no problem killing both of them, he assured Sumner, which didn’t make Sumner feel any easier about the workings of Richard’s mind. Sumner suggested waiting until nightfall before going in, but Richard pointed out that the couple was in the house now, and the trees and bushes provided plenty of cover from the road. He also noted that the longer they stayed in the area, the more likely it was that someone might notice and – later – remember them, which struck Sumner as sensible, and suggested that Richard might not be completely nuts after all.
So it was decided: they’d kill the Thayers early, and have done with it.
Tobey Thayer hung up the phone after commiserating with the man on the other end about his recent losses to fire, and reassuring him that he would be fighting fit in a day or two and was committed to fulfilling all his discount furniture needs. He was dressed and sitting in his den, where he was half watching a movie while adding to the pile of mucus-sodden tissues in the wastebasket by his feet.
He felt a headache coming on, and not just from his clogged sinuses. His fingers and toes were prickling, and he tasted metal in his mouth. The room was swimming around him, and the phone rang again, except this time it wasn’t the familiar electronic beeping but an older sound he remembered from his childhood: the double bell of his parents’ old black rotary dial model.
He picked up the handset. He heard waves crashing and – distantly – a woman singing a song. Instantly he was transported back to a bedroom in Philadelphia’s Fishtown, where his father’s family had lived for generations, the earliest of his ancestors being among the German-Americans who bought up the fishing rights on the Delaware River at the end of the eighteenth century. His mother, though, came from English stock, a heritage that set her apart in what was a predominantly Irish Catholic neighborhood. It was she who used to sing to him long after he should have been too old for lullabies, and it was she who sang to him now, across time and space and death:
Do not fear the sound of a breeze
Brushing leaves against the door.
Do not dread the murmuring seas,
Lonely waves washing the shore.
God, he knew that air: ‘Sleep My Baby’, it was called. His mother used to lull him with it as a child, and he was overcome with the most desolate sense of loss and longing. He found himself calling his mother’s name, but in return received only the sound of the sea, and the voice fading, growing indistinct, and he could not tell if he was still hearing the words or just filling in the gaps from memory:
Sleep child mine, there’s nothing here,
While in slumber at my breast,
Angels smiling, have no fear,
Holy angels guard your rest.
She faded away, and was gone. The crashing of the waves became an electronic rasp in his ear. The loneliness was replaced by terror, because the meaning behind the song lay not in its words of consolation, but in the emphasis the voice had placed on ‘fear’ and ‘dread’.
Something was coming, but there would be no angels to guard his rest.
And then the doorbell rang.
77
Sumner and Richard found a side road by Thayer’s property. In the distance was another house on what looked like farmland, although Sumner saw no sign of livestock. Maybe they were all indoors because of the weather, although what Sumner knew about farming could be written on the palm of his hand. But even from a distance, the house and outbuildings looked run-down. That suited him just fine.
Once he and Richard were content that they had not attracted even cursory attention, they turned back on the empty road, hung a right, and drove up Thayer’s drive. Richard already had the gun in his hand: a Glock 19 with some fancy attachments which Sumner, who knew even less about guns than he did about farming, thought looked like overkill, and certainly would have made it hard to carry in anything other than the little case Richard had brought with him. The gun, Richard explained to Sumner, was fitted with a Unity Tactical ATOM slide, a Trijicon RMR red dot sight, and a SureFire X300 Ultra WeaponLight, the latter of which Sumner, with tongue only
partly in cheek, convinced him probably wouldn’t be required since he’d be shooting in daylight. The gun was loaded with polymer-copper projectiles that would, according to Richard, ‘tear apart soft tissue but won’t overpenetrate.’
Jesus.
‘Well, put it away until we get inside the house,’ Sumner told Richard. Anyone glimpsing that thing in Richard’s hand would barricade the doors and call the cops, or possibly just preemptively open fire.
Richard had put on a coat, and somehow managed to slip most of the gun into one of the side pockets. He turned to Sumner and smiled.
‘I brought this one for you,’ he said.
He rummaged in another pocket of the coat and withdrew a small hammerless revolver. Sumner thought it looked like a lady’s gun, especially when compared to Richard’s.
‘I don’t want it,’ said Sumner.
‘You can’t go in with your hands hanging by your sides.’
‘I don’t know how to shoot.’
‘This one, you just point and fire.’
‘You don’t understand: I don’t want to know how to shoot.’
‘Look,’ said Richard, ‘it’s just for show. If both of us are armed, Thayer and his wife are more likely to sit tight and do as they’re told.’
Reluctantly, Sumner took the gun. It was shiny and didn’t weigh much at all.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘A Smith & Wesson Model 642. Five rounds.’
‘What about a safety catch?’
‘It doesn’t have one.’
‘Isn’t that kind of dangerous?’
‘You want to have that discussion now?’
Sumner decided that he didn’t.
‘Should I keep my finger on the trigger?’
‘I wouldn’t. Keep it outside the trigger guard. Remember: it’s just for show. I’ll take care of everything.’ Richard grinned at him. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’
Sumner’s heart was racing. He was scared, but had to admit that he was thrilled as well.
A Game of Ghosts: A Charlie Parker Thriller: 15. From the No. 1 Bestselling Author of A Time of Torment Page 31
