A Game of Ghosts

  Webb had remained a distant, aloof figure in Philip’s life until right at the end, when his illness restricted his movements and he chose to relocate from Block Island to these apartments in the Jewelry District, where he soon became bedridden, and numbed by medication. Although a roster of nurses maintained a near-constant vigil, and doctors visited, most of his care devolved to Philip’s mother, and, on occasion, to Philip himself, who would take his turn at the old man’s bedside. By the end, Webb was being fed oxygen through a mask, and was conscious for only a few minutes each day. Death would be a final small step, a simple transition from being to nothingness.

  So Philip helped him on his way. A simple pinch of the oxygen line. A gasp. A spasm.

  Gone.

  The alarm sounded, but by then Philip was already calling for help. The nurse, who had been taking a break in the next room, tried to revive Webb, but his heart had given out at last. It was not unexpected, and Philip thought the nurse’s efforts at resuscitation were little more than perfunctory. Mother was not present. She was resting in their smaller accommodations in the building next door. When she appeared, she held the dead man’s hand. She did not weep. Neither, though, did she look at or speak to her son.

  In the months since, she had given no indication that she suspected Philip of any involvement in Webb’s death. And why should she? Webb was sick and old. Even the doctors admitted they were surprised he had lasted so long.

  But Philip thought that Mother knew.

  Because Mother knew everything.

  All this in a single pause.

  ‘—Mr. Webb’s assets and business interests may be causing you undue distress,’ she finished.

  ‘I’ve told you how I feel about it,’ said Philip, ‘but I’ve resigned myself to the inevitable.’

  ‘Have you, though?’

  Those sloe eyes regarded him neutrally. Mother was good at that. She was capable of turning her emotions on and off in an instant, even with her son. It permitted her to examine any problem with equanimity.

  ‘Yes, Mother. Really, there’s no need to send me away.’

  ‘When this is done, you’ll be comfortable for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Comfortable’: what a mealy-mouthed word. Comfort was for the old, the dying.

  ‘I know. We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘We keep having it because I don’t think you really listen.’

  ‘It’s hard for me. It’s hard not to be trusted.’

  ‘With these matters?’

  ‘With anything. Even my share of the bequest is tied up with conditions and allowances. It will be drip-fed to me, and I’ll have to beg for more.’

  ‘It’s still a great deal of money.’

  ‘It’s not just about the money.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘If you understood, you’d change things.’

  ‘My hands are tied. How many times do I have to say it? There are legal stipulations. Mr. Webb’s will was very clear on his final wishes.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true, Mother, and you know it. Many of the business interests under discussion are not legal at all.’

  And there it was, over and over. An empire was being cast to the wind, and with it Philip’s dreams of becoming an emperor.

  ‘Philip, I love you, but you are not Caspar Webb.’

  ‘I have his blood.’

  Mother winced.

  ‘What you have,’ she said, ‘is ambition.’

  ‘You’ve seen what I can do.’

  She had. She could still remember the summons to the warehouse, and Philip standing before the dangling figure of Terry Nakem, Vincent Garronne’s wingman. Mother had ordered Garronne’s death, because Garronne was plotting against her. Nakem should have fled when Garronne died. Mother would not have pursued him. Instead Nakem stayed around, which suggested he might be of a mind to cause trouble. Mother had instructed Philip simply to find Nakem, not to excoriate him. The vision of her son, stripped to the waist and mired in gore, a filleting knife in his right hand while what was left of Nakem pulsed redly behind him, had come close to threatening her own sanity.

  But it was the look on Philip’s face that remained with her, and returned in the depths of night. It was the expression of a child expecting to be praised for an act of destruction.

  Look, Mother. See what I have made.

  And yet she had stayed to watch him finish his work.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have witnessed what you’re capable of.’

  ‘I’m harder than you think. I can be ruthless.’

  ‘Ruthlessness and savagery are not the same thing.’

  ‘I can learn. I—’

  ‘Philip, enough. It is decided. You have a choice: stay and be silent, or leave until all this is done. You can go anywhere in the world. You’ll travel well – I’ll make sure of it. Take Erik with you.’

  Of the men who remained, Erik Lastrade was the most loyal to Philip. They were of similar age and temperament. In Philip’s disturbed mind, clogged with imperial visions, Erik was Hephaestion to his Alexander.

  ‘I would be happier to remain, Mother, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘It’s not, but have it your way, and let this be the last of it.’

  She returned to her papers. Philip allowed some minutes to go by, if only to ensure that he had his emotions under control. His eyes were warm, and he knew his voice would crack if he spoke too soon. Only Mother could do this to him, reduce him to the level of a child. Eventually, when he felt certain of his self-possession, he said, ‘What about Parker?’

  ‘What about him? I made him an offer, and he turned it down. He will do what he has to do. If it serves our ends, so much the better.’

  ‘I don’t like him. Or his friends.’

  Mother did not look up as she replied, but Philip did not need to see her face. The mockery in her tone told him all he needed to know.

  ‘I would keep that opinion to myself, if I were you,’ she said. ‘The tolerance of such men for those who cross them is even lower than mine. Now please, leave me to my work.’

  Philip stood, walked to the desk, and kissed Mother on the crown of the head.

  With her free hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek.

  ‘It really is for the best,’ she said.

  ‘I told you, Mother. I’m resigned to the inevitable.’

  ‘Good.’

  And he was: Mother would have to go.

  52

  Parker had been putting off calling Ross, mostly because he was still trying to assimilate what he had learned about Eklund and his crusade, although if anyone might be willing to listen to a tale of ghosts while keeping his skepticism in check, it was probably the FBI man. Parker called him on the number he’d been given, but it went straight to voice mail after two rings. He didn’t bother leaving a message. He figured Ross was only using this number for one purpose. Two minutes later, his call was returned.

  ‘Sorry, I was in a conference.’

  Parker heard traffic and shouting in the background – nothing alarming, just the sounds of a city.

  ‘I figured you might like a progress report,’ he said.

  ‘I would, but not over the phone. I’m in Boston. Can we meet?’

  Parker didn’t ask why Ross was once again north of his New York stomping ground. Whatever the reason, it meant bad news for someone. Still, Parker wasn’t about to haul himself down to Boston just for the pleasure of Ross’s company. If he wanted to spend time having people swear at him and sound their horns, he’d just stop dead in the middle of Congress Street during what passed for Portland’s rush hour. At least then folks would have a reason to be annoyed with him. He didn’t need to go to Boston and have them feel that way for no reason at all.

  ‘Boston’s kind of, well, Bostonian at this time of year,’ said Parker.

  ‘It’s Bostonian at every time of year,’ replied Ross, not unreasonably.

  ‘Yeah, that’s its problem.
’

  ‘Would you like to suggest a compromise?’

  ‘How about Portsmouth?’

  ‘Don’t you have something against the citizens of New Hampshire as well?’

  ‘Not like Massachusetts. They’re unstable in New Hampshire, crazy but they’re not angry with it.’

  ‘Such subtle distinctions. I’m taking the last shuttle back to New York tonight. I can be in Portsmouth in, uh, two hours. Where should we meet?’

  ‘They have a bookstore that sells booze.’

  ‘They would. What’s it called?’

  ‘Portsmouth Book and Bar.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll find it.’

  He hung up.

  Yeah, and you drive safely too.

  Ross, Parker felt, should probably retire to Massachusetts.

  As things turned out, Ross was about an hour late, which gave Parker plenty of time to browse, drink a late afternoon coffee, and think about Sam and Rachel. When he got tired of beating himself up, he bought a pristine copy of Man on the Run, a biography of Paul McCartney that began not with the Beatles, but with what McCartney did after they broke up. Parker had always preferred McCartney’s work to John Lennon’s, whatever effect it might have had on his standing with the cool kids. Lennon could only ever really write about himself, and Parker felt that he lacked empathy. McCartney, by contrast, was capable of thinking, or feeling, himself into the lives of others. It was the difference between ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ and ‘Penny Lane’: although Parker loved both songs, ‘Penny Lane’ was filled with characters, while ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ really had only one, and his name was John Lennon. Parker might even have taken the view that Lennon needed to get out of his apartment more, but when he did, an idiot shot him. He’d probably been right to spend the best part of a decade locked inside.

  Ross appeared just as McCartney was growing his beard long and getting it together in the country. The FBI agent didn’t look happy, although with Ross it was always hard to tell. He also wasn’t alone. Parker spotted his shadow, a young woman wearing a jacket that was too warm for indoors, but which she didn’t remove. She took a chair facing the door as Ross went to the counter and ordered two coffees, one of which was to be sent to her table, before joining Parker.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I’d have been on time if we’d met in Boston.’

  Parker closed his book. Ross pointed a finger at it.

  ‘I always liked John Lennon more.’

  ‘It figures,’ said Parker.

  Ross didn’t bother asking why, which Parker put down to his innate solipsism.

  ‘What’s with the escort?’ he asked.

  ‘An indulgence to put others at ease. There’s another waiting in the car.’

  ‘You’re moving up in the world – that, or you’ve been kicking beehives again.’

  Ross’s coffee arrived, but he waved it away.

  ‘On second thought,’ he said, ‘just bring me a glass of wine. Red. Strong. You want one?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Parker. ‘The same.’

  The decision to order wine seemed to relax Ross a little. He removed his jacket and reclined in his chair. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Parker hadn’t noticed them before. Parker thought they might be new: stress, and on a government salary too.

  ‘We’ve been speaking with someone you know,’ said Ross. ‘Garrison Pryor.’

  Garrison Pryor was the head of Pryor Investments, which was under investigation by the FBI’s Financial Crimes Section, the branch specializing in securities and commodities fraud. More interestingly, Ross and Parker both believed Pryor was the bagman and intermediary for a group of individuals known as the Backers, men and women who were directing the hunt for the Buried God. Of course, Parker guessed Ross had neglected to share the more esoteric and arcane of his suspicions with the FCS, and had instead found sufficient justification elsewhere for them to take an interest in Pryor.

  The actions of the FCS had begun as an attempt, at Ross’s instigation, to increase the pressure on Pryor in the hope of forcing him to turn informant. That was as much as Parker knew, but he was aware that Ross was deliberately piquing his interest, because Ross never revealed anything without a purpose.

  ‘And how did that go?’

  ‘As of this afternoon, he’s under indictment.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Certain of his company’s transactions did not stand up to the scrutiny of the Financial Crimes Section.’

  This didn’t surprise Parker. His own late grandfather had been the most honest man he’d ever known, an individual of utter moral probity, but the FCS would still have found a way to make him look like a crook.

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘His lawyers begged to differ with our assessment. They’re stonewalling.’

  ‘Then it looks like you’re in this for the long haul.’

  ‘Our investigations are ongoing.’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’

  ‘This began as a fishing expedition, and one not entirely unconnected to you, but it seems that the hook has snagged on something.’

  Ross had used the gun attack that left Parker fighting for his life to increase the pressure on those with reason to want him dead. Parker might have been more touched had it been an act of genuine concern instead of an excuse to flex some federal muscle.

  ‘Snagged on what, exactly?’

  ‘That remains to be conclusively established. Let’s just say it caught on Pryor, and he’s starting to squirm. He’s vulnerable, whatever his lawyers may say.’

  The wine arrived – a good Cab Sauv. Ross didn’t bother with a toast, or even a raising of his glass, but just dived in. Parker thought he caught Ross’s minder gazing a little enviously at him over her cappuccino.

  ‘Is Pryor on your list?’ Ross asked, once he’d surfaced again.

  ‘No,’ said Parker, ‘Pryor isn’t on the list.’

  ‘You really should consider handing it over to me.’

  ‘I have considered. I decided against it.’

  ‘You still believe you’ll find something we can’t?’

  ‘Maybe I just like frustrating you.’

  ‘That possibility grows more likely with each passing day. If you do find the name you’re looking for, be sure to scribble it on a note and paste it to the back of your refrigerator so we can discover it when you’re dead.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Is the Pryor business why you’re traveling with armed company?’

  ‘As I told you, it was at the insistence of others.’

  ‘You really think the Backers might come after you over Pryor? It would be a big step, killing a federal agent.’

  ‘The people we’re looking for are not typical.’

  ‘So I’m taking my life in my hands just by being in your company?’

  ‘Now you know how the rest of humanity feels around you.’

  ‘Funny. While I’d hate to write off killing you as a solution to anything, it would be easier for them just to get rid of Pryor.’

  ‘That possibility had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Pryor’s too, I’ll bet.’

  ‘We did raise it during our discussions with him. His shit-eating grin barely faltered.’

  ‘He does have a shit-eating grin, now that you mention it. Do you think he knows something you don’t?’

  ‘A great deal, I imagine, but he’s prepared to try and wait us out. A case like this could take years to go to trial. Who knows what might change during that time?’

  ‘I take it you have some ideas.’

  Ross drank more of his wine. Music played softly in the background. Through the window, Parker watched the breeze carry snow from the roofs of buildings and deposit it on the unwary passing below.

  ‘If Pryor doesn’t break,’ said Ross, ‘then perhaps I’ll threaten to cut him loose. All charges will be dropped.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ll let it be known, through unofficial channel
s, that he has been cooperative, and is planning to be more cooperative still. I may prevail upon you to share with us some more names, ideally those with a connection, however peripheral, to Pryor’s line of work. We’ll begin squeezing them.’

  ‘Which, in turn, will squeeze Pryor.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It may also get him killed.’

  ‘That’s a risk that he – and we – will have to take.’

  ‘I think you just like tethering goats.’

  ‘Well, be sure to tell me when your rope begins to chafe.’

  ‘My lawyer thinks I should never have made that agreement with you.’

  ‘Mr. Castin? I spoke to some of our legal people who were forced to deal with him. They’re hoping to recover from the experience sometime soon.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased to hear it.’

  ‘I presume he has also warned you of the ultimate consequences of not surrendering the list,’ said Ross. ‘The Backers, and those in league with them, will eventually realize you’re in possession of it. The ones you’ve picked off will form a pattern, and it will be noticed. They’re not stupid. When that happens, they’ll come for you. If you’re lucky, they’ll just kill you.’

  ‘I remember. Note. Back of refrigerator.’

  Parker tried his own wine. It was good, but he didn’t plan on finishing it. Just a taste was enough. He wanted to keep a clear head.

  ‘You’re still not getting the list,’ he said.

  ‘I will, eventually. Over your dead body, but I will get it.’

  Parker raised his glass.

  ‘To a long life, then,’ he toasted, but Ross conspicuously failed to respond in kind. Instead, he said: ‘Tell me about Eklund.’

  Parker gave Ross what he knew. First, Eklund’s obsession with a series of alleged manifestations of figures that might or might not be linked to the group known as the Brethren, and Eklund’s belief that these sightings were in turn connected to murders dating back to the nineteenth century; and second, the discovery of Claudia Sansom’s body three years after her disappearance, and three years older than when she’d vanished, with the concomitant mystery of where she had been during the intervening period.

  ‘The rest of Eklund’s caseload is pretty much what you’d expect,’ said Parker, ‘which doesn’t mean there might not be aspects of it capable of causing resentment. He took on divorce work, fraud investigations, embezzlement, skip tracing. It all looks mundane, but any part of it could be the potential source of a grudge. There are no small cases, not for the people involved in them. But Eklund was fixated on the Brethren, and the Sansom woman’s file was on his desk when we searched his house, so he’d obviously returned to that recently.’