His lawyer had called him that morning. A company in South Portland that sold the kind of trashy costume jewelry on which he used to look down had a vacancy in its purchasing department, and the lawyer had called in a favor. Burnel could start on Monday, if he chose. Surprising himself, Burnel had accepted the offer. Only later did he realize that he was making plans for some kind of future. It was a consequence of his meeting with the private detective and his two colleagues the previous evening, and the fact that they hadn’t rejected his story outright, or his fears. By sharing what he believed, he had drawn them to him. Perhaps they could protect him. He might even be exonerated. More than anything, he wanted his good name back. He did not want to die with this stigma upon him.
He remained troubled by the sighting of what he believed to be a familiar face at the Bear. He couldn’t quite place the man who had gone into the restroom while he was speaking with Parker, and he’d been gone when Burnel went to take a leak, but his features had reminded him of someone he once knew. He couldn’t swear to it, but there had been a hint to them of the man named Henry Forde. Burnel thought that he should have mentioned it to Parker, but he was afraid it might have been taken as a manifestation of paranoia to believe that he saw resemblances in the faces of strangers to a man he had killed.
Eastern Cemetery was coming up on Burnel’s right, and the sight of its headstones threatened to turn his fairy tale of a future to so much ash. He fought against despair, because there might yet be hope for him. He saw three possible realities. The first was that he was right about everything, and his life had been ruined as a punishment for killing the two unknown men at Dunstan’s Gas Station, a punishment that would conclude with his death. The second was that he was wrong to be fearful, and his years in prison had simply driven him insane. He would not be the first to break in that way, and he would not be the last. In time, and with help, he might recover his reason.
And the third? The third was that those who had chosen to torment him had forgotten about him, or believed he had suffered enough. He had lost his reputation, and whatever was left of his marriage. He had lost his home, and years of his life. His nerves were shot, and the damage to his insides from repeated physical and sexual assaults had left him a ruin. If they wanted to snuff out his existence as well, then they could do so, for all it was worth.
But even as he thought this, he understood that he did not want to die. He had never considered himself to be a strong man, or a survivor, but he had come through five terrible years of incarceration, endured times when he had considered taking his life, yet he was still breathing, and still fighting. He would take the job and get a better place to live. He would continue to feed the birds at Deering Oaks Park and on Eastern Promenade. He might even get himself a dog for company. He had always wanted a dog, but Norah was allergic to them, or claimed to be. Never mind: she was gone now, and a mutt from the pound would more than adequately fill the space that she had once occupied. This life, or what was left of it, was better than no life at all.
But suppose they were watching him, these unseen men, these servants of the Dead King? What if they judged that his continued suffering was better than bringing it to a violent end? If he tried not to look too happy (hardly difficult, under the circumstances); if he kept his head down; if he held himself like a man even more damaged than he was: would that be enough for them?
He arrived at the black railings of Eastern Cemetery, and paused to look at the little wooden shed with its granite abutment, the only standing structure in the graveyard. It bore a sign with the cemetery’s name and the date of its establishment: 1668. The Victorian building was known as the Dead House, because it sheltered the door to the city’s receiving tomb belowground. It was an entrance to the underworld, Portland’s own little gateway to Hades. Burnel had read that special tours were being offered to enable people to explore the tomb, but he had no desire to take one. The ranks of the dead would eventually welcome everyone, and he didn’t see the need for a preview of coming attractions.
Behind him, a van pulled up to the curb, hiding Burnel from the view of those passing opposite. The side doors opened, and men emerged from inside. Burnel became aware of them at the same moment that he felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck, and the cemetery before him began to blur. His legs gave way but he did not fall. Strong arms gripped him, bearing him away, and because his last thoughts had been of the underworld, Burnel had a sensation of floating. He was on a boat crossing dark water: Acheron, the river of pain, or Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. The current would take him into the Dead House, and beneath it he would meet at last the Dead King, this god against whom he had sinned, and who would find an eternal place for him in the Fields of Punishment.
Within seconds the sidewalk was empty, and the van was heading west. It turned down Washington Avenue and passed the squat redbrick building housing the office of Adult Community Corrections, where Chris Attwood was re-reading the file on Jerome Burnel in preparation for their second meeting, and wondering if a man could at once be so brave and yet so depraved.
By then, Burnel had lost consciousness. His final thought before his world turned black was:
At least I was not mad.
27
Relations between Parker and Detective Gordon Walsh of the Maine State Police’s Major Crimes Unit were frostier than they once had been. The events in Boreas earlier that year had forced Walsh to recognize the awkwardness of his position where Parker, Louis, and Angel were concerned: these were men who appeared comfortable with black, white, and every shade of gray in between, with Angel and Louis tending toward the darker tones. Walsh had tried to use Louis’s knowledge in particular to gain some insight into what might be happening in Boreas, partly at the urging of SAC Ross – and there was a man equally comfortable in the shadows, Walsh thought, with an agenda to match. The result was that Walsh had found himself badly compromised, and in a potentially career-damaging way.
Oh, he wasn’t so naïve as to think that you could lie down with dogs and not get fleas, but the bite, when it came, was not from Louis or Angel, but from Parker himself. It was Parker who had pointed out that Walsh had been consorting with known criminals, including one – Louis – who might well have put a bullet through a man’s head not twenty-four hours earlier. Since then, Walsh had given a wide berth to Parker and his charmingly dangerous (even dangerously charming) acolytes, so he wasn’t overly happy to emerge from his office at the MSP’s barracks in Gray to find Parker’s midlife crisis Mustang parked in the lot, and the man himself taking the cool lunchtime air, seemingly without a care in the world. Worse, he was leaning against Walsh’s ride, so it would be hard to get out of the lot without running him down, not that Walsh was entirely above considering that possibility under the current circumstances.
‘Hey,’ said Parker, just like that, as though he hadn’t effectively blackmailed Walsh into silence earlier that year. Not that they’d ever exactly been close friends, but Jesus, you know …
‘Get away from my car,’ said Walsh.
‘This is your car?’
‘You know it’s my car. Step away from the vehicle. Step away from the lot. In fact, just head east and keep walking until you fall into the fucking sea.’
He skirted Parker and unlocked the driver’s door, but the damned private detective remained seated on the hood. Walsh got behind the wheel and started the engine. He even went so far as to give it a little gas, just in case Parker might take fright and flee, although that would have been more of a surprise than finding him there in the first place. Walsh saw a couple of officers peering over curiously. He felt as though he were having some kind of lovers’ quarrel, a comparison which caused him to grit his teeth so hard he thought he felt one of them shift in his gums.
Walsh took his foot off the gas. Parker walked to his door, and Walsh rolled down the window without looking at him.
‘I’ll buy you lunch,’ said Parker.
Walsh continued staring ahead. He
thought about putting his forehead on the steering wheel and resting it there for a little while, maybe close his eyes and hope that a blackness took him, but he was afraid it might look like he was weeping.
‘Cole Farms,’ said Parker. ‘Beef liver and onions. With extra bacon. I’ll even spring for the Indian pudding to finish.’
Walsh’s shoulders sank.
‘Give me the money in advance. I don’t trust you to pay. I don’t trust you, period.’
Parker handed over two twenties.
‘I may want a soda,’ said Walsh. ‘And I’m a good tipper.’
Parker added another ten. Walsh dropped the cash in his cup holder.
‘I’ll see you there,’ he said. ‘If you die along the way, I won’t miss you.’
He pulled out of his parking space. By the time he got to the main road, Parker was already behind him.
At least Ross will be pleased, Walsh thought. Then:
Fuck Ross.
Cole Farms had been around for more than sixty years. It stood on Lewiston Road, close by the entrance to the Spring Meadows Golf Club. The two men took a four-top, and Parker ordered a turkey sandwich while Walsh went for the promised liver and onions, with bacon and enough sides to cause the table to slope.
‘You got some nerve,’ said Walsh, once the waitress had taken their order.
‘You’re still sore about Boreas.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
Parker recalled a body on a beach, bleeding into the sand. He remembered stepping over it, and feeling nothing.
‘I told you back then: I have no blood on my hands.’
‘What about on your conscience?’
‘None there either, or not because of Boreas.’
‘That’s what concerns me.’
Parker brushed his fingers across the table, testing the smoothness of it, finding nothing, not even a crumb.
‘There’s a price to be paid for everything, Gordon,’ he said. It was the first time Walsh could ever remember Parker calling him by his first name. ‘Nothing comes free.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Yes, you do. Something terrible came to an end in Boreas. I paid the price in pain. You paid it in silence.’
‘There are laws. I’m required to enforce them.’
‘Law and justice are not the same.’
‘I think you got away with organizing a killing. I’m reluctant to be associated with a man who could do that.’
‘And Ross?’
‘Apparently Ross doesn’t share my reservations. He told me you were on the payroll, although I understand that “sucking from the federal tit” is the more accepted expression. You that squeezed for money?’
‘It gives me flexibility. Some of my clients aren’t in a position to pay much for my services.’
‘And then there’s the price of bullets for you and your friends.’
‘We get a deal on those.’
Walsh sat back, seemingly in disgust, but also just in time to make space for his food. There was a lot of it. Parker could see that Walsh was tempted to leave it untouched and walk away, but it smelled too good. He nibbled at an onion and was lost.
‘Why are you here?’ Walsh asked.
‘Jerome Burnel.’
Walsh looked at Parker over a French fry.
‘I hear he just got out,’ he said.
‘He came to see me.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He claims he was framed.’
‘The kiddie porn? It wasn’t my case.’
‘And the gas station shooting?’
‘I was one of the team. Tom Stedler was lead.’
‘Stedler’s long dead.’
‘Yeah. Went young. Didn’t look after himself.’
Walsh dipped a roll into a pile of liver and onion, making sure to get some bacon on there too.
‘Thank God you learned from his mistakes,’ said Parker.
‘I did. Never drink diet soda. At least sugar is natural.’
‘Burnel remembered you.’
‘Did he? Should I be flattered?’
‘He gave the impression that you might have doubted some details about the shooting of the second man, the one who called himself Henry Forde.’
Walsh shrugged. ‘The Dunstans corroborated Burnel’s version of events. At the time, there was no appetite for tugging at threads. Forde had killed a sheriff’s deputy, and he and Simus had slaughtered at least five other people. There was also the girl, Corrie Wyatt. It wouldn’t have ended well for her.’
‘At least five others?’
‘They’d cleaned the Timard house of valuables, but there were other items in the van that didn’t belong to them. It took a while, but a watch found in the vehicle was traced back to a jewelry store in Rhode Island. The watch belonged to a sixty-eight-year-old man named Arthur Dines. Dines lived alone in a house just outside Westerly. The house is still there. Dines isn’t.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘My guess is into the sea, put there by Forde and his freakish half-brother, and weighted down enough to keep him there.’
‘Wait a minute: Forde and Simus were related?’
‘Twenty-five percent shared DNA, although that didn’t come out until after Burnel went to jail, and wouldn’t have made any difference to him anyway. You know, the brother – Simus – wore dentures, and kept a set in his pocket modified with blades. What kind of man would do something like that?’
Parker took a bite of his sandwich. It was good.
‘Back to Burnel and the shooting of Forde. What was hinky?’
‘Oh, just angles more than anything else. Had Forde been turning to fire a shot, as Burnel claimed, then the bullets probably wouldn’t have hit him square in the back like they did. It looked to me like Forde was running – or stumbling – away when he was killed. Privately, Stedler agreed, but, hey, Burnel was a hero. And he was. I’m not taking that away from him. He saved everyone in that gas station, and he faced down Forde like a gunfighter. But he did finish him off. Maybe Burnel has a streak of something in him. Call it ruthlessness, if you like. He’s just harder than he looks – or was, before he went into Warren.’
‘He still denies that the child porn was his.’
‘Yeah, that was curious. He didn’t cop a plea, and there was pressure on him to do it. He kept maintaining his innocence.’
‘Maybe because he was innocent.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Angel does.’
‘And Angel is some kind of expert on sex offenders?’
‘Yeah, he kind of is.’
Walsh took in this information, and was silent for a while.
‘If he’s innocent, who set him up?’ asked Walsh.
‘It could have been his now ex-wife. They weren’t close, to put it mildly.’
‘Nah,’ said Walsh. ‘There’s not being close, and then there’s hating, and a wife would have to hate her husband the way I hate taxes to set him up on child porn charges.’
‘Well, if Burnel isn’t lying, then someone took the trouble to frame him. He thinks it was done because of the Dunstan killings.’
‘Revenge? If that was the case, then why not just shoot him?’
‘Because it would be over too soon?’
‘Then torture him first, and kill him later.’
A woman and child who were about to sit at the table across from them reconsidered their decision and moved away. Walsh noted their departure.
‘You see the effect you have on people?’ he said.
‘You’re still here.’
‘You’re paying for my time.’
‘That’s bribery.’
‘Not if you don’t get anything in return. You going to take Burnel’s dime?’
‘I think so.’
‘It won’t bring you any joy.’
‘You’d be surprised. What about Forde and Simus?’
‘No leads. They were specters.’
 
; ‘Fingerprints?’
‘We got a partial match on Simus from a burglary in Roanoke, Virginia, in 2002. Lot of valuables taken, but the occupants were on vacation at the time. Lucky for them, because they had a nineteen-year-old daughter. Still have, thanks to a time-share in Kissimmee.’
‘Burnel says that both Corrie Wyatt and Paige Dunstan are missing.’
Walsh picked some bacon from his teeth, scowled at it as though it had personally offended him, then ate it.
‘Wyatt was a junkie.’
‘Before the killings?’
‘No, after. Before them, she was just bait in a scam, rolling sad men for money. What happened at the Timard house broke her. She was drifting anyway, but the wind took her when her friends died.’
‘And Dunstan?’
‘I haven’t been following the case.’
‘But she’s officially missing?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘Come on …’
‘Look, last I heard she was still gone, but that doesn’t mean there’s a connection to what happened at her old man’s gas station. Is that what Burnel is suggesting?’
‘It is.’
‘You do know what paranoia is, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, remember that it’s contagious. You should always wash your hands after contact with it.’
Walsh finished his liver and onions in silence. Parker picked at his sandwich, but left most of it on the plate. He still had not fully regained his appetite. He sometimes doubted that he ever would. Walsh ordered the Indian pudding to go. He told Parker that he had somewhere he had to be. It might even have been true.
‘Does Ross still pay you to report back on me?’ asked Parker, as they headed for the door.
‘He never paid me. I did it out of the goodness of my heart.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t much care what happens to you one way or the other.’
‘But Ross does.’