A Time of Torment

‘I’m obliged to ask. It’s only polite.’

  ‘And after he refuses?’

  ‘Then I’ll have to go in and get them myself.’

  ‘With company, I hope?’

  ‘With company.’

  ‘The Cut may decide to come at you first.’

  ‘Good.’

  Henkel stared at him. By Christ, he thought, this guy means it.

  ‘You’ve been shot before, if what I read about you is true.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For a man who’s been shot a lot, you sure seem anxious to get shot again.’

  ‘I’d like to think I’ve learned some avoidance tactics since the last time.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  Henkel raised his hand for the check, and simultaneously slid a piece of folded paper across the table to Parker. When Henkel looked back, the paper was already gone.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Parker.

  ‘A map of the Cut. The distances are approximate, and it’s only partial. There are parts of it I didn’t see, and about which I couldn’t approach anyone else for information. Before you go wandering in there, you should know that they’ve secured it over the years. Shortly before I became sheriff, a couple of good old boys ventured in there after a twenty-point buck, figuring it was worth the risk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One of them lost a foot to a bear trap, and I don’t believe they get too many bears through the Cut. In other words, I wouldn’t venture into it without a guide, but the only guides who know the Cut are its own people, and they’re not likely to be offering their help to you.’

  The check came. Henkel paid it, and carefully placed his copy in his wallet.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Parker. ‘If they know I’m here, then they’ll also know that we’ve been talking.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll come after you too?’

  ‘They haven’t yet, and killing a sheriff might be a step too far, even for them. Or that’s what I’m banking on.’

  But he sounded uncertain as he spoke, and his smile was strained.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a ride back to your car.’

  Parker followed him, and did not even glance at the table beside the register, where Angel and Louis, each with a gun close at hand, were seated by a window, watching the vehicles come and go, waiting patiently for violence to erupt.

  76

  Ross knocked on the door of Conrad Holt’s office. His superior was working through a mound of paperwork, a task that appeared to be giving him little joy, so he looked almost relieved when Ross appeared, at least until he saw the look on Ross’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ Holt asked.

  ‘You asked me to keep you apprised of Parker’s movements.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s in West Virginia.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s investigating something called the Cut – a community of recluses, possibly with criminal connections.’

  ‘Anything we should be concerned about?’

  ‘Probably no more than usual.’

  Holt scowled.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ he said.

  ‘It remains to be seen. And there’s this.’

  Ross produced a wrinkled map of the United States from a file beneath his arm. He spread it on Holt’s desk, allowing him to see the markings that had been added. They were GPS coordinates, written in red ink. Holt instantly felt a chill. He’d seen such maps before.

  ‘Body dumps?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish,’ said Ross. He handed over a small index card to Holt. On it, in the same hand as the GPS coordinates, were written the words ‘FBI Restrooms’, followed by a question mark.

  Ross pointed a finger at a set of coordinates in the Midwest.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the location of the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin. Close to it, in Neillsville, and also marked, is the location of Chatty Belle, the World’s Largest Talking Cow.’ His finger moved south. ‘Here is the Chasing Rainbows Museum, at the Dollywood theme park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. That, in San Antonio, is Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum. We’ve also got the Idaho Potato Museum, the International Banana Museum in Mecca, California, and the World’s Largest Chest of Drawers in High Point, North Carolina.’

  ‘And that?’ asked Holt, gesturing resignedly at a set of coordinates in the Mojave Desert.

  ‘Area 51,’ said Ross. ‘I don’t think we need to run a fingerprint analysis to figure out who sent it.’

  ‘That fucking Angel,’ said Holt. ‘I hate these guys.’

  77

  Cassander lay on the bed, and considered when might be best to deal with Oberon, who seemed determined to retain control of the Cut even as his grasp on it continued to weaken.

  That morning, Oberon had informed the elders of the Cut of his intention to take Paige’s next – and final – child, and raise it in his house. Few voices had been raised in open dissent, but Cassander’s was among them, restating publicly what he had told Oberon in private. He pointed out that it had been agreed the next two children would be sold, and the proceeds divided equally. These last years had been difficult for them all. In his desire to prolong his line, said Cassander, Oberon was forcing hardship upon everyone in the Cut.

  But Oberon was their leader, and the decision was ultimately his to make. Afterward, Cassander heard a few mutters of discontent from those who had kept their peace during the meeting, but he ignored them all. They were no use to him after the fact. There would be no open rebellion by the Cut against Oberon’s leadership, but that in itself was not entirely bad news. It meant that Cassander and his sons could take control without fear of competition.

  Although Lucius was the elder of Cassander’s boys, he was not a leader by temperament, only by inclination. Marius was more balanced – even if it had been his decision to burn Harpur Griffin – and it was he to whom Cassander was intent upon entrusting the future of the Cut. Of course, Marius was not yet ready: he was too green, too weak. If Oberon were no more, Cassander would have to take on the leadership of the Cut, with Marius shadowing him until his father adjudged his son ready to succeed him. It was a responsibility that he was prepared to assume. He had spoken to the Dead King about it, and received its blessing.

  And Cassander had already begun taking on the mantle of leader. It was he who had received the call from Starcher informing him of Parker’s visit to Norah Meddows, and he who had sent Marius and Jabal to make her disappear. When the detective came to Plassey – as he most assuredly would – then Cassander would deal with him if Oberon was too cautious to act.

  A hand splayed itself over Cassander’s chest, the fingers like pale snakes writhing through the graying hairs. Sherah was naked beside him. Her child was playing in the house of Hannah, far to the south.

  ‘Again,’ she said. ‘Do it again.’

  Oberon was probably on his way, but still Cassander took Sherah for a second time, heedless of the risk of discovery, even desirous of it, so that the hostility between the two men might come to a head and be decided at last.

  But Oberon did not arrive, for he was engaged in a confrontation of his own.

  78

  Oberon had stopped to pick up a few essentials at Sampson’s, Turley’s largest general store. The Cut was almost entirely self-sufficient, but some items still needed to be brought in, coffee, sugar, and salt among them. After a moment’s thought, Oberon had also purchased a box of 9mm ammunition, two boxes of buckshot for his 12-gauge, and three boxes of 7.62×39 for the AR-15.

  Cassander was the Cut’s armorer, but Oberon no longer trusted him. It wasn’t just about Cassander’s apparent unwillingness, or inability, to control Lucius, or his objections to Oberon’s plans for Paige’s infant, or even Oberon’s belief that Cassander wished to rule the Cut. No, Oberon had seen the way Cassander looked at his wife. He still trusted Sherah, or thought he did.

  In truth, he was n
o longer sure.

  He hefted one of the boxes of bullets in his hand. In terms of accuracy, the AR-15 ammunition wouldn’t be much good beyond two hundred yards, but it wasn’t meant to be. If trouble came to the Cut, the fighting would be at close quarters. He savored the weight of the box for a few seconds more, and was just stowing it in the cab of his truck when he had the sense that he was being watched. He looked up to see a man leaning against a nondescript sedan, the car too clean and too new for these parts to be anything other than a rental.

  The investigator: Parker.

  Oberon closed the truck door, checked the lot for oncoming traffic, and walked over to stand before the hunter.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Oberon.

  ‘Then you know my purpose.’

  ‘No, that you’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘I want you to hand over the two men, Lucius and Jabal, who were recently in Portland, Maine.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘So that they can be interviewed here or back in the Northeast about the death of Harpur Griffin and the disappearance of Jerome Burnel.’

  ‘I don’t know either of those names.’

  ‘I didn’t ask if you knew them. I asked for Lucius and Jabal.’

  ‘You’re a private investigator. You have no authority here, and neither Lucius nor Jabal has been charged with any crime. You need to go back to Maine, before this gets ugly for you.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then it will play out as it must.’

  Oberon began to move away, then paused.

  ‘Why can’t you just leave us in peace?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t believe you’re peaceful men, or that the Cut is a peaceful place,’ said Parker, ‘so the question has no meaning.’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ said Oberon. ‘You should stay away from us.’

  ‘Lucius,’ said Parker. ‘And Jabal.’

  Oberon said nothing more, but climbed in his truck and drove away. When he glanced in his rearview mirror, Parker was already gone.

  It didn’t take Oberon long to establish where Parker was staying, because there weren’t many places to stay in Plassey County, or none in which a man would want to linger. Parker had a room at Dryden’s Inn, and Morton Dryden knew better than to cross the Cut.

  Oberon drove back to his home. The bedroom windows were open, the mattress was bare, and the damp sheets were hanging on a line to blow in the breeze. They had been on the bed for less than a week. Oberon did not comment on it, but kissed Sherah and asked her how Paige and Gayle were faring. She told him that she had not yet visited that day, but would check on them after the evening meal. She would bring Hannah with her. The women had not been examined since the previous week, and Hannah was the expert in these matters.

  Oberon left his wife and walked across the Square to Cassander’s house. Cassander appeared on his porch before Oberon reached the steps. He did not seem surprised to see Oberon, who noted that Cassander’s hands had bunched instinctively into fists at his approach. He was also wearing a jacket indoors, which could only mean that he had a gun under it.

  Oberon was too old, and too wise, to pretend that there was nothing wrong.

  ‘We have matters to discuss, you and I,’ he said, ‘but now is not the time for them. There is a bigger problem.’

  Cassander relaxed slightly, and waited to be told.

  ‘Parker has come.’

  79

  Paige had spent so long in the Cut that despite being trapped in the hut, and able to observe the community only from a distance, she had become attuned to its rhythms. Just by taking in the comings and goings from her window, she could tell when there was trouble, or a cause for celebration. She had also become quietly adept at manipulating Sherah, Hannah, and the other women for hints of useful information, and had even managed to glean a little about the organization of the Cut during the sexual assaults that had culminated in her three pregnancies, every grain of insight purchased with a violation. Now she could feel it in the air: something was wrong. It was in the way that Oberon and Cassander had emerged from the latter’s house and begun gathering men to themselves, and she was not particularly surprised when the guns appeared. Her only concern was what it might mean for her and Gayle. She was not going back in that basement. She’d die first.

  Actually, she realized, she might die anyway.

  She and Gayle had hidden the stone and the brick in the cistern of the toilet. Gayle’s eyes had retained a disconcerting animation ever since she’d acquired the weapons. It wasn’t quite the light of sanity, but at least it was some form of engagement with the world around her. It had been all the older woman could do to prevent Gayle from sulking, and thereby drawing attention to the captives, when her prizes were not put to immediate use.

  Later, Paige slept, but while it was still dark she woke to the sound of vehicles. Two trucks and a car pulled up in the Square, lit by flashlights, and she saw a group of armed men join the drivers before the vehicles headed away again. Oberon and Cassander were not among them, but it didn’t matter. What was important was that the Cut’s numbers had just been depleted considerably, and within hours Sherah and Hannah would be coming with breakfast, because they typically fed the women between six and seven a.m.

  Paige turned to see Gayle, who had come into the room and was sitting on the floor in her nightdress, her arms folded on her knees, her chin resting on her arms, her eyes fixed on the woman at the window.

  ‘Why don’t you go get our new toys?’ said Paige.

  80

  Henkel had gone to bed aching. Earlier in the day he had removed the back door from its frame because the hinges were busted, and next thing he’d started sanding it where it was sticking, and pretty soon he was all sawdust and sweat, but at least it was a distraction from the business of the Cut, and the arrival of Parker. He was sure that his physician would have advised against wrestling with a door until she’d done something about his heart, but if he started thinking like that then he’d never leave the house at all.

  He was so deep in sleep when his cell phone rang that he incorporated it into his dream, and a shadow version of himself reached for it only to hear the sound of Perry Lutter’s voice emerge. Perry was crying for his mother. He asked Henkel if he could go get her for him, because his tummy hurt.

  ‘I’s got blood on my shirt,’ said Perry. ‘I’s got blood everywhere.’

  Then Henkel woke, but the phone was still ringing. It was Irene.

  ‘I know it’s still dark,’ she said, ‘but can you come over here?’

  Henkel sat up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think there are men in the woods, watching the house. I could be mistaken, which is why I called you, and not 911. I didn’t want to look stupid if it was just shadows caused by the breeze.’

  ‘Lock the doors,’ said Henkel. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

  Deputy Rob Channer had just gone to check on Della Watkins in the drunk tank when Henkel got in touch with the dispatcher. Della wasn’t a regular visitor to the cells, but when she did tie one on – which was about three times a year – she was prone to kicking up a fuss, and trying to break objects that weren’t hers to break, like doors, windows, and other people’s heads. This time she’d limited herself to one of the old mirrors in Burry’s Bar, but it was unlikely that Burry would press charges. He would just want the repairs to the mirror covered, and Della would be all contrite once she’d sobered up, so the bill would be paid within a day.

  ‘Problem, Lucy?’ Channer asked the dispatcher, as she logged the call.

  ‘Sheriff is heading over to Irene Colter’s place. She thought she might have seen some men moving around.’

  ‘He sound worried?’

  ‘Does he ever sound any other way lately?’

  Channer looked at the coffeepot. He’d just started a fresh brew, in case Della began coming around sooner than expected.

  Damn.

  Odell Watson was sitt
ing at his bedroom window, trying to finish his geography homework, which involved mapping all the great rivers of the United States. Odell had no idea why this might be useful to him in later life, unless he planned on becoming the captain of a ship, which he did not. Being able to name them was one thing, but drawing them, tributaries included, was a bitch. He should have been asleep, but sleep seemed intent on evading him that night. He had woken shortly before three a.m., and read for a while using his night-light before be realized that he’d forgotten all about the great rivers. He figured that was why he had been unable to sleep, and marveled for a time at the ways of the brain before retrieving his schoolbooks from his bag and settling down to work. He had just finished connecting the Pecos with the Rio Grande when Perry Lutter appeared at the garden gate.

  Odell knew all about the search for Perry, and he’d heard some of the rumors about his disappearance, too, because his mother and grandmother had been whispering about it. Perry was still the main subject of conversation at the diner, where his continued absence had cast a pall over the staff, and Miss Queenie in particular, who had become more fractious than ever. But now here was Perry: sneakers, pants, buttoned-up shirt, windbreaker.

  Yet this wasn’t Perry Lutter, not really. Odell had known Perry all his life, ever since his mother used to take him to the diner when he was an infant, just so she could fit in a couple of extra hours. Miss Queenie hadn’t minded much, as long as Odell was quiet, which he usually was, Odell being one of those children who never cried much when he was young, remaining largely content to observe the world when he was awake, and dream about it when he was not, with the rest of the time occupied by food and play.

  So Perry’s face was one of the first with which Odell had become familiar at the diner. It was ingrained in his memory, and while the figure at the gate bore a certain resemblance to Perry, it was similar to that between the airbrushed photographs of models in some of his mother’s magazines and the reality of them in the tawdrier journals that she secretly preferred, the ones in which women’s bellies sagged over their bathing suits, and circles were drawn around the fat on their thighs. It was as though someone had subtly rearranged Perry’s features, making his eyes – always too small for his face – more in proportion with the rest of him, and cleared up the spots that plagued his skin. He was almost handsome now, Odell thought. He was looking at the Perry who might have existed if the doctors hadn’t messed up during his difficult birth, clamping down on his skull just a fraction too hard with the forceps. This was Perry as he should have been, the man whom Perry Lutter saw in the mirror when he looked at himself.