“Dunno.”
“Want to answer it before we leave?”
Grandpa Owen was joking, but Daniel didn’t take it that way. No, he most certainly did not want to answer it. He wanted the telephone to stop ringing. The lady named Karis was growing more insistent with every call. She kept asking Daniel to come find her. She wished for him to join her in the woods, but he didn’t want to go. Karis frightened him. Daniel didn’t have the vocabulary to explain why exactly, but he thought the closest word he could come up with was “hungry.” Karis was hungry: not for food, but for something else. Company, maybe.
Him.
“If it’s broken, you ought to get rid of it,” said Grandpa Owen. “You don’t want it waking you in the night.”
I want to get rid of it, Daniel thought. I’d really like that, but I’m scared. I’m afraid that if I throw it away, Karis will come to find out why I’m not answering.
She’ll come, and I’ll see her face.
She’ll take me into the forest.
And no one will ever be able to find me.
CHAPTER
XXIX
Parker left the church at the final blessing, trailed by the rest of a congregation consisting mostly of those older than himself. He hadn’t managed to bring the average age down by much, just enough to make a statistical difference.
He decided not to go straight home but instead headed to the parking lot at Ferry Beach, where he left his car and walked on the sand, enjoying the solitude and the sound of breaking waves. He found himself returning to something Louis had said, about how the apartment seemed smaller, not larger, with Angel in the hospital. It might have appeared counterintuitive, but Parker thought he understood what Louis meant. Loneliness could cause walls to close in—that was certainly true—but the absence of a loved one brought with it a sense of greater restriction, of possibilities denied. Parker had lost two women under very different circumstances: the first, Susan, to blood and rage; and the second, Rachel, to the disintegration of their relationship. In the aftermath of each severing, he became aware of conversations he could no longer have, of questions that were answered by ghost cadences. Some words can only be spoken to those for whom we feel passionately and deeply, just as some silences can only be shared by lovers. It was one of the elements that made the thought of starting again so hard: that which was most missed could only come with time, and he had more days behind him than ahead.
Man, he really needed to get another dog.
* * *
PARKER RETURNED TO HIS car, mentally arranging his current caseload in order of importance. It was Jane Doe, and the whereabouts of her child, that intrigued him. He planned to travel to Piscataquis and view the area of woodland in which the body had been discovered. He could always make a call to Walsh and ask him to smooth the way, or see if he could skate by on charm alone once he arrived. After all, a man could hope. He wanted to examine the site, not because he imagined he might spot something that the police had missed, but because it was necessary for his own process of engagement with the case, a delicate balance of distance and immersion.
As he neared home, he saw a truck parked by the entrance to his property. It was a Chevy Silverado, but a few years older than the one to which Louis had put paid, and, as far as Parker could tell, apparently unadorned by flags of the Confederacy. Parker turned into his driveway, and moments later the truck followed, maintaining a respectful distance but still leaving Parker uneasy about its presence and annoyed at the trespass upon his property. He wasn’t armed, finding no good reason for carrying on his way to church. And despite Louis’s advice to the contrary, he rarely kept a gun in his vehicle. If the car was stolen, and the gun was stored in the glove compartment, then he would have put another gun on the streets; and if he kept it in a locked box in the trunk, it wouldn’t be much use to him if he needed it in a hurry.
He checked his rearview mirror. He could see only one figure—the driver, an older man—in the cab of the truck. The bed was uncovered and empty. Parker pulled up parallel to the house and waited. The truck came to a halt while it was still some distance away. The driver got out, his hands held out from his sides to show he was unarmed. He was in his sixties, and small but stocky. He looked like a man who had known hard physical labor in his time, and probably enjoyed most of it. His hair was entirely white, and cut in a military flattop, while the face beneath was ruddy and lined, weathered by decades of exposure to summer sun and cold winters. Parker recognized him, even before he introduced himself.
“Mr. Parker? My name is Bobby Stonehurst.”
“I know who you are,” said Parker.
Bobby Stonehurst—or Bobby Ocean, sire to Billy, the country’s northernmost Confederate. Silently, Parker cursed Louis and his inability to turn the other cheek, but his anger was only momentary. Parker wasn’t a black man forced to deal with the prejudices of others on a daily basis. Neither was he himself any particular model of restraint.
“I apologize for entering your property without invitation or prior arrangement,” said Stonehurst. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I was hoping you might grant me the courtesy of a short conversation.”
“About what, Mr. Stonehurst?”
“Nobody calls me Mr. Stonehurst. It’s Bobby, or sometimes Bobby Ocean. That particular nomenclature appears to have stuck. Doesn’t bother me.”
“Why don’t we keep it formal?”
Aside from the issue of the truck, Parker knew enough about Bobby Ocean to want to hold him at one remove. Bobby Ocean’s businesses generally employed only white men and women, but were not above contracting the messiest and most unpleasant of their service tasks to companies known to exploit immigrant workers, thereby outsourcing vindictiveness and the humiliation of the vulnerable. People of color gave his restaurants a wide berth. Service at the bar would be slow and neglectful; unoccupied tables would be mysteriously unavailable to them, reserved for patrons who might never materialize; and a vague but undeniable aura of hostility would permeate their dining experience. But Bobby Ocean also contributed generously to select charities, and supported initiatives to beautify and improve the city of Portland. He found favor with many, as long as they were Caucasian, and comfortably off. People said he wasn’t a bad guy, and shouldn’t be judged on his failings alone. But to Parker, Bobby Ocean’s deficiencies could not be isolated from the totality of the man: they represented the core of his being, and tainted all that he did. He was poisoned meat.
“You know, I didn’t take you for a churchgoing man,” said Bobby Ocean.
“Have you been following me, Mr. Stonehurst?”
“I saw you pull out earlier, when I first intended to speak with you, and we happened to take the same road. I didn’t wish to disturb you on your way to worship. I figured you’d be back here soon enough.” He sucked at some morsel caught between his teeth, and swallowed it upon its release. “Catholic, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Bobby Ocean shrugged. He took in Parker, his vehicle, his home, and probably his Catholicism, too, and managed not to look obviously disappointed by any of them, but it was a close-run thing.
“You live alone out here?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a big place for one man.”
“You offering to help with the payments?”
“From what I hear, you’re not hurting for money or influence. You mind if we sit down?”
“You know, I do.”
“Have I given you cause for hostility toward me? If so, I don’t recall it.”
“Mr. Stonehurst, you have no reason to pay me a social visit, and if this relates to a business inquiry, my number is freely available. You can phone to make an appointment.”
“You don’t keep an office. I find that unusual.”
“If I kept an office, I’d have to sit in it. There are more productive ways to spend my time. I consult with clients at their homes or places of employment. Where that isn’t possible, we find mutually a
greeable venues at which to meet. My house and the surrounding land, I like to consider private.”
“Is that because someone once tried to kill you here?”
“Two people tried to kill me here.”
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I’m starting to see why.”
Parker looked past Bobby Ocean to the marshes glittering in the morning sunlight, at the returning birds and the sea beyond. What had started out as a good if contemplative day was rapidly taking a turn for the worse.
“Actually, I may not be inclined to forgive you,” said Parker. “Why are you here?”
“Are you aware that I approached Mr. Moxie Castin about an act of violence visited upon an item of my property?”
“Mr. Castin informed me. My understanding is that the property in question belonged to your son.”
“My son’s name might have been on the papers, but that truck was paid for with my money. It was a gift to my boy. I choose to take personally what was done to it.”
“If what I hear is true, your son elected to decorate that truck with symbols of the Confederacy. Last time I checked, the Mason-Dixon Line was still about seven hundred miles south of here.”
“And last time I looked, the First Amendment continued to guarantee freedom of expression.”
“You might take the view that whoever blew up your son’s truck was exercising a similar right.”
“Don’t be facetious, Mr. Parker. It ill becomes an intelligent man. I approached Mr. Castin about the incident because I believed the Portland PD was disinclined to give it the attention it deserved.”
“And Mr. Castin declined to involve himself in your affairs, just as I will, if that’s where this conversation is going.”
Bobby Ocean ground his heel in the dirt of Parker’s yard, like a bull preparing to charge. He even dropped his head, but when he looked up again, he was grinning. It was the response of a man who believes his opponent has made an error, one that he now fully intends to exploit.
“I didn’t expect Mr. Castin to oblige me. Mr. Castin is a Semite. In my experience, they are primarily a self-interested people. Since that hardly makes them unique among the races, their cupidity arouses no particular animosity in me, nor does it occasion surprise. But I do believe it runs deeper in them than in others, and such differences in racial character should be acknowledged.”
“Mr. Stonehurst,” said Parker, “I really would like you to remove yourself from my vicinity.”
But Bobby Ocean showed no signs of departing.
“I think that first you ought to listen to what I have to say. I’ll be gone from your presence soon enough, and then, if the Lord smiles on both of us, we won’t have reason to talk again. I went to Mr. Castin forearmed with suspicions about the identity of those responsible for this act of violence, and his attitude confirmed them. I’ve learned a lot about you, Mr. Parker. I’m told you consort with Negroes, homosexuals, and similar individuals of low moral character. Your clients have included a homeless man. You got shot chasing after the killer of a whore. You believe yourself to be defending the meek against the powerful, but you’re misguided, or guilty of deliberate self-delusion. You’re a weak man, and therefore you resent men without similar weakness. You form allegiances with those most like you, and use them to fan the flames of your inadequacy. You fly flags of convenience to indulge your love of violence.”
Bobby Ocean spoke without spleen or viciousness. He might just as easily have been commenting on the weather.
“You know, my grandfather fought in the Second World War,” said Parker.
Bobby Ocean tilted his head in puzzlement.
“Were he still alive,” said Bobby Ocean, “I’d thank him for his service, but I believe he’s long gone from this world.”
“He is. He’s buried just up the road, at Black Point Cemetery. I filled in his grave myself.”
“That’s something to be proud of. I mean that in all sincerity.”
Parker ignored him. He was unconcerned by Bobby Ocean’s opinion of him, or what passed for sincerity in this man’s world. He had the measure of him now.
“He never spoke much about what he saw over in Europe,” Parker continued. “I do know that he served with the Ninety-ninth Infantry, and suffered a shrapnel injury to his left leg at the Battle of the Bulge. It was only after he died that I found out how hard the Ninety-ninth fought. They were outnumbered five to one, and for every casualty they suffered, they inflicted eighteen on the Germans. But my grandfather wasn’t the kind to boast about his use of a gun. What he did tell me was that he was one of the first men into Wereth, Belgium, in February 1945. Do you know what he found there?”
“I do not.”
“He found the bodies of eleven African-American GIs who’d been captured by the First SS Panzer Division. They were beaten and tortured before being killed. One of them was a medic who died while bandaging another man’s wounds. The Germans left them where they fell.”
“I have to confess that the nature of your thought processes is confusing to me, Mr. Parker. I’m struggling to see the relevance of this.”
“The relevance,” said Parker, “is that the men my grandfather fought spoke of the weak just the way you do. The relevance is that they, like you, displayed only contempt for those who did not share their nature, or their creed, or the color of their skin. The relevance is that I can tell where your son gets his ignorance.”
Bobby Ocean inhaled deeply. The grin was long gone.
“You and a Negro were seen drinking together within sight of my son’s truck on the night it was destroyed,” he said. “I believe that you and he were responsible for what occurred. You’re a blind man, Mr. Parker. You live by the sea, but you can’t spot the changing of the tides. The time of your kind is passing, and a new order of men will take your place. Go tell that to your Negroes and your queers.”
He turned away, got in his truck, and backed slowly down Parker’s drive before heading west. Parker watched the road until the truck disappeared, and wondered just how much worse his day might have been had he not gone to church.
CHAPTER
XXX
On reflection, Parker decided that it might be counterproductive, even unwise, to head out to the burial site without some form of permission to enter. He contacted Gordon Walsh, who didn’t sound overjoyed to hear from him again, but didn’t sound surprised either. Walsh agreed to make some calls, and Parker drove toward Piscataquis beneath clear blue skies, accompanied by Here & Now on Maine Public Radio. As he grew older, he preferred to listen to sensible conversation while he drove. Music he could choose for himself, or have selected for him by one of the half-dozen Sirius channels he favored, but he always learned something from exposure to NPR. Perhaps it was just a function of realizing, as the years went by, how little he really understood about very much at all.
Parker tried to exorcise Bobby Ocean from his mind, but the man’s voice, appearance, and bigotry persisted in intruding, perhaps in part because Bobby Ocean, odious though he was, had a legitimate grievance, and the burning of his son’s truck would serve only to harden him in his hatreds. As for Billy, he and Parker had never enjoyed any dealings, but Parker knew enough about him to be grateful for this.
The condition of the road deteriorated as he neared Piscataquis County, and he bounced most of the way from Dexter to Dover-Foxcroft, the blacktop pitted and broken, before continuing on toward Borestone Mountain. It wasn’t difficult to spot the turnoff for the burial site. A couple of news vans were parked by the side of the road, along with a pair of Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Office cruisers and one MSP cruiser, which was already pulling away as Parker arrived. Troop E out of Bangor worked Piscataquis and Penobscot Counties: fewer than thirty officers for a total area of almost eight thousand square miles, including the hundred-plus miles of interstate between Newport and Sherman. Much of that land fell under the jurisdiction of local law enforcement, but when it came to serious crime, the state police held the bag
.
The news crews were kicking their heels; if no infant body emerged soon, the stations would reassign their resources to other stories. A reporter named Nina Aird, whom Parker knew as a face around town as well as on TV, was smoking a cigarette and flicking idly through her phone as he pulled up. Parker caught Aird glance casually at him once before looking more closely a second time and simultaneously signaling to her cameraman to get some footage, fast. The camera was already fixed on Parker by the time he gave his name to the first of the sheriff’s deputies, and he knew the reporters would be waiting for him when he reappeared. Unless something more newsworthy transpired between now and deadline, his face would be on the evening news.
The deputy waved Parker through, and he continued driving up a rutted dirt road so narrow that the branches of the evergreens at either side met above his head. About a quarter of a mile along, he saw another, much larger conglomeration of cars and trucks, a mix of police, the Maine Warden Service, and civilian vehicles.
Parker had already begun making notes of individuals with whom he might need to talk while he was up here. One of them was Ken Hubbell, the local physician in Dover-Foxcroft who served as ME for the immediate area on a voluntary basis. Hubbell would have been among the first to visit the scene, and Parker thought it might be useful to get his impression of what had been uncovered, in addition to whatever could be gleaned from the police and wardens. For the present, though, it was the latter on whom he would have to concentrate.
A dead body found in remote woodland generated a lot of activity, especially when there was the possibility of another set of remains buried somewhere nearby. While a Piscataquis County deputy had responded to the initial call about human remains, the attorney general’s office maintained a protocol for homicides and suspicious deaths, so the Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Office had done the prudent thing and informed the Maine State Police of the discovery, followed by the Warden Service. Ken Hubbell had quickly arrived on behalf of the ME’s office, and so the accretion of personnel had begun.