Why here? he thought. Why this place?
“You want to look at the pictures now?” said Allen, which brought Parker back—back to the hole in the ground, and the smallness of the body it had once contained, of absence and loss delineated. He thought one word, but spoke its opposite.
“Yes,” he said, “let’s do that.”
CHAPTER
XXXIII
Daniel Weaver sat on his couch at home, watching TV and feeling sorry for himself. His mother was concerned about his two bottom teeth, which had grown wiggly, and the two top front teeth, which were also a little loose, but the dentist told Grandpa Owen that it wasn’t unusual for kids of even four to start losing their primaries, and there was no reason to worry about Daniel. The dentist did find some decay in one of his molars, though, and asked if Daniel enjoyed an appetite for sugary sodas and sweet things. Grandpa Owen had to admit that Daniel would eat sugar straight from the bowl given half a chance, and the boy had yet to discover a soda he didn’t like.
“He doesn’t get it from me,” Grandpa Owen told the dentist. “I don’t dote on candy.”
“What about his mother?”
“She’s like me. I know she takes sweetener in her coffee, but I believe that’s as far as it goes with her.”
Daniel was sitting in the dentist’s chair while the conversation went back and forth, the words “cavity” and “filling” still ringing in his ears, because neither sounded good.
The dentist smiled. She was younger than Daniel’s mom, and smelled of strawberries.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’m not trying to blame anyone. It’s just that we don’t like seeing decay, especially not in a boy Daniel’s age. So we’ll fill in this cavity for now, and keep an eye on him in case it’s a sign of a larger problem, but I’m hopeful it’s not. Meanwhile, let’s ditch the sodas and juices, and keep candy for a treat, okay?”
This time, her words were directed as much at Daniel as Grandpa Owen. Daniel nodded miserably. He really did like soda, and Baby Ruths, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and—
Well, the list just went on and on.
“Will it hurt?” Daniel asked the dentist.
“Only a little pinch at the start to make your gums numb, but nothing that will trouble a tough guy like you.”
The dentist had lied. The injection really stung, and Daniel was embarrassed to feel tears squeeze from his eyes. On the way home, Grandpa Owen described it as a life lesson.
“If someone tells you something’s not gonna hurt, it’s gonna hurt. If they tell you it’s gonna hurt a little, it’s gonna hurt a lot. The only time they’re not lying is if they just tell you straight out that it’s gonna hurt.”
None of which made Daniel feel any better about the world.
Now, with his mouth beginning to return to normality, he reckoned he could handle a big glass of Coke without depositing half of it over his chin and clothes. Except Grandpa Owen had poured all the soda down the sink, and taken an inventory of the candy supply before jamming most of it into the pockets of his coat, leaving only a couple of bars on the highest closet shelf, the one Daniel couldn’t reach even with the aid of a chair.
This, Daniel decided, was a sucky day.
Grandpa Owen was snoozing in the armchair beside him. Grandpa Owen didn’t like kids’ cartoons any more than Grandpa Owen liked candy, and while Daniel could usually consume both with equal gusto, the images on the TV were irritating him today.
He was just getting to his feet when the toy telephone began to ring.
CHAPTER
XXXIV
They weren’t the first such images Parker had viewed, and he did not believe they would be the last, but they subsequently stayed with him in a way that others had not, and it took him a while to understand why.
* * *
GRAY: A BODY EMBRYONIC huddled in an earthen womb sacking, a bedsheet for its amniotic membrane; the left hand drawn up to the mouth, as though to stifle some final cry; the knees to the chest, the right arm mostly concealed beneath the body except for the fingers, outstretched and visible at the hip. Hair, what remained of it: long. Some skin yet adhering to the skull. The decay would have been more pronounced had she been interred in warmer weather, but a cold-ground burial had preserved her. Still recognizably a woman, the elements of a human being discarded.
But no, not quite a discarding. This is not simply a disposal of a thing unwanted, or a repudiation of criminal evidence. The inhumation feels if not reverent, then duteous. Some care has been taken here, or perhaps his perception has been influenced by the marker, a stellate testament to the presence of the dead; a sign to commemorate, but not invite discovery.
To have spent so long out here: alone, waiting.
Were you sought? Did someone fear for you? Even now is there a father, a mother, a sibling hoping for your return? If you are not to be restored alive to these others, they have a right to know of your passing, so that misplaced hope, or fears of some ongoing torment of mind or flesh, may be brought to a close.
Who put you here in this dark wood? Was it a husband, a stranger? Did you suffer? If so, I am sorry. If I could, I would have saved you from it.
Why did you die? How did you die?
Who. Are. You?
I will try to put a name to you. You have spent too long unacknowledged.
And I will find your child.
* * *
IT WOULD REQUIRE DARKNESS for Parker to start to comprehend, and sleep for him to discover an answer. In his dream he would stand over the desiccated remains of the woman, her enfolded residue, and traverse a landscape of skin and bone until he came at last to the part that was both of her and of another, a reminder that something remained lost.
The peat had preserved so much: a little more acidity to the soil, a wrapping of moisture-trapping plastic instead of porous cotton, and only bones might have been left. But nature had conspired in the safeguarding of the body, and so there was tegument, hair, and fingernails. And something more: a tendril of tissue, with a withered oval of flesh at the end.
The placenta, and the umbilical cord.
This was not alone a woman.
This was a mother.
* * *
BUT THAT WAS ALL to come. For now Parker stood with Allen, and took in the photographs and video images contained in a file on the lawman’s computer. Allen had offered to call in one of the evidence technicians to go through the information, but Parker didn’t want to distract them from their work, and he was also pretty sure that Allen knew as much as anyone about the investigation. He would stay in touch with Walsh for the rest.
Parker was always astonished at how fast crime-scene technology progressed. In addition to the pictures and video images, a series of 360-degree scans of the grave site and its surroundings were available to view, so that at any point an officer could place him- or herself at the center of the scene. Allen told Parker that the MSP would soon be using drones for mapping, although up here their usefulness would be determined by the thickness of the canopy.
Parker knew that little of what he was seeing would be relevant, but it was important to accept any information offered. Finally, he reached the last of the detailed images of the body. What followed were pictures of the fallen tree, and the hole left by it, both with and without the remains. Some were merely close-ups of dirt, through which Parker began scanning quickly until Allen stopped him.
“You remember earlier, when I said there might be a problem?”
“What am I missing?” Parker asked.
Allen appeared almost embarrassed.
“It’s going to sound weird.”
“Believe me, you’re preaching to the choir.”
“First of all, there’s no reason why that tree should have come down. It was healthy, and the ground was stable. But once it fell, it caused the additional disturbance on the slope that uncovered the remains. Then there’s the way the dirt was dispersed in the aftermath, and the extent of the body reveale
d after the fall.” Allen began flipping back and forth between images while Parker looked on. “It may turn up in the forensic report, because I know the anthropologists were puzzled by it.”
“By what, exactly?” Parker was growing impatient.
“By the fact that the body was mostly visible when it was found, but the hole made by the tree, and the direction of soil shift, should only have revealed the torso, and nothing below the waist.”
Parker considered what he was hearing.
“So you’re saying that someone started digging up the remains before the police were informed?”
“This land is managed by a private company called Piscataquis Root and Branch. It’s a family business, and it was two of the sons who found the body. They took photos of it on their cameras after they called us, just in case of further collapses, but they say they didn’t touch it, and I believe them.”
“If they didn’t, who did?”
“We found no footprints in the dirt, and no signs of outside interference, but there was still dirt scattered beyond the grave.”
“An animal?”
“Again, no tracks—and don’t forget it rained that night, so the soil was damp.”
Allen displayed a few more images before closing the file and putting the laptop away.
“Then what’s the explanation?” Parker asked.
“I don’t have one.”
“What if we were just talking, and this was just a story?” said Parker.
“You mean what if I could make stuff up?”
“I believe ‘speculate’ sounds more professional.”
“Well, if I was ‘speculating’ for a story, maybe one to scare my kids when we were all sitting around a campfire, I’d tell them that the tree didn’t fall but was pushed up from below the ground, and whatever did it then began digging itself out of the dirt. And when it was done, it curled right back up again and waited for someone to come along and find it. But that would just be a story, and this is real life.”
Parker allowed some seconds to pass before extending his right hand.
“Thank you for your time, and your help.”
He and Allen shook.
“I have four children,” said Allen. “Three girls, and the youngest, a boy. His name’s Jake. He came as a surprise: the last shake of the bag. He’s about to turn five. The next youngest has nearly a decade on him, and the older two are both at college. We love them all, but my wife, she dotes on Jake. I guess she’d resigned herself to never having another, yet there he is.”
“Five years old,” said Parker.
“Five years: the same age that child would be, if it survived. Just so you understand this wasn’t only a matter of professional courtesy.”
Parker nodded.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll be up here for the time being,” said Allen. “Not getting shot at.”
CHAPTER
XXXV
Mors followed the signs to the lighthouse at Cape Elizabeth, and parked the car by a rocky outcrop created by layers of quartzite fractured to a woodlike grain, as though the beacon stood above the remains of some petrified forest. She allowed Quayle to wander off alone, and alternately dozed and listened to classical music until the day began to die. Only then did she venture out after the lawyer, her coat gathered against the sharp wind from the sea. She found Quayle seated on a rock below a shuttered restaurant, staring out at the breaking waves, as immobile as a church gargoyle, like a feature of the rock itself. He had been seated in the same position for so long that she thought she could perceive crystals of salt on his skin and clothing. Unlike her, he showed no sign of being troubled by the elements, and he seemed barely to breathe. Had she put her hand to his breast, she knew she would have struggled to detect the beating of a heart.
“It’s time,” she said.
CHAPTER
XXXVI
Dr. Ken Hubbell looked like the kind of physician who turned up only in nostalgic Hollywood movies and television series about angels doing good deeds. He had white hair, and a long white mustache, and his office shelves were heavy with thank-you cards, children’s drawings, and photographs of the good doctor himself, some of them clearly dating back decades, mostly in the company of a variety of small dogs. He spoke with Parker while drinking herbal tea from a World’s Best Grandpa mug.
“I was first on the scene after the body was found,” said Hubbell. “It was a damn miserable morning, I’ll tell you that. I think I’m still feeling it in my bones.”
He went through the initial examination with Parker, and his contemporaneous notes from the site, even making copies of the paperwork he’d forwarded to the ME’s office in Augusta.
“Anything out of the ordinary?” Parker asked.
“Beyond a young mother in a shallow grave?”
“Beyond that.”
Hubbell blew on his tea.
“You were a policeman, weren’t you?” he said.
“A long time ago.”
“But you could still tell the difference between a body that’s been dumped and one that’s been laid to rest?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this woman was laid to rest: I guarantee it. I’d also be surprised if the ME finds any signs of external injury.”
“External?”
Hubbell squinted at Parker over the rim of his spectacles.
“You need me to test your hearing for you?”
“No, I hear just fine. What about internal injuries?”
Hubbell’s eyes remained fixed on Parker.
“Such as?”
“Damage to the uterus.”
“Seems like your hearing is pretty good, if you can hear all the way to Orono.”
“So it’s true?”
Hubbell shrugged. “It’ll be out there soon enough, so no harm in me confirming what you already know: the placenta tore itself prematurely from the wall of the uterus, leading to severe hemorrhaging, and death. There’s not much an amateur can do for a woman who starts bleeding out in the deep woods.”
“Could the child have survived?”
“Well, someone cut that umbilical cord with a blade, so yes, it looks like it survived the birth. Whether it lasted for long is another matter.”
A blade: it had not struck Parker to ask about the cutting of the cord. He was out of practice.
“And the discovery of the body?”
“What about it?”
“I’ve seen the photographs.” Parker paused, trying to be careful in his phrasing. “I might have expected more earth on the remains.”
“There was some shelter from the roots of the tree, but she was still exposed to wind and rain. No, I wasn’t particularly concerned by that.”
It was an interesting choice of words, and Parker picked up on it.
“What were you concerned by?” Parker asked.
Hubbell’s fingers performed a little dance on his mug, like a pianist practicing scales.
“My first impression,” he said, “was that the body might have been moved.”
“Why?”
“Its position didn’t quite match the depression in the earth around it. The arrangement wasn’t perfect.”
“You didn’t mention that in your report.”
“Because I was probably mistaken.”
“Again, why?”
“If the remains had been moved, it would have resulted in serious damage: detachment of limbs, perforation of the skin. I saw no evidence of that. The most likely explanation is some settling of the soil, combined with the action of wind and rain.”
But still an iota of doubt remained, as otherwise Hubbell wouldn’t have mentioned the position of the body. Parker didn’t pursue the subject. He had learned enough. He thanked the physician for his time, and paused by the photographs on the shelves.
“That’s a lot of dogs.”
“Twenty-seven, so far, and each as different as day from night. You have a dog?”
“Not any long
er.”
“You have a family?”
“A daughter. She lives with her mother in Vermont.”
“So you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Get a dog. Keeps you alert, keeps you active, keeps you from getting lonely.”
“Funny, I was just thinking about that earlier today.”
“Well,” said Hubbell, “I can’t call it doctor’s orders, but doctor’s advice. And good luck with finding the child. I’d like to think that it’s out there somewhere, alive. One has to hope, you know?”
“Yes,” said Parker. “I know.”
CHAPTER
XXXVII
Maela Lombardi sensed intrusion to her home as soon as she closed the front door behind her, as though all her furniture had been shifted slightly in her absence, and the wattage of the bulbs reduced. A smell of pickles invaded her nostrils, and beneath it an odor that was almost male, a stink she associated with teenage boys careless in both habit and hygiene. But before she could react, a cloth had been placed over her mouth and nose, and the pickle scent overwhelmed all else.
And Maela Lombardi succumbed to the dark.
CHAPTER
XXXVIII
Parker drove back to Scarborough in a silent car. He neither wanted nor needed the distraction of the radio. He desired only to think as the light faded around him and the dig was left behind.
Someone local had put the woman in the ground. The route to the burial site was not one to be taken by persons unfamiliar with the terrain. For a start it was too arduous: trees overhung the secondary road that led to the grave, so even in daylight it would be shadowy and difficult to navigate. In addition, someone “from away” could not be certain that the road did not lead to a cabin or camp, or cleave through territory favored by hunters and hikers, or monitored by foresters. And there was the ground itself: soft, easy to break. Spruce roots didn’t run deep, and a cursory search, combined with a little knowledge of woodland, would have enabled the person digging to find a relatively clear spot.