Parker closed the gap as Smith One passed Cottage Street. Deering Avenue was the next big intersection, and Parker didn’t make Smith One for a Portland local, which meant he was unlikely to have walked to the Bear. Either he was catching a bus on Deering, or he was parked somewhere nearby.
Smith One crossed Cottage before stopping as something to his left caught his attention. He turned slowly, his eyes drawn by a presence as yet concealed from Parker’s gaze. For a moment the texture of the night appeared to thicken, the shadows deepen. Parker tasted metal on the air, like the coming of an electrical storm. He could hear cars passing in the distance, but their sound was muffled, and the surrounding houses began to lose their definition. He had the sudden uncomfortable sensation of being immersed in water or lost in a rapidly descending fog without either medium being made manifest. Only Smith One remained fixed and unchanged, so that the two men found themselves trapped in a space warping into immateriality.
A child crouched in the center of the street: pale and malformed, naked and sexless, its leg and elbow joints bent at unnatural angles, its right arm shielding its eyes as though from a light visible only to itself. It extended its left hand toward Parker, and despite the distance between them, he thought he felt its touch on his skin, the nails on its fingers sharp and cold as needles.
Smith One started to run, but Parker could not tear himself from the child. It possessed a kind of reality, being both present yet insubstantial. It looked as though it might be possible to pass straight through it, but one would deeply regret the experience, like breaching a cloud of chlorine gas.
Slowly, the child began to glow. Parker glimpsed the network of veins and arteries running beneath its skin, and what might have been internal organs—lungs, kidneys, a heart—albeit atrophied and seemingly without function, for the lungs did not swell or contract, and the heart did not beat. The light grew stronger, splitting apart, and Parker heard the roar of an engine, and the clamor of a horn, and he just had time to press himself against the side of a car as a van ripped through the child, its body vanishing at the moment of impact, and passed Parker with barely inches to spare, the driver mouthing obscenities at him as he went.
The child was gone. In its place was a great chunk of dirty ice, possibly displaced from a building or truck by the thaw, and tire-marked by the passage of the van. If it had ever resembled a child, it no longer did so.
Smith One was also gone.
Parker waited for his hearing and vision to return to their normal states, but they did not. He felt nauseous, and it was all he could do to return to his own car, where he remained seated behind the wheel until some semblance of order was restored to his senses. When he was sufficiently recovered, he called the cab company that had picked up Smith Two and his partner. He told the dispatcher he believed he might have left an item in one of its taxis, and was given a cell phone number for the driver. Parker contacted him, but was too tired to make up any more stories. He identified himself as a private investigator and promised a fifty if the driver told Parker the drop-off point for the fare he’d picked up on Forest Avenue about half an hour earlier.
“For fifty bucks,” said the driver, “I’d tell you who killed Kennedy.”
Parker settled for the location, a single-story strip motel out on Route 1, although he did ask the driver if he’d happened to overhear any conversation in which his customers might have engaged.
“They didn’t talk at all,” the driver said. “I didn’t take them for friendly types, not even toward each other.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They were linking arms when they hailed me, but as soon as they got in the cab, they moved to opposite doors.”
Parker thanked him, and told him he’d put the cash in an envelope and drop it off at the cab office in the morning. He then drove out to the motel, showed his ID and a twenty, and informed the old guy behind the desk that he was interested in two guests, a man and a woman. Parker described them in as much detail as he could, as well as giving an estimate of the time they had probably returned to their rooms that night. The old guy examined Parker’s ID before handing it back, minus the twenty.
“Nope,” he said. He was wearing a T-shirt that read Bowlers Do It With Two Balls, which Parker decided was barely a single entendre.
“Nope what?”
“Nope, we don’t have anyone of that description staying here tonight.”
“You’re sure?”
“Four rooms taken, two by young couples, two by old. And by old, I mean old. I’m old, but they’re real old. They’re so old they might be dead by now.”
“You could have told me all that before you took the twenty.”
“You should have held on to the twenty until you got an answer. You been at this PI business for long, son?”
“I’m considering retiring.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I might cash out, and use the money to buy a can of gas to burn down this motel.”
“I don’t care. It isn’t my motel. And the way you throw money around, you won’t have enough left to pay for matches, never mind gas.”
“I don’t suppose you saw a cab pick up a couple outside a while back?”
“Saw a cab, but didn’t see who got in or out. None of my business.”
Parker decided that the night wasn’t about to get any better, not at this late stage. Sometimes a man had to learn when to take a write-off.
“You’ll understand if I don’t thank you for your time. I figure I’ve paid you enough to skate over the niceties.”
“That you have. But if you ever need a place to stay, I’ll get you a good deal.”
“Someplace else, I hope,” said Parker, and left.
* * *
PARKER’S HEAD WAS STILL swimming as he neared the turn into his driveway. He used his phone to check the status of the security system. It was second nature to him since the attack that had almost taken his life, but it still irritated him, reminding him of his own vulnerability. The system was green. No one had entered the property since his departure earlier in the evening. Had anyone done so, the phone would have beeped an alarm, and the nearest camera would have sent him a picture of the intruder.
He parked, went inside, and searched the medicine cabinet until he found some pills that claimed to tackle both headaches and nausea: prescription medication left over from the aftermath of the shooting. He wasn’t even sure they were still in date, but he swallowed two of them dry before heading to his office and sitting by the window, staring out at the moon on the marshes, the saltwater tributaries trickling like molten silver to the sea.
He thought of Smith One and Smith Two, and the woman with them. Smith One he might be able to trace. Someone had to know of him, and where to find him. But the other two, they were interesting. Maybe he should have stayed with them, and left Smith One for another occasion.
But all this was just a temporary distraction, a means of avoiding the contemplation of what he had witnessed on Cottage. A child, or just a patch of ice in the shape of one, distorted by Parker’s tiredness and the tones of the night? But Smith One had seen it, too. What’s more, it had scared him. Whomever, or whatever, Smith One was involved with, he’d neglected to examine the small print on the contract.
Parker felt a drowsiness begin to descend. He knew he should go to bed, but he didn’t want to leave his chair, didn’t want to look away from the marshes. He understood why. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of Jennifer, the gossamer reassurance of her presence. This was her time: night, with her father caught between wakefulness and unconsciousness.
But Jennifer did not appear, and soon Parker slept.
CHAPTER
LVI
Quayle walked alone by the shore of the Piscataquis River, the lights of the inn now distant. Mors was asleep in her own bed, in her own room. If he wanted to be with her later, he would summon her.
The drive back to Dover-Foxcroft had not been a pleasant one. Meeting Giller i
n Portland had been a mistake because it exposed them to Parker’s regard. Quayle could understand why Giller considered it important for them to know about the private detective; could even, at a stretch, accept that Parker had to be encountered in person to understand his strangeness and therefore the potential threat he posed; but Giller should have found another way.
Quayle was smoking, a vice he deeply enjoyed but one that was growing harder to indulge in these intolerant times. He smoked only Chancellor Treasurer cigarettes, silver-tipped and housed in a gunmetal case. They were expensive, but money was not an issue for Quayle. He had more of it than a man could spend in ten lifetimes.
And Quayle would know.
He cared little about this world beyond the square mile or so of London that he thought of as his own—cared little, in truth, for the world beyond his own rooms, for they contained infinities within themselves. He maintained only sporadic contact with those whose concerns impacted his own. Quayle’s obsession was the Atlas, and the Atlas alone.
Therefore the fact of Charlie Parker’s existence had passed Quayle by until now; but everything he had learned from Giller, confirmed by his own brief encounter with the detective, provoked in him an unease of such intensity as to be almost refreshing. In a life so long-lived, even fear was a welcome distraction from the quotidian.
What troubled Quayle most was the inability of anyone, but particularly the Backers, to deal conclusively with Parker. According to Giller, any number of individuals had tried and failed, with a cadre of concerned citizens in a small Maine town named Prosperous coming closer than most to neutralizing the detective. Yet the Backers possessed pressing reasons to kill Parker, and the resources to accomplish it. Why, then, had they not yet done so? What was lacking?
A possible answer came to Quayle as his cigarette burned down to the butt. He flicked it into the dark, the hiss of its destruction lost in the river’s tumult, and turned back toward the inn. A conversation was required. The Principal Backer would be called upon to justify himself.
Reasons: yes, these the Backers had.
Resources: yes.
But the will?
That remained to be seen.
CHAPTER
LVII
Parker drove up to Bangor shortly before noon the following day. The air was bright and clear, and when he stopped for coffee along the way, the conversations of those at the diner counter appeared infused with the kind of hope that he always regarded as unique to northern states. It came with spring, surged with summer, and was entirely spent by the coming of winter.
Because of Dave Evans’s birthday celebration, and the less welcome events that followed, Parker had missed most of the coverage of the most recent press conference held by the state police. The conference had been postponed from earlier in the day due to what turned out to be a false sighting of Heb Caldicott up by Crouseville, close to the Canadian border, which meant the news teams had struggled to put together packages in time for their evening broadcasts. As a result, Parker was forced to flip between his phone and the Portland Press Herald as he played catch-up.
It was clear that the hunt for Caldicott and his associates had dominated proceedings, with only a few minutes at the end given over to the ongoing mystery of the “Woman in the Woods.” A state police lieutenant named Solange Corriveau was now the lead investigator on the Jane Doe case, following a reorganization of MSP resources following Allen’s murder. Parker didn’t know Corriveau, so she was either new to the force or recently promoted. It stood to reason: the main focus was on the hunt for Allen’s killers, so the less pressing investigation was always destined to be handed off to whomever could be spared. On the other hand, the condition in which Jane Doe’s body was discovered—buried after recently giving birth, the remains of the placenta interred with her—meant that, by police reasoning, a female officer would present a more appropriate public face.
And in this case, police reasoning might have been correct. Parker went to the Channel 6 website and pulled up the video of the conference, making sure to use earphones to listen in order to avoid bothering the other diners. Corriveau was in her early thirties, and spoke slowly and clearly. She shared with the press almost every detail already known to Parker, and emphasized that law enforcement had a number of aims in the investigation: to identify the woman; to establish the circumstances of her death; and to confirm the whereabouts of her child, because the search of the area around the grave had revealed no trace of the infant.
“Is this a homicide investigation?” asked an unidentified male reporter.
“We have no evidence to suggest it was a homicide,” Corriveau replied. “It appears most likely that the woman died as a result of complications in childbirth, but we’d very much like to find out how she ended up in that situation.”
She then changed her tone, making it softer, less formal.
“It may be that someone out there believed he or she was doing good by giving this woman a burial, and taking care of her child. Sometimes people do the wrong things for the right reasons, and we understand that. But there may be a mother, a husband, or a partner who cared about this woman, and they have a right to know what happened to her and her child. So if you have information that might help us in this, anything at all, we’re asking you to come forward so we can start setting some minds at rest. We’re not looking to put anyone behind bars, and we’ll be as sympathetic as we can, but the longer this goes on, the harder it will become for us to reach a resolution that’s best for everyone involved.”
With that, the clip ended. Parker was impressed. Corriveau had done well: no threats, but just enough steel at the conclusion. He put his phone and newspaper away, folded his reading glasses, and ordered a second cup of coffee in a to-go cup. Once outside, he made a call to Gordon Walsh.
“I watched the press conference,” he said. “Where’d you find Corriveau?”
“Presque Isle PD.”
“She’s good.”
“Tell that to the boneheads screeching about affirmative action. We’d still have hired her if she was a Martian. Like you say, she’s good. Did you call just to compliment us on our progressive hiring policies?”
“I felt like passing the time of day. Whatcha doin’?”
“Seriously.”
“I crossed paths with a guy at the Bear last night. Small: five-two, five-three, looks like a rat that’s figured out the basics of tailoring. Not local to Portland, but my guess is he’s a Mainer, although you couldn’t tell from the accent. I think the term is ‘studiedly neutral.’ He was accompanied by an Englishman claiming to be a lawyer, and a woman who hasn’t seen sunlight since Reagan died.”
“Any name?”
“He said it was Smith, but I’m not inclined to believe him.”
“I’m shocked, but I don’t doubt your instinct for dissimulation. Why the interest?”
“I think he may have been keeping tabs on me. Not regularly, just occasionally.”
“It’s not much to go on.”
“I’ll talk to Dave Evans. We might get something from the cameras in the bar.”
“If you do, send me the images and I’ll ask around, but I can’t promise anything. You still snooping for Moxie on Jane Doe?”
“I am. In fact, I’m on my way to do some snooping right now.”
“If you find out anything, share it with Corriveau.”
“Done. You have a number for her?”
Walsh gave him Corriveau’s direct line, and her cell phone.
“How’s Angel doing?”
“Improving.”
“That’s good to hear. And the other one?”
“Still no change in his condition.”
“That’s less good to hear.”
“But not unexpected.”
“No. And remember: Corriveau.”
“Understood, and thanks.”
“Doesn’t mean we’re dating again,” said Walsh, and hung up.
* * *
THE EXTERIOR OF T
HE Tender House had not changed a great deal since Parker’s last visit. Its status as a refuge for frightened and abused women was still unadvertised, and only the electronically operated steel gate, and the fact that its high white picket fence was made of metal instead of wood, suggested the two adjoining clapboard buildings might house anything other than another pleasant condo development.
Parker left his car at the curb, and rang the bell on the gatepost. He kept his head up so the cameras over the main door and on a nearby tree could see his face clearly. His arrival was anticipated, but it was still a good thirty seconds before he was admitted. He knew the reason for the delay: while two cameras were watching him, other eyes were monitoring the street for any signs of suspicious activity, just in case a husband or boyfriend with a grudge decided to seize the opportunity offered by an open gate to enter the property and reclaim his chattel. Cars were parked on the street, but all were empty, and any pedestrians were both distant and seemingly occupied with their own concerns. But Parker was careful to walk quickly into the driveway once the gate opened, and he didn’t turn his back on it until the barrier closed safely behind him.
Candy stood waiting for him at the main door. She was wearing her beloved pink bunny slippers, her hair remained slightly unkempt, and her smile had not altered one iota: it signaled unconditional pleasure at Parker’s presence. Candy had Down syndrome, and was the daughter of the original founders of the Tender House, both of whom were now deceased. She continued to live and work on the property, and much of its identity was tied up with her. She was a link to its past, but also a symbol of everything it stood for. Candy, in essence, was tenderness.
“Charlie Parker,” she said. “What you doing here, my darling?”
She gathered him to her in an enormous hug, and he held her in turn, closing his eyes briefly against the world.
“Are you better now?” she asked.
“Better for seeing you.”