“I manage a building in Auburn,” he said. “It’s vacant. I can stay there for a while, if we stop off first for some food and beer.”
“Well,” said Mors, “that sounds like a plan.”
* * *
PARKER MADE THE LAST flight to Boston with only minutes to spare, and managed to get a call through to Bob Johnston in Portland before the doors closed. Johnston owned a rare book dealership that operated out of a brownstone in Munjoy Hill, but he also had a sideline in the restoration and rebinding of old volumes. Johnston was a little antisocial, like a lot of book people who operated in the more specialized areas of the market, but given the nature of the object Parker wanted Johnston to examine, this was probably for the best. Parker told Johnston to expect him after eleven p.m., and Johnston said that Parker could take his time because he never went to bed before one a.m. anyway.
Parker put the shoe box under the seat in front of him, but did not open it. He had no pressing desire to look at its contents for a while.
* * *
BILLY AND MORS STOPPED at a convenience store to pick up chips, cold cuts, bread, milk, and beer. If Mors thought that this seemed like a lot of food for one person, she didn’t comment. They drove to the Auburn property, where Billy instructed Mors to park in the back lot so he wouldn’t be observed entering the building. He was pleased to see that the windows on the upper floor remained dark, without even the telltale glow of the TV. Maybe Heb Caldicott was asleep, or dead. Either would be fine with Billy, the latter being infinitely preferable.
Billy got out of the car, Mors following behind with the second bag of groceries. Billy fiddled with the lock, and the door opened.
“I can take it from here,” he said.
He turned, and Mors shot him in the face.
CHAPTER
CIV
Holly Weaver was woken by the sound of her cell phone. She’d gone to her bedroom intending only to put her feet up and watch television for a while, maybe even read a book, but a combination of tiredness and the softness of her mattress had quickly set her dozing.
It wasn’t the easiest of rests. She was experiencing a sense of violation. She was certain she’d double-locked the back door before leaving home that day, for the simple reason that she always did, yet when she checked it later only one lock was in place. Her father assured her that he hadn’t gone near it when he was with Daniel. She had also picked up a peculiar smell in the house, as though someone had trailed dead animal matter through its rooms.
But Holly wondered if she would ever be at peace again, because she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been restive, not since Karis Lamb had breathed her last. Now her phone was ringing, when what she needed more than anything was some undisturbed sleep. She glanced at the number, and saw Dido Mullis’s name on the caller display. Dido was her former sister-in-law, and she remained on Holly’s contact list partly because she was the only member of her ex-husband’s family for whom Holly retained any affection, but mostly because Holly was hopeless at deleting old numbers.
“Dido,” she said. “Long time.”
“I thought you should know,” said Dido, snuffling and hiccupping her way through the words. “Gregg was found shot at his home today, him and his girlfriend. They’re dead.”
* * *
PARKER ARRIVED AT LOGAN and switched on his phone as soon as he reached the terminal. He picked up a message from Moxie Castin, asking him to call back as soon as he could.
“Moxie,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“I have good news and bad news. You’ll probably want to hear the bad news first.”
“Go on.”
“Someone set fire to your Mustang.”
Parker stopped walking, causing the man behind to begin swearing until he saw Parker’s face and decided that silence might be the better option.
“And the good news?”
“I think we have a pretty good idea who was responsible.”
* * *
OWEN AND HOLLY WERE sitting in Holly’s kitchen. The bottle of Maker’s stood on the table between them, and each of them had a glass of bourbon in hand. As predicted, the events of recent times had taken their toll on the bottle, and only half an inch of liquor remained at the bottom.
“Why do you think it has something to do with Daniel?” Owen asked, although he couldn’t believe he had been cast in the role of skeptic. He was posing the question for the sake of it, and little more.
“Gregg was a jerk, but even I didn’t want to kill him, and I had more cause than most. Back when Dido and I were still in regular contact, she told me that Gregg was real pissed when he heard about Daniel. His exact words, if I remember right, were that you couldn’t grow weeds in my womb.”
Owen let the bourbon wet his lips and tongue, trying to make it last.
“I never liked him,” he said.
“You only told me that a thousand times. You even told me on my wedding day, both before and after I’d married him.”
“I was trying to save you from yourself.”
She took his hand in hers.
“I know, but I was in love with him.”
“Almost as much as he was in love with himself.”
Holly had to admit this was true. Gregg Mullis had lived life as though the world were made of mirrors.
“And he did have a big mouth,” she said. “I think he might have shot it off about me and my womb, and someone recalled it.”
“So why not come here instead of going to Gregg?”
“I don’t know: To find out for sure? And it could be that they’ve been here already, checking the place out.”
“The kitchen door?”
“Yes, and more than that: the house doesn’t smell right, doesn’t feel right.”
“So now we talk to Castin?”
“First thing in the morning,” said Holly. “The only thing worse than Daniel being taken from me would be to have him get hurt.”
Owen stood.
“I think you and Daniel should go find a motel room for the night,” said Owen. “Pay cash, and don’t take your car. I’ll call a cab, and follow behind for a while to make sure no one is watching.”
Holly didn’t argue, except to ask, “What about you?”
Owen shrugged.
“I got a tire iron. Always had a hankering to use it on more than a tire.”
* * *
PARKER CALLED LOUIS WHEN he was about twenty minutes out of Portland and arranged to meet him at Bob Johnston’s place. He was tempted to head straight home, but he needed Johnston to take a look at the book, and it wasn’t as though he was going to be able to do much about the Mustang anyway. Nevertheless, he still wanted to find Billy Ocean very badly indeed, despite Moxie Castin’s warnings against doing anything rash, which had sounded hollow even to Moxie.
Louis was already parked by the time Parker reached Congress Street. Parker pulled up behind and waited for Louis to join him. Once Louis was in the passenger seat, Parker shared with him everything he had learned from Leila Patton, including her fears about the book.
“It’s in the box?” asked Louis.
“You want to see it?”
“Nope.”
They crossed the street and rang Bob Johnston’s bell. He buzzed them in, and they climbed two floors of book-lined stairs, past rooms filled with shelves and boxes, and the workshop in which Johnston did his binding and printing, until they reached the top of the building. More books here, along with a small kitchen, bedroom, and living area, all of which served as Johnston’s home. His business didn’t have an actual store, although customers could visit by appointment. Few chose to do so, or not a second time, Johnston being of the opinion that if the only good author was a dead one, the only good customer was a distant one. He was a lanky being of cardigans and slippers, with red hair running to gray, and a face that appeared to be collapsing from the brow down in a series of V-shaped furrows of annoyance. Parker had bought some books from him in the past
, mostly as gifts. Johnston had been recommended to him by Carlson & Turner, the antiquarian bookseller farther down Congress, although they’d sent Parker on his way with the air of generals dispatching a soldier on a mission from which he was unlikely to return unscathed.
Johnston gave Louis a nod of greeting, took the shoe box from Parker’s hands, and carried it to a desk on which sat old invoices, a lamp, a magnifier, and a one-eyed stuffed cat.
“I’d suggest using gloves,” said Parker.
“Why?” asked Johnston.
“The person who gave it to me said touching it made her sick.”
“It’s just a book of fairy tales.”
“No, it’s not.”
Johnston offered a sigh that spoke volumes about his tolerance, or lack thereof, for the world’s nincompoops, and rummaged in his drawer until he found a pair of white cloth gloves.
“If he does jazz hands,” said Louis, “we’ll have words.”
Johnston scowled at him, or at least his permascowl deepened.
“And what is it you do, exactly?” he asked.
“I shoot people,” said Louis.
Parker had noticed in the past that Louis occasionally amused himself by experimenting with honesty as the best policy.
“Uh-huh,” said Johnston, pulling on the gloves. “Do you take commissions?”
“Contracts,” Louis corrected.
“Whatever.”
“Not so much.”
“Pity. I have a list.”
“Is it long?”
“Gets longer by the day. You got a card?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have one?”
“No.”
Johnston sighed again. Parker guessed that he spent a lot of time sighing.
“I suppose I’ll just have to kill them myself,” said Johnston, “but I was good for the money.”
Gloves now arranged to his satisfaction, Johnston opened the box and removed the book. He examined the spine and boards, checked the copyright page, and progressed to the illustrations, pausing at the additional blank sheets.
“Odd,” he said.
He took in the typesetting, with its disarranged words.
“Odder,” he said.
Finally, he turned on his desktop computer and checked the listing for the book on various websites.
“Oddest,” he concluded. “Looks like it was faked. The year’s wrong.”
“It’s 1908,” said Parker. “One year too early.”
“You know something about it?”
“Not much more than the date, and that the inserts may have something to do with an atlas.”
“What kind of atlas?”
“Maybe you can find out.”
Johnston adjusted the angle of the book, perhaps to see if the alteration in perspective might reveal a previously hidden detail.
“Errors to copyright pages happen, although no authority has previously noted the existence of one for this edition. It might have been a test printing, but if so, it’s unrecorded. Curious, I’ll give you that.” For the first time, he was perusing the book with real interest. “What were you hoping to find out about it?”
“Where it came from,” said Parker. “What the bookplate at the front might mean. Why those additional pages were inserted. What they’re made from. Whether they’re really blank. Anything you can tell me. There is a ‘but,’ though.”
“Go on.”
“You can’t tell anyone you have it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because it’s breeding corpses.”
“Ah.” Johnston poked the book, as though to goad it into showing its teeth. “Well, that’s a good reason to be discreet. I might have to take it apart to get a better look at those blanks.”
“Can you put it back together again after?”
Johnston looked offended, and gestured at their surroundings.
“Mr. Parker, what exactly is it you think I do here?”
* * *
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Mors to get Billy Ocean’s body inside and close the door behind her. She made only a cursory effort to hide his remains, dumping him in the shadows at the end of the hall along with the bags of food. The body wouldn’t be visible until morning, and then only if someone were actively searching for it. She didn’t want Billy’s remains to be discovered before she and Quayle were ready. Mors considered checking the place, but it felt empty and smelled foul, and the stairs up to the second floor already had a hole in them where someone had put a foot through the rotten wood. It wouldn’t be a smart move to incapacitate herself on the same premises to which she had so recently contributed a corpse. She left the same way she came in, and didn’t detect any signs of interest in her vehicle from the surrounding residences as she pulled onto the street and drove away.
Mors paid no attention to the building itself.
Had she done so, she might have seen a flash of light from the upstairs window and a figure silhouetted against it.
CHAPTER
CV
Holly woke Daniel. He made a show of rubbing his eyes, but she wasn’t sure he’d really been asleep.
“I want you to pack a bag,” she said. “We’re going to stay at a motel for a couple of nights.”
Daniel didn’t ask why, and didn’t protest, but climbed out of bed like an automaton. Holly saw the dark rings under his eyes, and knew they weren’t only from his recent troubled night. It bothered her that she hadn’t noticed them before, so tied up was she with her own concerns.
She took Daniel in her arms and held him close.
“Honey,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
But whatever answer she might have anticipated was not the one she received.
“Mom, the fairy-tale book is gone.”
CHAPTER
CVI
Parker stood before the burned-out remains of his Mustang. The night air reeked of hot metal and melted plastic, of gas and charred rubber. A deputy chief from the Scarborough Fire Department had explained to Parker how fortunate he was that they’d reached the car before the wind carried the flames to the house. Even so, the eastern wall of his home was scorched black, and a couple of windows had broken in the heat, leading to some water damage from the hoses. A glazier was already at work on the panes. Parker was now giving a statement to a Scarborough PD patrolman, but could only inform him that he had no idea how the fire had begun, as he was midair between Cincinnati and Boston when it occurred. Neither were the security cameras a help, as whoever was responsible had come through the woods without breaking the beams, and stayed out of range of the cameras on the front and back of the house.
“We’re guessing arson,” said the patrolman, whose name was Cotter. He didn’t look old enough to drink. “Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”
But Parker was barely listening. He’d really liked the car. If it was a midlife crisis on wheels, nobody could claim he hadn’t earned the right to one.
It was Louis who replied to Cotter’s question.
“You do know who he is, right?”
Louis and Parker had debated whether it might be wiser under the circumstances for Louis not to accompany him back to the house, before eventually deciding, oh, to hell with it.
“Yeah, I know,” said Cotter.
“And what he does for a living?”
“Yes.”
“So how many pages of that notebook would you like to fill with grudges?”
Cotter got the message and put the notebook away.
“If you think of anything solid, give me a call.”
He handed his card to Parker, who thanked him for his time. Cotter then wandered off to shoot the breeze with the deputy chief.
“Guess maybe I shouldn’t have set fire to Billy Ocean’s truck,” said Louis.
“You could probably just have stolen his flags,” said Parker.
“But it wouldn’t have had the same impact.”
“No.”
“We
going to look for him?”
“Not now. It’s late, and I’m tired.”
Parker’s phone rang. It was Moxie Castin again. He considered ignoring it, but instead handed the phone to Louis.
“Moxie. You mind seeing what he wants?”
Louis answered the phone.
“What you want?” Louis listened. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Says you’re to do nothing about this until you speak to him at his office in the morning. Says you don’t want to end up in jail over a car.”
“Give me the phone.”
Louis handed it over.
“Moxie, I want the names of Billy’s known acquaintances, and a list of all the properties he manages for his father, available to me by noon tomorrow.”
Louis heard Moxie’s voice coming from the phone. Moxie Castin, he thought, didn’t distinguish between indoor and outdoor voices.
“Yes,” said Parker in reply, “I realize finding out that kind of information is what I do for a living, but I’m angry, and sore, and I really liked that car. Just make it happen, Moxie.”
He hung up. The remaining fire truck pulled away from the house, followed by Cotter’s Scarborough PD cruiser.
“You want company?” Louis asked.
“You have anything better to do?”
“Not until we go looking for Billy Ocean.”
“Then sure,” said Parker, “company would be appreciated.”
* * *
BOB JOHNSTON WORKED HIS way slowly through the book, carefully checking each page, at first bemused, then increasingly disturbed, by the apparently random arrangements of letters and words. He noticed that the complications appeared more concentrated on the pages closest to the vellum inserts, although they persisted throughout.
But it was the illustrations that were most fascinating. Parker had brought to his attention the differences between the plates in the book and their equivalents on the Internet, but Johnston regarded the Internet as the devil’s work, even though it made his profession easier by reducing the necessity of contact with actual human beings, who had a tendency to try to remove volumes from shelves by the headcap or the delicate spine, and couldn’t understand why his titles cost more than the ones at their local used bookstore, or, God forbid, on Amazon. So instead of making comparisons between page and screen, Johnston found in his own collection a later edition of Grimm containing Rackham’s illustrations, and the two books now rested side by side on his desk, carefully illuminated and positioned so he could move the magnifier easily over each.