The Woman in the Woods

  Johnston had to admit that he’d never encountered any book quite like this one before. It was clear that the lithographic plates of the illustrations had been altered at some point, thus allowing the printing of the alternate versions with their additional figures, but he struggled to find any record of their creation. It seemed a great deal of trouble to take just to put together a one-off with botched lettering, especially given the exquisite detailing to the panels. In fact, Johnston thought, the closer he examined them, the clearer the additions became, so that his explorations took on a certain rhythm; a primary perusal, followed by a break to rest his eyes, followed by a closer study, which invariably yielded a different, odder result:

  Horns glimpsed here, a second set of eyes there; a torso, a tail.

  The additions were not Rackham’s work; of this much Johnston was certain. They were almost medieval in execution, but with none of the flatness that he associated with the period. Some were almost familiar to him: in the background of the depiction of Rumpelstiltskin was a creature that Johnston might initially have mistaken for a bull, were it not for the brightness of the animal’s coloration. Now the richness of its blues was becoming more noticeable under the light, and the oddness of its form more apparent. The beast definitely had a bull’s head with sharp yellow horns, but its skin was scaled, and it walked upright on its hind legs.

  The illustration nagged at Johnston. Like many dealers in antiquarian books, he had accumulated a certain knowledge of diverse matters, most of it deeper than he revealed but shallower than he might have wished. Just as someone with even a casual interest in great art will be able to identify the Mona Lisa, or Michelangelo’s David, so was Johnston able to recognize masterpieces across a variety of ages, styles, and media. He had seen the blue bull—no, blue demon, because that was what it most assuredly was—somewhere before, but in a less alien context than a folk tale. He stared at the figure again through the magnifier, the shadows surrounding it continuing to fall away so that it, rather than the more traditional aspects of Rackham’s genius, became the focal point of the plate. Back to the infernal Internet, back to searches, and there it was: the Parish Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Fairford, England.

  A church had existed in Fairford since the eleventh century, but the present incarnation, built in the Perpendicular style, dated from the late fifteenth century. What distinguished St. Mary’s, apart from its great age, was a complete set of late-medieval stained-glass windows created between 1500 and 1517 by glaziers from the Netherlands, almost certainly under the supervision of Henry VIII’s own glazier, Bernard Flower. The most famous of these was the Great West Window, or more particularly the lower part of it, since the upper half had been damaged during a storm in 1703 and was now largely a nineteenth-century replacement. The window depicted the Last Judgment, with the elect being escorted to heaven on the left, and the damned being consigned to hell on the right. Seven panels in total, of which the most interesting to Johnston was the third from the right. There, in the bottom right-hand corner, stood the same blue demon, a twin-pronged fork in its hands, and one of the damned on its shoulders. Behind it lurked a similar creation, this time in red, scourging another poor soul with a spiked mace.

  Johnston proceeded to the tale of the Frog Prince, and Rackham’s drawing of the princess carrying the titular royal up a flight of ornate wooden stairs. Hanging on the wall to the right of the princess was a tapestry with hints of scarlet. In the original illustration, a figure was barely discernible on the material, but in the alternative version contained in the disordered book, the scarlet was more vivid, the horned shape clearer. Even the spiked mace in its hands could be identified.

  So, Johnston wondered, why had someone taken such care to add elements of late medieval stained-glass art to a series of unconnected twentieth-century plates? And why also stitch additional blank folios into the binding? The answer, perhaps, might be found in those vellum insertions themselves.

  Johnston placed the book back in its box and carried it down to his workshop, where he could begin the process of disassembling it. So engrossed was he in his new project that he did not register how deep the darkness had become; how muffled his footsteps, as though lost in fog; how silent the night beyond.

  He was lost in the book.

  And lost, perhaps, to the book.

  * * *

  PARKER POURED LOUIS A glass of wine, but stuck to coffee himself. He replayed the events in Cadillac, returning again and again to the Englishman, sitting calmly in Dobey’s with his book of poetry, waiting for his chance to interrogate, and kill, the diner’s owner.

  “You’re sure it was the same guy?” Louis asked.

  “Unless he has a brother with eyes of a different color, in which case they’re in it together.”

  “Doesn’t sound likely.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So what are you planning to do?”

  “Flush him out. I’ve seen him up close. I know what he looks like. First thing in the morning, I go to Corriveau and give her a full description, suggesting that this man may be a person of interest in the murder of Maela Lombardi, as well as a suspect in a possible arson attack leading to a fatality; a disappearance; and an attempted abduction, all in Cadillac, Indiana, and all linked to the discovery of a body now believed to be that of one Karis Lamb. We get his likeness out on TV, in newspapers, on the Internet. We make it hard for him to hide, and see how he reacts.”

  “And the woman with him?”

  “Probably the same one who tried to take Leila Patton. I’ll give Corriveau a description of her as well.”

  “But you’re not going to tell Corriveau about the book?”

  “No, or not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Curiosity. Let’s see what Bob Johnston comes up with first.”

  “Curiosity, hell,” said Louis. “You want to keep it to yourself in case you can use it as bait.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. You are an untrustworthy motherfucker.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Okay, I take back ‘motherfucker.’ ”

  “Appreciated. You speak to Angel?”

  “Yeah. He’s disassociated, needy. Same as always, except he now has more scars.”

  “Seriously.”

  “He sounded better than before. I was planning on going back tomorrow, but I might stick around here, see what happens with your book and the visitor from overseas. Nothing I can do for Angel that one of the nurses can’t do better.”

  Parker set aside his coffee cup. It was time to sleep. But he had one more question for Louis.

  “You ever think about what it is you’re running from?”

  “You mean with Angel?”

  “Yes.”

  Louis finished his wine.

  “Not death,” said Louis. “I never paid much mind to death.”

  “Then what?”

  “The aftermath. Grief, if you want to give it a name; even the possibility of it. I don’t want to grieve for him.”

  “Which is why he’s going to live.”

  “Exactly, because I’d never forgive him otherwise.”

  Parker stood.

  “I won’t tell you that you should go back to New York,” he said. “You make your own choices. And, if I’m being honest, I’m glad you’re here. I get the sense that the Englishman and the woman with him are as bad as people come.”

  “You don’t think he’ll run when we start pasting his picture around town? You know, bide his time before coming back when we’re not expecting it?”

  “No. He’s too close to getting the book.”

  “Which he doesn’t know you have.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means, somewhere down the way, you’re going to have to find a way to let him know you have it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which will be risky.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means I may get to hurt someone.”
r />   “Almost certainly.”

  “You know,” said Louis, “things are looking up already.”

  CHAPTER

  CVII

  Parker called Solange Corriveau shortly before eight a.m. While Corriveau was working out of MCU-North in Bangor, she agreed to meet with Parker at state police headquarters in Augusta, where he would be asked to give a formal description of the Englishman and his acolyte. She informed Parker that Walsh would certainly join them, since MCU-South was investigating the killing of Maela Lombardi. Thanks to Parker’s trip to Indiana, the MSP now had a full name for Jane Doe, a link to Lombardi, and a potential suspect in the form of the unnamed Englishman, all in return for zero expenditure. Parker hoped that he might even receive a letter of appreciation from the governor, which he could then stick to the sole of his shoe.

  “I need to be back in Portland by noon,” Parker said.

  “This wouldn’t be connected to what happened to your car last night?” Corriveau asked.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Not as fast as the Stonehurst boy, if he has any sense.”

  Parker stayed quiet. He wasn’t about to be drawn into admitting anything that might restrict his room for maneuver when it came to dealing with Billy.

  “Come on,” said Corriveau. “I hear he might have taken it into his head that you were somehow involved with what happened to his truck.”

  Despite the distance between them, Parker had the uncomfortable feeling of being interrogated.

  “I might have heard something about that,” said Parker. “I can’t imagine where he got such a notion.”

  “Well, just be sure to take a deep breath before you go knocking hard on any doors. Your help with the woman in the woods isn’t unappreciated, but it will only buy you so many favors. Turning a blind eye to some feud with the Stonehursts isn’t one of them. I’ll see you in Augusta in two hours.”

  She hung up, leaving Parker to listen to Louis, who had spent the night in the guest room, complain about the quality of coffee in the house and question Parker’s ability to purchase an acceptable form of bread. When Louis was finished bitching, and had resigned himself to whatever he could scavenge, he said, “So what’s the plan?”

  “I go to Augusta. You head over to Moxie.”

  “You want me to start tracking down Billy?”

  “No, I just want you to do what you’ve been doing for the past couple of days.”

  “Which is nothing.”

  “Which is wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Because by this afternoon Solange Corriveau should be ready to put the description of the Englishman out there. If she’s lucky, she may even get a hit on Karis Lamb, because she’s getting nothing from federal databases. She’ll also make a final appeal to whoever put Karis in the ground, warning them that they may be in danger. Finally, she’s agreed to thank Moxie and me for our assistance, and trail the Indiana connection.”

  “You’re putting blood in the water.”

  “Best way to draw sharks.”

  “And Billy?”

  “We let him go.”

  Louis paused in the act of drinking his substandard coffee.

  “For real?”

  “You did blow up his truck.”

  “Because he was ignorant.”

  “And he paid for it. Look, I could find him, and beat the shit out of him, but I’m not going to feel any better about myself afterward, and it’s not going to change Billy, or his father, or anyone else like them.”

  “You saying you’re trying to be the better man? Doesn’t work, not with their kind.”

  “No, I’m saying that if this continues, someone will get badly hurt, or even killed. Likely it won’t be either of us, but the consequences will be messy.”

  “You’re making me feel more guilty about your car.”

  “Good.”

  “Not so guilty that I’m going to buy you a new one, but still bad.”

  “That level of self-examination on your part is compensation enough,” said Parker. “Plus, I have insurance.”

  * * *

  MOSTLY FOR REASONS OF surveillance, Parker owned three cars—now reduced to two after the destruction of the Mustang—and used the less offensive of the remaining pair to get to Augusta, the Taurus being both crappy and forever tarnished by association with a burning truck. The final vehicle was a 2002 Audi A4 in dark gray that made him feel like the kind of accountant who worked out of a strip mall, and not a good strip mall either.

  Corriveau and Walsh were already waiting for Parker by the time he got to Augusta. With them were Kes Carroll from the Cape Elizabeth PD, and Sharon Macy, who seemed to progress one rung higher up the law enforcement ladder each time Parker met her. Although Macy remained officially—for now—an officer of the Portland PD attached to its Criminal Investigations Division, she was also heavily involved in the state’s Violent Crimes Task Forces, and had the ear of the AG. In other words, everyone had to be nice to Macy. She and Parker had dated a couple of times, but their timing was off. He could at least be grateful that he hadn’t behaved too badly toward her, and had picked up the checks.

  “Sorry to hear about your car,” she said, as she escorted him to the meeting room.

  “I’m getting so many messages of condolence, I may hold a wake.”

  “The word is that Billy Ocean should consider leaving for somewhere safer, like Syria.”

  “The word, as usual, is inaccurate.”

  Macy raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “If Billy did it,” said Parker, “he’s a fool. If he didn’t do it, he’s still a fool. I have no proof that he did it. I only have opinions on Billy’s foolishness, which hardly makes me unique.”

  “Maybe you’re mellowing as you get older. Then again, it’s not as if you could become any less mellow.”

  “Hush now, or I’ll start to regret paying for those dinners.”

  He stepped back just in time to avoid a punch on the arm.

  “Jerk,” she said.

  “Sticks and stones. Meanwhile, it seems you’re being kept busy.”

  The news bulletins were filled with four Maine murders in twenty-four hours, including the shooting dead of a heavily pregnant woman as part of a triple homicide, to add to the killing of Maela Lombardi. The state could usually count on twenty homicides a year, give or take, at least half of which would be domestic killings. This meant that the last week alone accounted for a quarter of the annual total, and the year was not yet three months old.

  “The triple is strange as hell,” said Macy. “We’ve got a positive ID on Gregg Mullis and Tanya Wade, but the victim at the kitchen table was initially a mystery. No driver’s license, but he had a wallet filled with business cards, and we found one on the table belonging to Marcus Light, an employee of the Office of Child and Family Services. Light lives in Millinocket, but is currently at a wedding in San Diego, and has no idea why his business card should be center stage at a murder scene.”

  “Misrepresentation?” said Parker.

  “That could be it. Fortunately, one of the vehicles at the scene was registered to an Ivan Giller. Single, apparently unemployed, living in a nice condo in Bangor.”

  “Too nice for a guy without a job?”

  “Too nice for a lot of guys with a job. He was a fixer. Business deals, politics: if there was a price on information, he could find a way to buy or sell it.”

  “Any connection between those three and the Brunswick victim?”

  “Connie White? Well, we’re going to be waiting a couple of days for the forensics analysis on the bullets, but it looks like they were all killed with .380 ACPs, with a cleanup after; no shell casings. So yeah, it could be the same shooter, which means we need to find out how Mullis or Wade tracks to Connie White. Mullis has an ex-wife in Guilford, and his girlfriend has an ex-husband down in Florida. We’ll start with them and work outward. White got fired from her job for taking kickbacks and selling inf
ormation on state tenders, so there may be something there. Oh, one more weird detail: Connie White’s killer spared her dog, and that mutt is a piece of work, with an extra shot of mean. According to White’s brother, it tolerated his sister and him, but no one else, but we think the shooter may have put out extra food and water for it, just in case it was stuck in the trailer for a while.”

  “What about the brother?”

  “In work during the time-of-death window, with witnesses to say he never left.”

  “So you’re looking for a sentimentalist who’s good with animals.”

  “Great. Let me write that down, in case I forget. Is ‘Doolittle’ spelled with one ‘o’ or two?”

  “Two,” said Parker, as they reached the meeting room. “Or just keep an eye out for a guy with a two-headed llama.”

  Once inside, Parker took a seat, accepted an offer of coffee, and walked the assembled detectives through a carefully edited version of his time in Cadillac. He then spent time working with a trained officer to produce facial composite pictures of the Englishman and the woman from the Great Lost Bear. It was after one p.m. by the time he was done, so his self-imposed deadline of noon had fallen by the wayside. Macy and Walsh had departed by then, and Corriveau dropped by just to okay the pictures for release, thank Parker for his efforts, and advise him, once again, to stay away from Billy Ocean.

  As it turned out, Parker had one final piece of the puzzle to offer, because Corriveau was holding in her hand the driver’s license photo of Ivan Giller, the second male found dead at the home of Gregg Mullis. Parker hadn’t bothered to give the police a description of Smith One at the Bear because he’d already discussed him with Gordon Walsh, and anyway, Corriveau was more interested in the Englishman and his female shadow. Now Parker could put a name to Smith One.