The Woman in the Woods

  Parker was familiar with a couple of private investigators up in Piscataquis. One of them, Julia Hancock, was smarter than the average bear, and knew her way around a missing-person case. More to the point, she also had good relations with the Dover-Foxcroft PD, the Piscataquis County sheriff, the Warden Service, and the Maine State Police.

  “Give me a minute,” said Parker.

  He stepped outside, called Moxie, and suggested he engage Hancock to work with the police to trace Owen Weaver. Moxie agreed.

  “She doesn’t work cheap,” Parker warned him.

  “Then she’s in good company. This case will put me in the poorhouse yet.”

  “When you die, maybe they’ll only have to say ten months of Kaddish for you instead of the full eleven.”

  “I’m sure that will be some consolation to my bank manager and ex-wives. I’ll call Hancock now.”

  Parker went back inside to inform Weaver of what had been arranged. Only then did she consent to leave the boy. He watched his mother go, but made no complaint and showed no signs of concern. In fact, Parker noticed that Daniel Weaver hadn’t spoken once since his arrival.

  “You hungry?” Parker asked him, while his mother waited at the door.

  Daniel thought about it before nodding.

  “You like pizza?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you talk?”

  Daniel smiled, and nodded again, which made Parker warm to him. He felt sorry for what the Weavers were going through, and all that must inevitably follow.

  “So what kind of pizza do you want?”

  Daniel opened his mouth, but shut it again before a sound could emerge. Instead, he raised his hands in a “Dunno” gesture.

  “Well,” said Parker, “maybe we’ll just get a few different kinds delivered from Pizza Villa across the street. God forbid you might have to break your vow of silence.”

  * * *

  CASTIN HAD GIVEN PARKER much of the story while he was driving down from Augusta, but he wanted to hear it again from Holly Weaver. The staff at the Inn allowed him the use of a second room, and in it he and Holly Weaver now sat, a table between them, the empty bed a curiously unwelcome distraction in a space occupied by two strangers.

  “Tell me,” said Parker.

  And she did.

  CHAPTER

  CX

  If it were a folk tale, a story to be shared with a child before bedtime, a boy like Daniel Weaver, this is how it might have begun:

  Once upon a time there was a young girl who was spirited away by an ogre. The girl did not know he was an ogre at first, because the ogre was very clever. He disguised himself as a wiser, older man, and treated the girl kindly, more kindly than anyone had ever treated her before.

  But as time went on, the spell concealing the ogre’s true form began to weaken, and the girl perceived him as he truly was, in all his cruelty and wickedness.

  “Kiss me,” the ogre would say to the girl. “Kiss me, so that I may know you love me.”

  And if the girl refused to kiss him, the ogre would tie her down and make her kiss him, and his kisses were so hard that she would bleed for days after.

  The ogre had no love for anything but books. They filled every room in his house, the house that the girl could never leave unless the ogre was with her, and in the gardens of which she was not even permitted to wander without his shadow beside her. The ogre collected books of spells, and rites of dark magic, but one volume in particular obsessed him: a collection of fairy tales, beautifully illustrated, into which two additional leaves had been sewn, fragments of a greater work: the Atlas.

  The book of fairy tales was believed to have been lost, but the ogre continued to search for it because he knew that nothing is ever really lost until it has been destroyed, and the fragments, like the Atlas of which they were a part, could never be destroyed. It was beyond the capacity of men to remove them from this world, because the Atlas was not the creation of any man.

  But the ogre did not desire the fragments for his own collection, and had no intention of keeping them if they were found. There were others who shared his nature—his, and worse. Whoever secured the fragments would gain great credit, and might even evade punishment for all the wickedness of a life long lived. The ogre hoped that this might be true, for he had lived a life of considerable devilry indeed.

  And after many years of searching, after decades of promises and lies, of threats and bribes, the book came to him, and he rejoiced. But the girl overheard him, and learned the reason for his exultation, and saw in it the opportunity to revenge herself for all the kisses, and all the blood.

  So she stole the book from him, and ran away with it.

  But she did not steal only a book from the ogre: she also stole a child, because she was carrying the ogre’s baby, an infant she could not let him possess because she knew he would consume it. Yet neither would she let him have the book. It was all that could save the ogre, and she wanted him to be punished for his crimes. Without the fragments, the Atlas would never be complete, and the ogre would be damned.

  The girl attempted to remove the fragments, but they held stubbornly to the book’s spine. Touching them made her sick, and the longer she touched them, the sicker she became. She began to fear for her unborn child, in case some infection might find its way from the book to her womb.

  The girl tried to burn the book, but it would not take fire.

  And the girl tried to drown the book, but it would not sink.

  And the girl tried to bury the book, but the earth would not yield to it.

  By day the girl traveled. By night, she examined the book, and the more she saw of it, the more frightened she became. She understood that if the ogre captured her—as it seemed he surely must, for the baby was heavy inside her, and she was so very tired—he would take both the book and the child, and his triumph would be complete. So the girl found someone to accept the book and guard it, while another, similar volume was substituted, and she moved on with her unborn child. Once the baby was born, and was safe, she would try to find those who might know how to get rid of the original forever.

  The girl moved north, ever north. She was given the name of a woman who could help her, and stayed with her for a while, but soon the girl became afraid. What if the ogre had followed her trail? What if he knew of this woman, and those like her? So the girl booked passage that she did not intend to use, leaving false trails so that she might safely follow another path.

  A man agreed to transport her across the border in return for most of the little money she had left, and she sat alongside him on his journey through the dark. But there was something of the brute in this man too, and he reached for the girl as they passed through a great wood, reached for her with the claws of a wolf.

  “Kiss me,” he said. “Kiss me, so that I may know you love me.”

  But the girl would not kiss him. She fled from the man with claws for fingers, and found herself lost in the woods. Her belly was hurting, so she lay down on the forest floor. The baby was coming, but something was wrong. The pain was too great, and the blood—

  Oh, the blood.

  She saw the lights of a house through the trees, but could not reach it. She tried to call out, but the wind howled her down. And just as she thought she must surely die out there in the cold, and the baby with her, a man came walking, his daughter by his side. The daughter had a little medical knowledge, and together she and her father brought the baby—a boy—into this life. They saved him, but they could not save his mother.

  Before she died, the girl made them promise to tell no one of her or the baby, for the child was at great risk from his father. They should raise the boy as their own, and hold in trust only some small possessions that once belonged to his mother—a Star of David on a chain, a book of stories—until the time came for him to learn the truth.

  Then she kissed her son, and closed her eyes, and the best of her departed. She was buried in another region of the forest, far from the hous
e of the man and his daughter, and the daughter raised the boy as her own, because she had long wished for a child but had despaired of ever receiving such a boon.

  And she named the boy Daniel.

  It was dark by the time Holly Weaver finished recounting her involvement in the tale, to which Parker added what he had learned from Leila Patton, with conjecture to fill in the blanks, although he did not share all of this with Weaver, and the full truth of the story would not be known until much later. He lit the lamp on the bedside table, and wondered anew at the strangeness of the world.

  “How much have you told Daniel?” Parker asked her.

  “Nothing—yet.”

  “Do you think he’s guessed something of the truth?”

  Holly nodded. “But I’m afraid to talk to him about it,” she said. “I’m scared he’ll hate me.”

  Whatever came next, Parker knew, it would be difficult for all of them. Who could say how the boy would respond to the revelation of his birth, and the lies that had been told to protect him?

  “You have hard times ahead,” he said. “The only consolations I can offer are these: Karis Lamb may have given birth to Daniel, but you’re his mother, the only one he’s known, and the only one he’ll ever know; he’s very young, and the young are resilient; and Moxie Castin is the best lawyer in town, and a good man. He may pretend otherwise, and do a fine job of it, but it’s the truth. A promise made to a dying woman doesn’t absolve you of any crime committed as a consequence, and the law frowns on secret graves. Moxie’s on your side, and he’ll do his best to convince the police that you did the wrong thing for the right reasons. But people have died because you hid Daniel, and some of those deaths could have been prevented if you’d come forward sooner, when Karis’s body was first found. I can understand why you chose not to, but it doesn’t change that fact.”

  “I can’t lose Daniel,” she said.

  “We’ll see what we can do to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  He stood, and Holly Weaver stood with him.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “You’re going to stay here for tonight, and Louis will remain with you. You’ll be safe with him. I may take over the watch later, just to give him a break, but you’d be surprised how little rest he needs. Meanwhile, Moxie will consider how best to open discussions with the police. You should probably speak to Daniel tonight, because the Department of Health and Human Services will become involved almost immediately. It’s possible, even likely, that your son may be placed in foster care for a time.”

  Parker used the word “son” deliberately. He knew that Moxie would too, throughout what was about to unfold. Ultimately Moxie’s task would be to convince a judge that no one’s best interests would be served by separating Daniel Weaver from this woman and her father, or by putting anyone behind bars. Parker knew that Moxie was already lining up a child psychologist and a specialist in family law to assist with the case.

  All because of a Star of David carved on a tree.

  “And my father?” said Holly.

  “I’ll check in with Julia Hancock, but my instinct would be to tell the police as soon as possible that we have you and your son in a safe place. We’ll advise them that you’ll consent to an interview tomorrow in which you’ll share with them all you know about Karis Lamb, but we have some concerns for the safety of your father, and would like their immediate help in tracing him.”

  “He’s in trouble,” said Holly. “I know it.”

  “He may be,” Parker conceded.

  “He’s the most reliable man I know. He calls if he’s going to be late coming home from the store.”

  “If someone has taken him, then it’s not in their interests to hurt him. They’ll want to use him as leverage.”

  “To get to Daniel?”

  Parker saw no sign of deception or artifice in her.

  “I don’t think they ever wanted Daniel,” he said. “They’re looking for a book stolen by Karis.”

  He watched the cogs turn in her mind.

  “A book was taken from my son’s room last night. It belonged to Karis.”

  “It’s not the one they want,” said Parker. “It may have resembled it, but that’s all.”

  “So where is the version they’re looking for?”

  “Somewhere else,” said Parker neutrally. “But if they have your father, it’s important that they continue to believe you might know the whereabouts of the original.”

  “Who will they contact?”

  “Possibly you, but more likely Moxie or me. By now your father will have told them what he knows, or they’ll have figured it out for themselves. They’ll know you’re protected.”

  Holly Weaver held her head in her hands for a long time. Parker had rarely seen a human being look more miserable.

  “Can I ask a question?” she said at last.

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you helping us?”

  “Moxie’s doing it as a service for the dead.”

  “And you?”

  “Moxie’s paying me.”

  “That’s not an answer. I’ve read about you. You don’t work just because someone pays you.”

  “Then call it a service for the living,” said Parker. “I’ll leave the dead to others.”

  * * *

  IN THE WOODS BEHIND the Weaver home, a gray figure paced back and forth, back and forth, like an animal driven mad by captivity.

  Observed from the shadows by the ghost of a child.

  CHAPTER

  CXI

  Parker left the Inn through a rear security door leading directly to the parking lot. Thin rain, barely more than a mist, was falling on the city, blurring the streetlights and coating the cars with a patina of moisture.

  Parker’s thoughts turned to Bobby Ocean, who would soon be burying his only child, all because he had bequeathed his prejudices to his son, whose death would serve only to intensify the malice of his progenitor. As for Louis, Parker doubted that Billy’s passing would cause him a great deal of distress. Louis’s conscience was a nebulous entity, and dwelt largely in slumber. Louis would regard Billy’s murder as the inevitable consequence of the man’s decision to advertise his ignorance, and to target the weak as an outlet for his own inadequacies. Billy, in Louis’s view, should have realized his actions might eventually draw the attention of someone whose tolerance for such incitements was inversely proportional to his capacity for retribution. Violence called to violence, and intemperate words were the kindling of savagery.

  And where did that leave Parker? He recognized his own willingness to use the rigor of his moral judgments as justification for his rage. The pain of his grief had dulled, but was always present. He could spare others from similar suffering by acting on their behalf, or achieve a measure of justice for them if the harm had already been done, but he knew one of his reasons for doing so was that it allowed him to feed his own rage without even pricking his conscience in the process.

  He wiped the rain from his face as the darkness of the lot conjured up a specter. The Englishman no longer resembled the individual Parker had described to the state police in Augusta. His hair was grayer, his spectacles were new, and the eyes behind them, visible as he drew closer, were brown once more. The stubble on his face was already growing into a beard, and he walked with the slightest of limps to his left foot. Each was a small change in and of itself, but together they virtually guaranteed that no connection would be made between him and the man sought by the police.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” he said. “I think the time has come for us to talk again.”

  * * *

  BOB JOHNSTON WAS PROGRESSING from plate to plate through the book of fairy tales, scrutinizing each illustration in turn beneath the lighted magnifier, his confusion growing.

  The flaws in the plates were no longer visible. They were all as Rackham had originally intended.

  The unworldly figures were entirely gone.

  * * *

  SALV
AGE BBQ WAS QUIET as Parker entered, the Englishman close behind. It felt odd to Parker to be visiting a family-friendly restaurant, with its mostly communal tables, its gaming machines and rolls of paper napkins, in the company of one such as this.

  The Englishman had warned Parker to keep his hands away from his weapon and his phone.

  “You’re being watched,” he said. “The old man’s life may depend on how well you behave.”

  Parker had been unable to detect any trace of the woman, but he chose not to doubt the Englishman’s word on this occasion.

  Salvage operated bar service only, so Parker ordered a soda for himself and a gin for the Englishman. They took a smaller table, and sat so that neither had his back to the door, and each could see at a glance anyone entering. Up close, and away from the darker interior of the Great Lost Bear, the Englishman appeared older. His face was etched with tiny wrinkles, like the skin of some ancient animal, and the tissue surrounding his lensed pupils was closer to yellow than white. He had a sense of weariness about him, as of one who desires only to sleep.

  “You look sick,” said Parker.

  “I’m touched by your solicitude.”

  “It was just an observation. I don’t think you’re going to live very long, although that’s unrelated to the current state of your health.”

  The Englishman leaned forward slightly, as though to offer a confidence.

  “Whoever or whatever brings my life to an end,” he said, “it won’t be you or your pet darkie.”

  “I’ll let him know you said that. It’ll be a test of his sense of humor.” Parker sipped his soda. “What do I call you? And don’t say ‘Smith.’ ”

  “My name is Quayle, but if you try looking for me when all this is over, I guarantee you won’t find me. And you’re almost correct in your estimation: I have no intention of living much longer.”

  “What do you want before you die, Quayle? The boy?”

  “I think you know better than that. I heard your name mentioned on the news bulletins. What did you bring back from Indiana?”