The Wolf in Winter

  Although it could do worse.

  He felt the end of things approaching, had felt it ever since the shooting of the girl. The arrival of the detective had merely compounded what Morland already knew. Even with the coming of spring there would be no rebirth, not for Prosperous. Perhaps that might even be for the best.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, and thought of wolves.

  *

  The wolf smelled the meat. The wind carried it to him. He had been resting in the shelter of a fallen tree, sleeping ftfully and feverishly through his pain, when the scent of blood came. The wolf had only nibbled at the dead deer he had been permitted to take. The meat had tasted wrong, infected by the manner of the deer's dying.

  The wolf rose slowly. He was always stiff when he frst stood, even if he had been lying down for only a short time, but the promise of fresh meat was enough to spur him on.

  With the moon full in the sky, and blood in the air, he limped south.

  35

  It was Thomas Souleby who summoned Morland and

  Warraner back inside. By then Morland had fnished one cigarette and started another. The curtains at the living room window moved, and he glimpsed a face peering out at him. It might have been Hayley Conyer, but he couldn't be sure. He stamped out the remains of the second cigarette on the gravel, and considered leaving it there for the old bitch to fnd in the morning, but thought better of it. There was no percentage in pettiness, even if it did offer a passing sense of satisfaction.

  Souleby sniffed at him as he reentered the house.

  'She'll smell it on you,' said Souleby. 'It's one thing smoking a sly one, another bringing the evidence into her home.'

  Morland didn't look at him. He didn't want Souleby to see his desperation, his grim sense that it was important, above all things, to let the detective be. The more he had paced and smoked, the more he dreaded what was to come.

  'She'll smell worse on me once all this is over,' said Morland. 'This whole town is going to stink of blood.'

  And Souleby did not try to deny it.

  Morland knew what they had decided as soon as he entered the dining room. He supposed he had known even before he left them to their deliberations, but the vindictively triumphant expression on the portion of Kinley Nowell's face not obscured by his mask removed any lingering doubt.

  Now that her victory was assured, Hayley Conyer was

  content to soften her attitude toward her chief of police – because that, of course, was how she thought of him: 'her' chief of police, 'her' board, 'her' town. She waited for him to take his seat, and smiled in the manner of a prospective employer preparing to break bad news to an unsuccessful job candidate.

  'We've decided to deal with the detective,' she said.

  'There will be repercussions,' said Morland.

  'We have taken that possibility into account. The fnger of blame will point . . . elsewhere.'

  Morland noticed that Conyer now had a sheet of paper in front of her. While he watched, she took a pen from the pocket of her cardigan and drew a symbol on the page. Wordlessly, she passed it to him.

  Morland didn't touch the sheet. He didn't have to, for he could see what she had drawn clearly enough, but neither did he want to touch it. Conyer had drawn a trident. It was the symbol of the Believers. An already diffcult and dangerous situation was about to become potentially disastrous.

  'They will know that it was us,' said Morland.

  'He's right,' said Souleby. He looked genuinely frightened. Clearly this element of Conyer's plan had not been discussed. 'It goes beyond the bounds of common sense.'

  'They won't know if we are careful,' said Conyer. 'And we are always careful.'

  That was a lie, but Morland did not call her on it. If they had been truly careful, then the detective would never have set foot in their town.

  Nowell pulled off his mask.

  'And what matter if it becomes known that it was us?' he rasped. 'The Believers were not many to begin with, and the detective has taken care of the rest.'

  'We don't know that for sure,' said Morland. 'There may be others. They hide. It's in their nature. And then there is the matter of the Backers. They have always maintained links with the Believers. There may even be Believers among them. They could have acted against the detective, but they chose not to. Making the decision to remove him for them may not be appreciated.'

  'No blame will accrue to us,' Conyer insisted.

  'You can't be certain,' said Morland.

  He felt a migraine coming on. He rubbed at his temples, as though that might somehow ward off the pain and nausea. He was weary. He should have just kept his mouth shut, because this was a pointless discussion. The battle was lost, and soon the war would be as well.

  'You're right: I can't be certain,' said Conyer.

  Morland glanced up in surprise.

  'But they can,' she concluded.

  Morland heard movement behind him, and two shadows fell across the table.

  It had all been a farce: the meeting, the arguments, the fnal private discussion. The decision had been made long before. These two would not have been present otherwise. They did not travel unless killing was imminent.

  'You don't have to worry about the detective any longer, Chief Morland,' said Conyer. 'Our friends will take care of him for us. For now, though, the Dixons remain your responsibility. I want them watched. If they try to run, I want them stopped.

  'And if they get beyond the town limits,' she added, 'I want them killed.'

  They drifted from the meeting. Nobody spoke. Morland went outside to smoke another cigarette, and watched them go. He didn't care what Hayley Conyer thought of his nicotine add iction. It was the least of his worries. Anyway, his days as chief of police were now defnitely numbered. She had emasculated him back in the living room, just as assuredly as if she had used on him the blade with which she had threatened Bryan Joblin. It was then appropriate somehow that it was only Luke Joblin who lingered after most of the others had departed, Souleby leaving alone, Ayton taking responsibility for the fading vileness of Kinley Nowell.

  Morland offered Joblin a smoke, and he accepted.

  'I knew you hadn't really given up.'

  Joblin had spent the last couple of months trumpeting the fact that he'd kicked cigarettes, although he boasted loudest when his wife was near.

  'Barbara thinks that I have,' said Joblin. 'I don't know which is costing me more, the cigarettes or the breath mints.'

  Together they watched the rear light of the last car disappear as the vehicle turned on to the road and headed toward town.

  'Something on your mind, Luke?' said Morland.

  'I'm worried,' said Joblin.

  'About Bryan?'

  'Jesus, no. You're right: he's not bright, but he can take care of himself. If you need help with the Dixons, you can rely on him. He's a stand-up young man.'

  Bryan Joblin wasn't a stand-up anything. He was borderline psychotic, with a deep wellspring of viciousness and sexual deviancy from which to draw, but Morland kept that opinion to himself. He had few friends on the board, and he didn't need to alienate Luke Joblin too.

  Joblin took a long drag on the cigarette. 'No, it's the Backers. I don't understand why we didn't approach them. We don't want to cross them. They could crush us. We should have spoken to them before we acted, but Hayley shot down that idea as soon as it was raised. Why?'

  'Because we worship different gods,' said Hayley Conyer from behind them.

  Morland hadn't even heard her approach. One second they were alone, and the next she had materialized at their backs.

  'I'm sorry,' said Joblin, although it wasn't clear if he was

  apologising for his criticism of the decision, or the fact that he'd been caught smoking in Conyer's yard, or both. He looked for somewhere to put out the cigarette. He didn't want to drop it. Finally he settled for lifting the sole of his left shoe and stubbing the butt out on the leather. It left a scorch mark. He would have to h
ide the shoe until he found time to get new soles made. His wife would wonder what a reformed smoker was doing stubbing out cigarettes on $300 shoes. Morland took the butt from him and put it in his now empty pack.

  'Don't be,' said Conyer. 'It is at the root of all that we do here, all that we're trying to protect. We are not like the Backers, and their god is not like our god. Theirs is a wicked god, an angry god.'

  'And ours?' said Morland.

  He saw Warraner standing on the porch steps, watching them. Behind him, two fgures waited in the hallway.

  Hayley Conyer laid a gentle hand on Morland's forearm. It was a peculiarly intimate gesture, equal parts consolation, reassurance and, he recognized, regretful dismissal.

  'Ours,' she said, 'is merely hungry.'

  The wolf had found the meat: a slab of bloody vension haunch. He circled it, still wary despite his need, but at last he could no longer resist.

  He took two steps forward, and the trap snapped shut upon his paw.

  36

  Founded in 1794, and located on the shores of Casco Bay

  where the Androscoggin River fowed into the sea, Bowdoin College was routinely ranked among the top colleges in America. Its list of alumni included Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne, the explorer Robert Peary, and the sexologist Alfred Kinsey. Unfortunately, it did not appear to include Prosperous's own Pastor Warraner. An early morning call to the Offce of Alumni Relations produced no record of a Michael Warraner among its former students, and a similar inquiry left at Bangor Theological Seminary also drew a blank.

  While I was still sucking on a pencil and trying to fgure out why Warraner would bother to lie about something that could so easily be checked, I received a follow-up call from a secretary at Bowdoin. Apparently one of their associate professors was interested in meeting with me. He was free that afternoon, in fact, if I could fnd the time to 'pop up' to the college.

  'Did he really say that?' I said.

  'Say what?' said the secretary.

  '"Pop up"?'

  'That's how he speaks. He's from England.'

  'Ah.'

  'Yes. Ah.'

  'Please tell him that I'd be delighted to pop up.'

  Somewhere in Bowdoin's Faculty of Religion, the name 'Warraner' had set a small alarm bell ringing.

  *

  Professor Ian Williamson looked exactly how I always believed most academics should look, but rarely did: slightly disheveled – but not so much as to raise too many concerns about his mental well-being – and fond of waistcoats and varieties of tweed, although in his case the potential fustiness of the cloth was offset by his choice of Converse sneakers as footwear. He was youthful, bearded, and cheerfully distracted, as though at any moment he might catch sight of an interesting cloud and run after it in order to lasso it with a piece of string.

  As it turned out, Williamson was a decade older than I was, so clearly the academic life agreed with him. He'd been at Bowdoin for more than twenty years although he still spoke like a weekend visitor to Downton Abbey. Frankly, if Professor Williamson's accent couldn't get him laid in Maine, then nothing could. He specialized in Religious Tolerance and Comparative Mystical Traditions, and his offce in the lovely old faculty building was flled equally with books and assorted religious bric-a-brac, so that it was somewhere between a library and a market stall.

  He offered me coffee from his own personal Nespresso machine, put his feet up on a pile of books and asked me why I was interested in Michael Warraner.

  'I could ask you the same thing,' I said, 'given that he doesn't appear to be one of your alumni.'

  'Ah, fencing,' said Williamson. 'Right. I see. Excellent.'

  'What?' I said, not seeing.

  'Fencing.' He made a parrying gesture with an imaginary foil, and accompanied it with a swishing noise, just to make certain that I got the picture. Which I didn't.

  'Sorry, are you challenging me to a duel?'

  'What? No. I meant verbal fencing – the old thrust and parry. Philip Marlowe and all that. I say, you say. You know, that kind of thing.'

  He stared animatedly at me. I stared less animatedly back.

  'Or perhaps not,' said Williamson, and a little of his

  enthusiasm seemed to leach away. I felt as though I'd kicked a puppy.

  'Let's say that I'm curious about Prosperous,' I said. 'And I'm curious about Pastor Warraner. He seems like a strange man in an odd town.'

  Williamson sipped his Nespresso. Behind him on his otherwise empty desk I noticed a trio of books with their spines facing toward me. All related to the Green Man. It couldn't have been a coincidence that they were displayed so prominently.

  'Michael Warraner entered Bowdoin as a liberal arts student when he was in his mid-twenties,' said Williamson. 'From the start, it was clear that his focus was on religious studies. It's a demanding regimen, and tends only to attract students with a real passion for the subject. A major consists of nine courses, a minor fve, with two required: Introduction to the Study of Religion, or Rel. 101, and Theories about Religion. The rest are comprised of various options from Asian Religions, Islam and Post-Biblical Judaism, Christianity and Gender, and Bible and Comparative Studies. Clear enough?'

  'Absolutely.'

  Williamson shifted in his chair.

  'Warraner was not the most able of students,' he said. 'In fact, his admission hung in the balance for some time, but he had infuential supporters.'

  'From Prosperous?'

  'And elsewhere. It was clear that efforts were being made on his behalf. On the other hand, we were aware that space existed in courses for dedicated students, and . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'There was a certain amount of curiosity among faculty members, myself included, about Prosperous. As you're no doubt aware, it is a town founded by a secretive religious sect, the history and ultimate fate of which remain nebulous to this day. By admitting Warraner, it seemed that we might be in a position to learn more about the town and its history.'

  'And how did that work out?'

  'We got what you might refer to as "the party line". Warraner gave us a certain amount of information, and we were also permitted to study the church and its environs, but we really found out very little about Prosperous and the Family of Love that we didn't already know. Furthermore, Warraner's academic limitations were exposed at a very early stage. He struggled to scrape up credits and D-minus grades. Eventually, we were forced to let him go.

  'Pastor Warraner, as he subsequently began to style himself, was later readmitted to this college as a "special student". Special students are people from the local community who, for whatever reason, desire to resume their education on a part-time basis. While they're assessed on their academic record, non-academic achievements are also considered. They pay course fees, and no fnancial aid is available to them. Their work is graded, and they receive a college transcript, but they are non-degree candidates, and therefore cannot graduate. Pastor Warraner took ten such courses over a period of about fve years, some more successfully and enthusiastically than others. He was surprisingly open to issues of Christianity and gender, less so to Asian religions, Islam, and Judaism. Overall, my impression was that Warraner desired the imprimatur of a college education. He wanted to say that he had been to college, and that was all. You say that he also claims to have a Masters from Bangor?'

  I tried to remember Warraner's precise words. 'I believe he told me that he'd majored in religion at Bowdoin, and studied as a Master of Divinity at Bangor Theological Seminary.'

  'I suppose, if one were being generous-spirited enough, those statements might offer a certain latitude of interpretation, the latter more than the former. If you asked around, I bet you'd fnd that he approached Bangor at some point and was rebuffed, or tried to sit in unoffcially on seminars. It would ft with that desire for affrmation and recognition.'

  'Any other impression that he may have left upon you?'

  'He was a fanatic.'

  'Doesn't it co
me with the territory?'

  'Sometimes. Warraner, though, could rarely string together more than a couple of sentences without referring to "his" god.'

  'And what kind of god does he worship? I've met him, and I've seen his church, and I'm still not sure just what kind of pastor he is.'

  'Superfcially, Warraner is a variety of austere Protestant. There's a bit of the Baptist in him, a sprinkling of Methodism, but also a healthy dose of Pantheism. None of it is particularly deep, though. His religion, for want of a better explanation, is his church, the bricks and mortar of it. He worships a building, or what that building represents for him. You say that you've seen it?'