“Your Ivan Giller was with the Englishman at the Bear,” said Parker. “I tried to follow him from the bar, but . . . I lost him.”
“If the Englishman you saw is the same one that passed through Cadillac,” said Corriveau, “we now have a connection between Karis Lamb and Mullis, Wade, Lombardi, Giller, and maybe Connie White, too. All this for a missing child?”
Parker was almost tempted to tell Corriveau about the book, but the moment passed. The longer he kept it hidden, the more trouble he’d be in when—or if—he was finally forced to reveal the fact of its existence. He could not have said why he was keeping the truth about the book from Corriveau, beyond its potential usefulness as bait. It made sense to share it with her, and yet every instinct told him to hold back on mentioning it. Instead he said:
“People have been killed for poorer reasons than a child.”
“Doesn’t make it any less disturbing.”
Parker could only agree. He said goodbye, and felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as he left the building. Moxie Castin’s name appeared on the display.
“Where are you?” Moxie asked.
“About to leave Augusta.”
“You need to get down here right away. I think I have Karis Lamb’s son in my office.”
Parker paused in the parking lot.
“What?”
“Just start driving.”
“Call Louis.”
“He’s already sitting in the lobby.”
“I’m on my way.”
* * *
BOB JOHNSTON HAD WORKED into the small hours on the book, and went to bed only after he successfully managed to separate the vellum inserts from the main body, with the cover set aside. He had not slept well, though. The figures added to the Rackham plates intruded on his dreams, and twice he was woken by sounds from inside the house, including a persistent tapping that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the staircase to the third floor, as though an animal were trapped in its regions. Finally, sometime after seven a.m., he resigned himself to the impossibility of further rest, and performed his ablutions before trying and failing to consume breakfast. It wasn’t that his appetite had deserted him—breakfast was never his favorite meal of the day—but his food tasted odd, spoiled by what he could only describe as a dustiness that rendered even his beloved Kona coffee undrinkable.
Usually such a state of affairs would have sent Johnston straight back to bed, but the book was calling to him. He might have succeeded in detaching the vellum pages from the whole, but he was unable to determine the original animal source of the material, or make any educated estimate of its age. He suspected it was goat parchment, because the grain side of the sheets, from which the hair had been scraped, was brownish gray, and not the yellower color of vellum derived from sheep, but it smelled different from goat, even after all this time, and the texture did not feel quite right to him. The grain had the smoothness of velvet, suggesting that the outer layer had been carefully pared back, and the curling of the parchment was minimal, a further indication of the quality of the material. The magnifier revealed traces of follicles, but they were larger than goat hairs.
Johnston remained baffled by the effort required to insert these seemingly blank pages into another volume. Invisible ink appeared to be the likeliest explanation, but the gentle application of heat using an incandescent lightbulb produced no result, and neither did the careful use of a non-steam iron. Oddly, the vellum did react to human contact, as though some transfer of warmth occurred, resulting in a network of tiny veins being revealed under the desk magnifier. When he placed his hand flat upon one of the pages, Johnston imagined he could almost feel it pulsing.
His fingertips began to itch, leading him to wonder if the vellum might not have been impregnated with an irritant. Belatedly, he returned to wearing gloves before touching the pages, and noted with satisfaction the disappearance of the veins. Yet for a moment, just before they vanished, he thought he detected a pattern to them, and could have sworn he was looking at the outline of his own room.
So fascinated was Johnston by the vellum additions that he had barely glanced at the cover of the book itself. Only now, while sitting back in his chair, was he struck by the thickness of the spine. At first he had taken the addition of a layer of cloth sewn to the inner part as an effort to accommodate the vellum blanks and provide greater structural support. But as he ran a thumb over the cloth, he thought he detected something else beneath.
Johnston moved the magnifier into place, arranged his tools before him, and slowly began to unpick the threads.
* * *
PARKER WAS PULLING OUT of his parking space when Corriveau appeared in the lot. She waved at him to stop, but he just slowed and rolled down his window to hear what she had to say.
“I have to go,” he called out.
“I need you to come back inside,” Corriveau replied, and Parker didn’t like her tone.
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you once we’re both sitting down at a table again. In the meantime, I have to ask you for your firearm, and the keys to your vehicle. I’d also like you to hand over your phone.”
Two big state troopers emerged from the lobby behind her. Each had a hand on his weapon, although the guns remained holstered—for now. Parker looked to his right and saw a state police cruiser pull up to the gate, blocking his exit. In his rearview mirror, he caught three more troopers advancing.
“Am I being placed under arrest?”
“No.”
Parker knew his rights. If he was not under arrest, then he had no obligation to cooperate, or even to wait. The fact that he was not under arrest meant the MSP lacked probable cause, but he was clearly suspected of something, and under exigent circumstances the police could seize his car, which was why Corriveau was asking for the keys, and his weapon. The phone was a stretch, but not much of one. Meanwhile, as he considered his options—which included handing over everything, as requested, before calling a cab to take him back to Portland—he could see Corriveau examining his clothing and the interior of the Audi with fresh eyes. If he left, he would only be postponing the inevitable, and perhaps sowing the seeds for worse to come.
Parker killed the engine, and gave Corriveau the keys.
“I’m reaching for my gun,” he said. “Don’t let anyone shoot me.”
He handed her the weapon, and added his phone. He knew the procedure, knew it as he stepped from the car and headed back to the MSP building, a phalanx of uniforms as an escort. If he wasn’t yet under arrest, he soon might be.
What he didn’t know was why.
* * *
BOB JOHNSTON HAD TO peel away only an inch of the spine’s lining before his suspicions were confirmed. He continued working at the material with a thread nipper and a micro spatula, his pace never varying, his concentration never faltering, as he delicately separated the cloth from the boards, slowly exposing a single folded sheet of vellum.
CHAPTER
CVIII
Parker sat in an interrogation room, stewing quietly. He had been given water, but told nothing other than that they were awaiting the arrival of detectives from Auburn who were investigating a possible homicide. He asked to be allowed to call a lawyer, but was informed—by Corriveau herself, no less, although her manner toward him had now cooled considerably—that he had not yet been charged with a crime, and so a lawyer was hardly necessary. Parker told Corriveau to save that routine for the rubes, and give him his call. He was brought to a phone, from which he contacted Moxie Castin.
“You almost here?” said Moxie.
“The state police are holding me, or as good as. They’re waiting for Auburn CID to arrive.”
“What are you supposed to have done?”
“Someone got killed in Auburn. Ask around. Find out what’s happening.”
“Okay, but I’ve got a woman and a kid here who are starting to get shaky. Her father was supposed to have joined her by now, but she can’t get hold of him
on the phone.”
Parker thought for a moment.
“Move her and the boy. Have Louis take them to a hotel. Tell her it’s for their own safety. It’s not a lie, and it’ll make her less likely to cut and run.”
“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I’ll call Phil Kane and have him head over to you.” Unlike a lot of the bigger law firms in the state, Moxie didn’t operate offices outside Portland, but instead maintained informal arrangements with a handful of trusted independent attorneys. Philip Kane was a former Kennebec County prosecutor who had jumped ship to criminal defense back in 2006, and made his name defending drug traffickers. Behind his back, he was known as Co-Kane. He was good at what he did, although hiring him was generally regarded as an instant admission of guilt.
Parker thanked Moxie, and was escorted back to the interrogation room. Fifteen minutes went by before Kane arrived and immediately asked for a moment alone with his client. Once the door was closed, he sat close to Parker and began whispering so softly that Parker had trouble hearing him. Kane, Parker thought, had trust issues when it came to the police.
“Billy Ocean’s body turned up in an empty apartment building in Auburn,” said Kane. “He was probably killed late last night or early this morning. Single gunshot to the head. Moxie filled me in on this business with his vehicle, and your car. Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“No, I was with the guy who blew up Billy Ocean’s truck.”
“Be serious.”
“I am being serious.”
“Then that,” said Kane, “may not be the best of alibis.”
* * *
BOB JOHNSTON PLACED A clean piece of cotton on the surface of his workbench, and opened upon it the fragment of vellum retrieved from the spine of the book. He was surprised at how easily it unfolded. Manuscripts benefit from moderate handling; without it, they grow less supple, but this one remained flexible and in a state of near-perfect preservation. It looked so fresh that Johnston wondered if it was actually of the same age, or even the same vellum. As an experiment, he used a blade to remove from the bottom edge a fragment of about an inch in length, but still barely a sliver in width. He placed the piece in a metal bowl, took it to the sink, and applied a flame. The material began to shrivel and burn, the heat eventually reducing it to a black worm at the bottom of the bowl, but failing to destroy it entirely.
So it burned like vellum. That, at least, was something.
Johnston was about to throw away the column of dark ash when a thin rim of white appeared at one end. He stared at it for a time, not entirely sure of what he was witnessing. A minute went by, then two. Johnston took the bowl back to his desk, sat in his chair, and waited.
It took exactly one hour. He timed it.
One hour for the fragment of burned vellum to reconstitute itself.
* * *
THE DOOR TO THE interrogation room opened. Gordon Walsh appeared, Sharon Macy behind him. Both gave Parker the hard eye.
“You,” said Walsh, “are a lucky son of a bitch.”
* * *
ACCORDING TO THE DISPATCHER, the original tip-off had come from a woman. The anonymous caller claimed to have heard what she believed to be a gunshot from the vicinity of a property in Auburn the previous night, and to have seen a vehicle driving away at speed shortly after. She said she hadn’t called the police at the time because she didn’t want to cause a fuss over what could have been a car backfiring. On reflection, she decided it was better to be safe than sorry. She declined to give her name, and used a pay phone to make the call. She had noted the license plate number of the car, she added, and thought it might have been a man behind the wheel. When the plate was checked, it was found to be one of three vehicles registered to Charlie Parker, a licensed private investigator living in Scarborough, Maine.
The Auburn PD sent out a patrol car to investigate, and the officer responding glimpsed, through the filthy glass at the rear of the property, a body lying in the hallway. He called for backup before entering, and confirmed that the victim was deceased. A driver’s license identified him as William Stonehurst. Only when backup arrived did officers commence a full search of the building, although one of them almost ended up in the basement when a stair gave way under his weight. They found evidence of recent habitation in the top-floor apartment, including prescription and non-prescription medication, food, and used bandages, but all the units appeared to be empty.
While the investigators were flooding the rooms, a noise was detected from one of the bedroom closets. It sounded like weeping. The closet was opened, and a crawl space was discovered behind the boards. In it lay Heb Caldicott, almost delirious with pain from the suppurating wound to his side.
“She killed Billy,” said Caldicott. “The bitch killed Billy.”
* * *
PARKER WASN’T IN THE mood to play nice with Walsh, Macy, Corriveau, or anyone else representing the forces of law and order in the state of Maine. He’d traveled to Assbend, Indiana, returning with detailed descriptions of two individuals who qualified as chief suspects in five killings in Maine, and potentially two more in Indiana, and as a reward he’d been kept in an overheated, underfurnished room on suspicion of killing an unarmed man. Under other circumstances, Parker would have damned to hell anyone with a badge, but Corriveau in particular wanted to make amends, and he decided he might be glad of some favors to call in further down the line.
And so, with Philip Kane departed to seek out clients who might actually be guilty of something, Parker briefly consented to batting around ideas on who might be glad to see his existence made uncomfortable for an undefined period. Walsh made a crack about digging out the last census, but no one laughed, and Parker was mildly gratified to see Walsh look embarrassed.
“Odds on it was the Englishman’s partner who made the call,” said Parker.
“Because you’re looking for Karis Lamb’s child?” said Corriveau.
“Yes.”
“Which means they must think you’re close.”
“Yes again.”
“And are you close?” Macy asked.
“I’ll tell you once I get back to Portland.”
“How about you tell us now?” said Walsh, recovering some of his mojo, and in the process extirpating whatever modicum of goodwill Parker had succeeded in dredging from the bottom of his heart.
“How about you try doing your own police work?” Parker replied. “And if you ever call me a son of a bitch again, I’ll put you down.”
He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“We’re all done here.”
* * *
BOB JOHNSTON CALLED PARKER as he was passing the Freeport exit.
“I’d like you to come over, when you have a chance,” said Johnston.
“It could be a couple of hours.”
“I’m not going anywhere, and there’s something you should see.”
CHAPTER
CIX
Moxie Castin had installed Holly Weaver and her son in a room at the Inn at St. John, which stood at the western end of Congress Street, near the former site of the beautiful old Union Station, now a strip mall. Parker had stayed at the inn when he first returned to Maine, and he retained a great deal of affection for the last of the city’s railroad hotels. But Castin’s reasons for choosing it as a safe house were less to do with sentiment or aesthetics, and more closely related to issues of protection. The Inn didn’t have a restaurant or bar, so the only people with an excuse to be inside its walls were staff and guests, and the latter had to pass through the lobby to get to their rooms.
The suite selected for the Weavers was just off that lobby, with exposed brick, wood floors, and a flat-screen TV. Its window looked out on the parking lot at the back, with only a short drop to the ground if it needed to be used as an exit point. When Parker arrived, Daniel Weaver was sitting on the bed watching a movie, his mother beside him. Louis had taken up
a post near the window, giving him unimpeded sight of the door and the lot, and a clear shot at anyone approaching through either. He had also ensured that the location services on Holly Weaver’s iPhone were disabled before bringing her to the Inn, so her whereabouts couldn’t easily be traced through the device.
Parker introduced himself to Holly, and asked if she and her son were okay.
“I’m worried about my father,” she said. “He should have called by now.”
Parker looked at Louis, who shrugged.
“Moxie asked the local cops to swing by the house,” said Louis. “Found a big rig, and Mr. Weaver’s car, but no sign of him. The neighbors have a key, and Ms. Weaver here gave them permission to let the cops take a look around. Empty, and no indication of a struggle.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Parker asked Holly Weaver.
“He’s supposed to be here, with us,” she replied. “That was what we agreed. And how could he have gone anywhere without a vehicle?”
Daniel Weaver’s eyes moved between the TV and the adults in the room. He was a somber-looking child, with very dark hair that accentuated his pallor, and his aspect was so different from the woman with him that they might almost have been born of different species. Parker wondered how much the boy understood of the truth of his parentage, and guessed that Daniel probably suspected more than he actually knew. It never paid to underestimate children.
“I think we need to speak in private,” said Parker to the woman.
“Not until you tell me what’s being done to find my father.”