Текст книги "The Wolf in Winter"

Автор книги: John Connolly

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

34

Morland told the board what he knew of the detective. He spoke of his history, and the deaths of his wife and child so many years earlier. He told them of some of the cases in which the detective had been involved, the ones that had come to public notice, but he also informed them of the rumors that circulated about other investigations, secret investigations. It was a delicate line that Morland was walking: he wanted them to understand the threat that the detective posed, but he did not want them to feel concerned enough to act rashly. Morland was certain that Hayley already knew most of what he had to say. His performance was for the benefit of the rest of the board, and Warraner too.

‘You say that he has crossed paths with the Believers?’ said Souleby.

There was a rustle of disapproval from the others. The board of selectmen had been in existence in Maine for longer than the sect known as the Believers, and it regarded them with a mixture of unease and distaste. The Believers’ search for their brethren, for lost angels like themselves, was of no concern to the citizens of Prosperous. On the other hand, neither did the town wish to attract the attentions of others like the Believers, or those in whose shadows the Believers toiled. The Believers were only one element of a larger conspiracy, one that was slowly encroaching upon the state of Maine. The board wanted no part of it, although unofficial channels of communication with certain interested parties were kept open through Thomas Souleby, who retained membership of various clubs in Boston, and moved easily in such circles.

‘He has,’ said Morland. ‘All I’ve heard are whispers, but it’s safe to say that they regretted the encounters more than he did.’

Old Kinley Nowell spoke up. He had to remove the mask from his face to do so, and each word sounded like a desperate effort for him. Morland thought that he already looked like a corpse. His skin was pale and waxen, and he stank of mortality and the medicines that were being used to stave it off.

‘Why has the detective not been killed before now?’

‘Some have tried,’ said Morland. ‘And failed.’

‘I’m not talking of thugs and criminals,’ said Nowell. He put his mask to his face and drew two deep breaths before resuming. ‘I’m not even speaking of the Believers. There are others in the background, and they do not fail. They’ve been killing for as long as there were men to kill. Cain’s blood runs in their veins.’

The Backers: that was how Morland had heard them described. Men and women with great wealth and power, like the board of selectmen writ large. Souleby’s people.

‘If he is alive,’ said Souleby, as if on cue, ‘then it’s because they want him alive.’

‘But why?’ said Nowell. ‘He is clearly a threat to them, if not now then in the future. It makes no sense for them to let him live.’

Conyer looked to Warraner for the solution, not Souleby. It was, in her view, a theological issue.

‘Pastor, would you care to offer a possible answer to this conundrum?’

Warraner might have been arrogant and conniving, thought Morland, but he wasn’t a fool. He gave himself almost a full minute before he replied.

‘They’re afraid to kill what they don’t understand,’ he said, finally. ‘What do they want? They wish to find their buried god and release him, and they feel themselves to be closer to that end than they have ever been before. The detective may be an obstacle, or it may be that he has a part to play in that search. For now, they do not understand his nature, and they are afraid to move against him for fear that, by doing so, they may ultimately harm their cause. I have listened to what Chief Morland has to say, and I confess that I may have underestimated the detective.’

This surprised Morland. Warraner rarely admitted weakness, especially not in front of Hayley and the board. It caught Morland off guard, so that he was unprepared when the knife was unsheathed and used upon him.

‘That said,’ Warraner continued, ‘Chief Morland underestimated him as well, and should not have brought him to the church. The detective should have been kept far away from it, and from me. I was forced into a situation where I had to answer questions, and I dealt with them as best I could, under the circumstances.’

Liar, Morland wanted to say. I saw you preening. You fool: I will remember this.

‘Chief?’ said Hayley. ‘Is this true?’

She was amused. Morland could see it. She enjoyed watching her pets snap at each other. He felt her willing him to grow angry. The small humiliations that she had aimed at him earlier had not been enough to make him lose his temper. It might be that she already had someone else in mind to succeed him, but Morland did not believe she had thought so far ahead. She knew only that he was beginning to doubt her, and she wished to retain her position. If she had to sacrifice him to survive, then she would.

But Morland said only ‘I did what I thought was best,’ and watched with some small satisfaction as disappointment clouded the old woman’s face.

Souleby, ever the diplomat, chose that moment to intervene.

‘Throwing blame around is not going to help us,’ he said. ‘Chief Morland, the question is this: will the detective give up?’

‘No, but—’

Morland thought hard about how he was going to phrase his next words.

‘Go on,’ said Souleby.

‘He has no evidence, no clues. He has only his suspicions, and they are not enough.’

‘Then why did he return to the town a second time?’

‘Because he is taunting us. In the absence of evidence, he wants us to act. He wants us to move against him. By acting, we will confirm his suspicions, and then he will respond with violence. He is not just the bait, but the hook as well.’

‘Only if he lives,’ said Nowell, filled with malice as the end neared, as though he were intent on expending all his viciousness before he passed on.

‘He has friends,’ said Morland. ‘They would not allow any action against him to go unpunished.’

‘They can die too.’

‘I don’t think you understand—’

‘Don’t!’ cawed Nowell. He raised a withered finger, like an ancient crow clawing against the darkness. ‘I understand better than you think. You’re afraid. You’re a coward. You—’

The rest of his accusations were lost in a ft of gasps and coughs. It was left to Luke Joblin to secure the mask to Nowell’s face and leave it in place. For now the old man’s contributions to the meeting, however worthless they might be, were over. Why don’t you just die, Morland wished – die and free up a place for someone with an ounce of sense and reason left to him. Nowell eyed him over the mask, reading his thoughts.

‘You were saying?’ said Souleby.

Morland looked away from Nowell.

‘The detective has killed,’ he said. ‘He has victims who are known, and I guarantee you there are just as many who are unknown. A man who has acted in this way and is not behind bars, or has not been deprived of his livelihood and his weapons, is protected. Yes, some on the side of law would be glad to see him removed from the equation, but even they would be forced to act if he was harmed.’

There was quiet among the members of the board, broken only by the tortured breathing of Kinley Nowell.

‘Could we not approach the Backers and seek their advice?’ said Luke Joblin. ‘They might even work with us.’

‘We don’t ask the permission of others to act,’ said Hayley Conyer. ‘Their interests and ours are not the same, not even in this case. If they are unwilling to move against him on their own behalf, they will not do so on ours.’

‘And there is the matter of another girl,’ said Calder Ayton. They were his first words since the meeting had begun. Morland had almost forgotten that he was present.

‘What do you mean, Calder?’ asked Conyer. She, too, seemed surprised to hear him speak at all.

‘I mean that we have received a warning, or four warnings, depending upon one’s view of the current dilemma,’ said Calder. ‘The people are worried. Whatever the threat this detective poses, another girl has to be found and delivered – and quickly. Can we take the chance of having this man nosing around at such a delicate moment in the town’s history?’

‘What news from the Dixons?’ Souleby asked Morland. ‘Has there been progress?’

‘Bryan is watching them,’ said Luke Joblin, answering for Morland. ‘He thinks they’re getting close to finding someone.’

But Morland had his own view of the situation.

‘Bryan tells me that he’s been out scouting with Harry but – and please don’t take this the wrong way, Luke – your son isn’t the sharpest tool in the box. My view is that the Dixons aren’t to be trusted. I think they’re leading Bryan on. We should have given the job of finding a girl to someone else.’

‘But Chief Morland, it was your suspicions that led us to test them with the hunt,’ said Conyer.

‘There might have been better ways to satisfy ourselves as to their loyalty,’ said Morland.

‘It’s done now,’ said Conyer. ‘Your regrets are a little late.’

Again, it was Thomas Souleby who intervened.

‘But if they are leading Bryan on – and, by extension, the rest of us – they are doing so to what end?’ he asked.

‘I think they’re planning to run,’ said Morland.

His opinion went down badly. People did leave Prosperous. After all it wasn’t a fortress, or a prison, and a larger world existed beyond its boundaries. But those that left were secure in their loyalty to the town, and many of them eventually returned. Running was another matter, for it brought with it the possibility of disclosure.

‘There is a precedent for it on Erin’s side,’ said Ayton.

‘We don’t blame the children for the sins of the adults,’ said Conyer. ‘And her mother more than made up for the failings of the father.’

She returned her attention to Morland.

‘Have you taken steps?’ she said.

‘I have.’

‘Could you be more precise?’

‘I could, but I would prefer not to,’ said Morland. ‘After all, I may be wrong about them. I hope that I am.’

‘But the detective,’ Ayton insisted. ‘What of the detective?’

‘We’ll vote on it,’ said Conyer. ‘Reverend, do you have anything to add before we start?’

‘Only that I believe the detective is dangerous,’ said Warraner.

A nicely ambiguous reply, thought Morland. Whatever they decide, and whatever the consequences, no blame will fall on your head.

‘And you, Chief?’

‘You know my views,’ said Morland. ‘If you attack him and succeed in killing him, you will bring more trouble down on this town. If you attack him and fail to kill him, the consequences may be even worse. We should not move against him. Eventually he’ll grow weary, or another case will distract him.’

But Morland wondered if he was engaged in wishful thinking. Yes, the detective might leave them in peace for a while, but he would not forget. It was not in him to do so. He would return, and keep returning. The best for which they could hope would be that his visits might bring no reward and, in time, someone else might do them the favor of killing him.

Around him, the board meditated on what it had heard. He could not tell if his words had made any impact.

‘Thank you both for your contributions,’ said Conyer. ‘Would you mind waiting outside while we make our decision?’

The two men rose and left. Warraner wrapped his coat tightly around himself, thrust his hands into his pockets and took a seat on the porch. It was strange, but Morland had the sense that something of his own words of warning had penetrated Warraner’s carapace of blind faith and deluded self-belief. He could see it in the pastor’s face. Warraner lived to protect his church. For him, the town’s continued safety and good fortune were merely a by-product of his own mission. It was one thing for him to assent to the killing of a homeless man, one whom Warraner believed would not be mourned or missed; it was another entirely to involve himself in an attack on a dangerous individual which could well have negative consequences whether they succeeded in killing him or not.

‘Bait,’ said Warraner.

‘What?’ said Morland.

‘You said that the detective was prepared to use himself as bait. Why would a man put himself in that kind of danger, especially for someone he didn’t even know?’

‘A sense of justice, maybe. The world beyond the limits of our town isn’t as entirely corrupt as we might like to believe. After all, look at how corrupt we ourselves have become.’

‘We do what is necessary.’

‘Not for much longer.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Our ways can’t continue in the modern world. In the end, we’ll be found out.’

‘So you believe that we should stop?’

‘We can stop, or we can be stopped. The former might be less painful than the latter.’

‘And the old god?’

‘What is a god without believers? It is just a myth waiting to be forgotten.’

Warraner gaped. To him, this was blasphemy.

‘But what will become of the town?’

‘The town will survive. It’ll just be a town like any other.’

Bile rose up and caught in Morland’s throat, the acidity bringing tears to his eyes. How could Prosperous ever be a normal town? The blood had permeated it too thoroughly. It was mired in redness and sin.

‘No,’ said Warraner, ‘it can never be that.’

And Morland was sure that Warraner had missed the point.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Warraner. ‘Some vague concept of justice isn’t sufficient to explain this man’s actions.’

‘Justice is never vague,’ said Morland. ‘The law only makes it seem that way. And as for this man …’

Morland been thinking about the detective a lot. In reading up on him he believed that, on some level, he almost understood him. When Morland spoke again, he was talking as much to himself as to Warraner.

‘I don’t think he’s afraid of dying,’ said Morland. ‘He doesn’t seek out death, and he’ll fight it until the end, but he’s not frightened of it. I think he’s in pain. He’s been damaged by loss, and it’s left him in agony. When death does come for him, it’ll end his pain. Until then, nothing that anyone can visit on him will be worse than what he’s already experienced. That makes him a formidable enemy, because he can endure more than his opponents. And the things he’s done, the risks he’s taken for others, they’ve won him allies, and some of them may be even more dangerous than he is, because they don’t share his morals. If he has a weakness, it’s that he’s a moral being. Where possible, he’ll do the right thing, the just thing, and if he does wrong, he’ll bear the guilt of it.’

‘You respect him.’

‘You’d have to be a fool not to.’

‘But you sound almost as though you like him.’

‘Yes,’ said Morland. ‘It may be that I like him even better than I like myself.’

He stepped down into Hayley Conyer’s garden and lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t approve, but he didn’t care. His position had been made clear to him: the inconsequentiality of his role in the town’s affairs, the hollowness of his authority. After all this was over, he would have to resign. If he was fortunate, the board would accept his resignation and allow him to take his family and leave. Otherwise it could force him to stay on, a pitiful figure only good for issuing parking violations and speeding tickets.

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 fitfully 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 first 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 finished 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 find 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 finger 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 difficult 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 final 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 addiction. It was the least of his worries. Anyway, his days as chief of police were now definitely 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 hide 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 figures 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 venison 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.