Quayle and Mors headed northwest, taking rooms at the Mill Inn in Dover-Foxcroft. The town lay near the edge of Piscataquis County, about twenty miles southeast of where the remains of Jane Doe had been discovered.
While Mors was resting, Quayle was thinking of Maela Lombardi. He regretted her death, for both practical and personal reasons: practical because her disappearance would eventually attract attention, and it would be best if he and Mors were long gone from this place when it did; and personal because Lombardi had at least been a woman of principle and courage, and Quayle retained the capacity to admire such qualities.
And for all the risks he and Mors had taken in interrogating Lombardi before killing her and disposing of the body, they had emerged only with confirmation that Karis Lamb had made it as far as Maine, and Lombardi’s opinion that the remains found in Piscataquis were hers. But this was lent further credence by the press conference held earlier that day, an adjunct to the ongoing hunt for the killers of the state trooper, Jasper Allen. Before taking questions from the media, a female lieutenant had gone into greater detail than before about the age and approximate build of the woman, both of which matched descriptions of Karis. She had also informed the media that a Star of David carved on a nearby tree might have some connection to the body. Quayle knew from the late Vernay that Karis habitually wore a small Star of David on a chain around her neck. Vernay had found her attachment to this symbol of her mother’s faith amusing. Quayle suspected it added to the pleasure Vernay took in Lamb’s defilement.
Unbeknownst to Quayle, he was operating on a similar set of assumptions to Charlie Parker: that Karis’s child was still alive, and very possibly living in some proximity to the grave. Quayle had sent Mors to scout the site – although she only narrowly avoided apprehension by the police officer assigned to guard it – and her view was that it had been chosen specifically for its remoteness, which suggested local knowledge.
But Quayle possessed an advantage over any other parties, including the police, who might now be looking for Karis Lamb’s missing child.
Quayle knew about the book.
That evening, Parker called the Upper West Side apartment shared by Louis and Angel. When Louis answered, Parker inquired after Angel’s health before progressing to the other reason for the call.
‘I had a face-to-face conversation with Bobby Ocean a few days ago.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Louis. ‘And how was that?’
‘Like soaking my brain in bile. He stopped just short of presenting me with a bill for his son’s truck.’
‘Does the boy usually let his father do his dirty work?’
‘I don’t think Billy knew about the visit.’
‘Why not?’
‘Bobby Ocean shares some of his son’s moral failings, but the stupidity gene may have skipped a generation. If Billy were to find out who was responsible for blowing up his pride and joy, he might take it into his head to seek some retribution. Bobby’s guess is that this wouldn’t end well for anyone, but particularly not for his son, and possibly not for him either.’
‘So he came to you to let off a little steam? Sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘This Billy doesn’t sound like an honor roll kid.’
‘You remember our friend Philip from Providence?’
Philip was the unacknowledged offspring of a liaison between a deceased New England criminal named Caspar Webb and the woman who would eventually inherit, and dismantle, Webb’s empire, a figure known only as Mother. Philip had objected strenuously to Mother’s disposal of the family franchise, believing himself a worthy heir to his father’s fortune, and was now rumored to be taking an extended vacation. If so, it was the kind conducted horizontally, and under a weight of dirt.
‘Hard to forget him,’ said Louis. ‘But I am trying.’
‘Well, I think Billy has similar paternal issues, minus the outright criminality, but with prejudice to compensate.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have blown up the truck.’
‘We live and learn.’
They talked some more, and Parker told Louis about the body of the woman, and the search for her child.
‘If the kid is alive,’ said Louis, ‘then someone is probably starting to panic right about now. You think it could be in danger?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘The mother died from severe hemorrhaging very soon after giving birth. It’s likely that someone buried her with enough care and respect to carve the symbol of her religion on a nearby tree. That doesn’t strike me as the act of a person who’d harm a child.’
‘Just the act of a person who wanted a child badly enough to bury its mother in a shallow grave.’
‘When you put it that way.’
They returned to the subject of the truck. Parker wasn’t sure how much Bobby Ocean actually knew about Louis beyond rumor and reputation, but if he expended enough time and effort, he might be able to find out more. It would be better for all concerned if Louis were absent from Portland for a while, although given Louis’s current mood, Parker guessed that the city would soon be graced once again by his presence.
‘The hospital will get Angel walking in a day or two, encourage him to eat and drink, then send him home,’ said Louis. ‘Or that’s the plan.’
Parker knew that Louis would be engaging nurses to assist Angel during the early stages of his recovery. The internist felt it wasn’t strictly necessary, but Louis would have been the first to admit that he wasn’t one of nature’s caregivers. Parker said that he’d come visit once Angel was settled back in the apartment. They agreed to speak again in a few days.
And Death circled.
48
They called themselves the Backers: individuals who had attained positions of considerable wealth, power, and influence, in part through their own efforts and acumen, but mostly by aligning themselves with forces older and more arcane than any religion. In doing so they had damned themselves, and were therefore content to see all others damned in turn.
Now five of them – three men and two women – were seated at a table in the Oak Room at the Fairmont Copley Plaza in Boston, the grande dame of the city’s hotel bars. In recent years it had been rebranded as the OAK Long Bar + Kitchen, but this quintet, like many of the city’s blue bloods, chose to ignore the change. To them, it was the Oak Room, and always would be.
They attracted no particular attention, apart from the solicitous but not overbearing service of their waiter. On this particular evening, the bar was entertaining half a dozen not dissimilar parties of senior patrons, all casually attired – or casually for them, which meant jackets and ties for the gentlemen, and dresses for the women. Their coterie eschewed cocktails for gins and white wine, and declined offers of food since they had a reservation at L’Espalier for eight p.m. Like their meeting, the reservation had been arranged at short notice, but with no great difficulty.
‘Well?’ said one of the women, once the drinks were served, and they could speak without being overheard. She looked over at the Principal Backer, he who had called them together. ‘One imagines this is not principally a social gathering.’
The Principal Backer raised his glass in a silent toast, and took a sip before replying.
‘Quayle is in New England.’
The woman who had spoken grimaced, as though the wine were not quite to her taste.
‘Where?’
‘Maine.’
‘Why?’
‘Have you been following the story of the woman’s body found in the northern woods?’
‘I think I read something about it. Wasn’t she pregnant?’
‘Not quite; she gave birth shortly before she died. Quayle thinks he knows who she is. Apparently he’s been looking for her for some time.’
‘So now he can return home,’ said a thin, dark man with the aspect of a sad, emaciated crow. ‘His search, it would appear, is at an end.’
The others nodded their agreement. One of the men even laughed.