The Woman in the Woods (Charlie Parker, #16)

Pryor’s head felt too heavy. He forced himself to lift it, and it banged sharply against the faucet behind him. The effort exhausted what little energy he had left, so he stayed as he was, with the faucet digging uncomfortably into his skull. His extremities hurt, and it was all he could do not to throw up against the gag for fear that he might choke if he did.

He watched the woman, and the woman watched him. The more he looked, the worse she appeared, as though the profound ugliness within her could not conceal itself from close regard. Her hands were folded before her, making her seem almost prim in her posture. Pryor could see no weapon, and experienced the first stirrings of hope. Perhaps this was just a warning, the Backers reminding him of his obligations to them. They had to be responsible for this woman’s presence in his apartment, because no one else would dare to risk such an incursion. If he could only induce her to take the tape from his mouth, he could tell her what he had deduced about the list, about Parker. He would ask her to make a call, and this would all be over. He tried to speak, using his eyes to indicate the gag. He just wanted the chance to explain.

The woman raised her hands from her lap, revealing a slim leather pouch. She opened it on the marble countertop to her right, exposing a series of blades, hooks, and pliers that gleamed in the artificial light. Next to them was a square of plastic, which she unfolded into a poncho before slipping it over her head. She stood, allowing the material to settle as far as her knees, protecting her clothing. Finally, she donned a pair of plastic gloves.

Only then did she speak.

‘Just so you know, they stipulated that it should be painful.’ She selected a long-bladed scalpel from the pouch. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to make a mess.’





79


Parker took the call from Moxie Castin while waiting to board for Cincinnati. He regretted not taking an earlier flight from Logan because this one was a zoo, but he’d been unable to reschedule a morning meeting regarding witnesses in an assault case that was due to go to trial in a couple of days.

‘Bad news,’ said Moxie. ‘They found Maela Lombardi’s body.’

Parker stepped out of line and walked over to an empty gate, so they could speak without being overheard.

‘Where?’

‘The bottom of the Grundy Quarry. There’s no positive ID yet, but it looks like someone rolled Lombardi’s car into the water with her locked in the trunk.’

Parker watched the line grow shorter as the plane filled. Moxie was paying for a first-class ticket, so he wasn’t concerned about finding space for his hand baggage. The question was whether he should board the flight at all, but it didn’t take him long to come up with an answer. There was nothing he could offer the police that might help with the Lombardi investigation. What he could do was travel to Indiana as planned to find out what Leila Patton knew, or suspected, about the death of Errol Dobey and the disappearance of his girlfriend, Esther Bachmeier. Karis linked Dobey, Bachmeier, and Lombardi; and Leila Patton, who had worked for Dobey, was frightened. Parker wanted to ask her why that might be.

‘No word from our caller?’ he said.

‘None.’

‘When he does get in touch, use Lombardi. You need to frighten him into coming forward. That way, we can protect him, Karis’s son, and anyone else who knows the truth about what happened. Keep Louis close until I get back. Find him a chair in a quiet corner.’

The line for his flight was gone, and Parker heard his name being called.

‘I have to go.’





80


Holly Weaver and her father were half watching the evening news, which was broadcasting live from the road outside the Grundy Quarry, police and forensic vehicles congregating in the background just as they had for the discovery of Karis.

‘Christ,’ said Holly, but the word held no real sense of shock, and suggested only a general disgust at the willingness of human beings to inflict suffering on one another. The news was also little more than a distraction for Owen Weaver, who was sitting in an adjacent armchair, drinking a beer. The body at the quarry was someone else’s problem. They had their own to deal with.

His daughter continued to procrastinate about meeting in person with the lawyer Castin. He couldn’t blame her. Sitting down with him would set in motion a train of events that might well conclude with her losing Daniel, temporarily if not permanently, and one or both of the adults ending up in jail. But Holly was also angry with her father. He’d shared with her exactly what he’d said to the lawyer, and her response had been that he’d told Castin too much. He’d revealed Karis’s name, and the sex of her child, and that wasn’t what they’d agreed. Owen had to admit he might have become a bit confused when talking with Castin, and maybe he should have guarded his tongue more, but like most sensible people he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid lawyers. Dealing with one of them directly, even over the phone, had given him a bad case of the jitters.

Holly turned away from the television.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said.

‘You can’t change it, not now.’

‘I can, and I have. If we come forward, they’ll take Daniel away. If we stay quiet, there’s still a good chance that no one will ever find out the truth. It’ll all die down soon because the police have bigger worries, like finding the men who killed that trooper, and now the body dumped at the quarry. How much longer are they going to spend looking for a child?’

‘But Castin knows.’

‘What does he know? A name, and that Karis gave birth to a boy. That’s all.’

‘If I don’t call back, he’ll go to the police.’

‘Let him.’

‘What about the private investigator?’

‘What can he do: force the parents of every five-year-old boy in the state to take a DNA test? If he shows up, I’ll give him the name of every man I ever slept with. Hell, I’ll even make up a few more to bring it into double figures, and he can take a guess at which one I decided not to add to the birth certificate.’

Her father winced. Like every man with a daughter, there was a small part of him that wished to embrace the concept of a virgin birth.

‘Holly—’

‘Daniel’s mine. It’s my decision. I’ve made it, so we’re done talking.’

She stomped to the kitchen, where he heard her crashing about, pulling out pots for dinner. He wasn’t about to try and argue with her further, not for the present. He’d endured conversations like this with her late mother, after whom Holly took in so many ways, and a man learned when to retreat. And it might even have been that Holly was right: the advantages of confessing were only marginal, and perhaps it would all blow over, the whole business ultimately being consigned to a file in a basement somewhere in Augusta.

The doorbell rang. Daniel was on a playdate with one of his buddies, and was due to be dropped home right about now, but when Owen opened the door it was Sheila Barham standing on the doorstep. The Barhams owned the property to the east of the Weavers’, and both families enjoyed good relations, although the Barhams were closer in age to Owen than Holly, and their kids had long since left home to make kids of their own. Daniel sometimes stayed with the Barhams if Holly had to work late and Owen was away, although Daniel complained about the kind of TV the Barhams watched – mostly old game shows and religious programming – and the fact that every meal came with broccoli.

Owen invited Sheila to step inside, and Holly greeted her from the kitchen.

‘Everything okay?’ Owen asked.

‘Kinda sorta,’ said Sheila. ‘Look, it may be nothing, but I saw someone snooping around your place earlier today.’

‘What kind of someone?’ Owen asked.

‘Well, it was a woman. I saw her from the kitchen. She looked dirty, and I don’t think she was wearing any shoes. I guess it might have been some homeless person. She seemed to be trying the windows, probably hoping to climb through and steal something. I called Henry and told him to send her on her way, because who knows how long the police might have taken to get here.’

Henry Barham was a big man, and a Vietnam veteran. Owen wouldn’t have fucked with Henry Barham for a bucketful of silver dollars.

Holly joined them.