‘Stories. Something old in the shape of a man, but empty inside. A child, but not a child.’
Jennifer raised a hand and flicked it at the air, as though to brush away the unwanted attention of an insect.
‘And wasps.’
The book was closed once again, the figures within now concealed, and those without protected from their gaze.
‘What is the God of Wasps?’ Leila asked.
‘Some call it the One Who Waits Behind The Glass,’ Parker replied. ‘To others, it’s the Buried God. Are you religious?’
‘I don’t go to church much, but I guess I believe in something greater than myself.’
‘Then the Buried God is its opposite.’
‘The devil?’
‘The Not-God. Or a Not-God. Worryingly, there may be more than one.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I hear whispers.’
Parker placed the book back in the shoebox.
‘Do you want me to take this away?’ he asked.
‘I think so. I’ve kept my promise to Karis for long enough.’ She worried at her bottom lip. ‘I hate that her life ended the way it did, with her all alone in a forest.’
‘She wasn’t alone,’ said Parker. ‘Someone was with her at the end, someone who cared enough to bury her and take care of her child.’
‘And you think she gave birth to a son?’
‘That’s what we believe.’
‘It might be better if he wasn’t found.’
‘I’m not sure that’s an option any longer, not with what’s been happening. The boy is at risk of becoming collateral damage in the hunt for this book. We just have to hope we find him before someone else does – like Vernay.’
‘It’s not Vernay who’s looking for the child, or the book.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Parker.
‘Vernay’s dead.’
‘Because of what you read on the forums?’
‘That, and because of something Karis said. She told me she hoped they’d kill Vernay for losing the book. If no one came asking after her, she said, then I could take it that Vernay was dead. And no one did.’
‘Until recently.’
‘I guess.’
‘You kept her secrets well.’
‘I didn’t have a lot of choice, but now Dobey is dead because of it. What will you do with the book?’
‘I don’t know yet. One thing’s for sure: I won’t be keeping it in the house.’
‘That seems wise. Is there anything more you want to know?’
‘Tell me,’ Parker said, ‘about the night Dobey died.’
101
Pallida Mors passed through the silent rooms of Holly Weaver’s home, absorbing the details of a domesticity that would always be denied her. She considered burning the house to the ground. She thought about waiting for Holly, her father, and the boy, and killing each of them: the old man first, followed by the child, so that Holly could watch them bleed out before her.
She pushed the images aside. Quayle had instructed her only to find the book and leave. Once it was in their possession, they could put this country behind them forever.
Mors entered Daniel Weaver’s room and went straight to the bookshelf. There, on the second row, was a worn copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, illustrated by Arthur Rackham, Constable, 1909. It didn’t bear the bookplate inside the front cover, but it had the blank pages, and Mors could see no sign of any other copy. But the year was wrong, and someone had added a handwritten and carefully illustrated story.
She heard the sound of approaching vehicles, and headlights appeared in the window: the Weavers were returning. Without rushing, Mors took the book, walked through the kitchen to the open back door, and left the house, depressing the button on the handle so the door locked again behind her. She had been careful not to make a mess, so it was unlikely the Weavers would spot any signs of intrusion.
Her car was parked nearby. Mors could see the shape of it through the woods, and the quickest way to get to it was through them, yet she hesitated. She couldn’t have said why, but the woods disturbed her, and she had learned over the years not to ignore her intuition. In the darkness, the naked trees took on skeletal forms: twisted men, a hunched woman. So Mors stayed at the boundary, away from the depths, and so by a circuitous route returned safely to the car before making the first of two calls.
‘I found a copy,’ she told Quayle, ‘but it may not be the correct one. The year of publication is 1909, and the bookplate is missing, but it has the additional pages.’
‘There was no other?’
‘None that I saw. Could they have sold the original?’
‘If they had, I would have heard. It might have become damaged over the years, and the pages could have been transposed into another edition. Only the insertions are important. I’ll know once I’ve had a chance to examine them.’
‘And if it’s not the one you want?’
‘Then,’ said Quayle, ‘we shall have to ask the Weavers where it is.’
The second call made by Mors was to Billy, because it was time to put him into play. She and Quayle had convinced Billy that it would be better if he didn’t use his own truck, just in case the vehicle was seen and remembered. Meanwhile, Mors would also be able to help Billy bypass the security around Parker’s house.
‘How do you know he has security?’ Billy asked.
‘Because of who he is,’ said Mors.
Which made sense, when Billy thought about it.
Mors collected Billy from the parking lot of the Tilted Kilt out by the Maine Mall. Billy was carrying a backpack, and Mors could smell gasoline as he placed the bag on the floor of the car.
‘I trust you brought a lighter,’ she said.
‘A book of matches, too,’ he replied.
Mors headed east, Billy doing his best to breathe through his mouth while she drove, because the woman smelled rancid. The gasoline cut the stink some, but not enough. They took Route 1 to Scarborough, and passed Parker’s home. Seeing no lights or signs of activity, they made a U-turn and came around a second time, pulling into the next side road after the driveway and killing the lights. Billy grabbed the bag, climbed out, and waited for Mors to join him.
‘Did you bring a mask?’ Mors asked. ‘There’ll be cameras.’
‘Shit.’
Mors produced a cheap ski mask from her pocket and handed it to Billy before slipping one over her own head.
‘Stay in my footsteps,’ she said.
‘You afraid of mines?’
‘Just do as I say.’
So Billy followed Mors over a ditch and through some trees. She produced an iPhone and turned on the camera, scanning the ground before her as they walked. About a minute later, she stopped suddenly and raised her hand.
‘What is it?’ Billy asked.
A bright white light partially obscured the screen of the phone.
‘Infrared beams,’ said Mors. ‘Break them, and it sets off an alarm. Probably takes a picture as well, either here or farther along.’
The beams were set at different heights – one a foot from the ground, the second three feet higher – so a small animal wouldn’t break both simultaneously. With Mors guiding him, Billy eased his way between them before taking the phone and doing the same for her. They evaded one more set of IR beams before reaching the perimeter of the house, where Billy was again stopped from proceeding by the sight of Mors’s raised right hand. She pointed out the security camera on the wall above the front door.
‘Kind of obvious,’ said Billy.
‘That’s because the rest aren’t.’
The Mustang wasn’t garaged, but stood to the right of the house under an all-weather cover. Maybe Parker was already hoping to make more use of it with the coming of spring. Mors pulled off the cover.