It wasn’t the easiest of rests. She was experiencing a sense of violation. She was certain she’d double-locked the back door before leaving home that day, for the simple reason that she always did, yet when she checked it later only one lock was in place. Her father assured her that he hadn’t gone near it when he was with Daniel. She had also picked up a peculiar smell in the house, as though someone had trailed dead animal matter through its rooms.
But Holly wondered if she would ever be at peace again, because she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been restive, not since Karis Lamb had breathed her last. Now her phone was ringing, when what she needed more than anything was some undisturbed sleep. She glanced at the number and saw Dido Mullis’s name on the caller display. Dido was her former sister-in-law, and she remained on Holly’s contact list partly because she was the only member of her ex-husband’s family for whom Holly retained any affection, but mostly because Holly was hopeless at deleting old numbers.
‘Dido,’ she said. ‘Long time.’
‘I thought you should know,’ said Dido, snuffling and hiccupping her way through the words. ‘Gregg was fournd shot at his home today, him and his girlfriend. They’re dead.’
Parker arrived at Logan and switched on his phone as soon as he reached the terminal. He picked up a message from Moxie Castin, asking him to call back as soon as he could.
‘Moxie,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I have good news and bad news. You’ll probably want to hear the bad news first.’
‘Go on.’
‘Someone set fire to your Mustang.’
Parker stopped walking, causing the man behind to begin swearing until he saw Parker’s face and decided that silence might be the better option.
‘And the good news?’
‘I think we have a pretty good idea who was responsible.’
Owen and Holly were sitting in Holly’s kitchen. The bottle of Maker’s stood on the table between them, and each of them had a glass of bourbon in hand. As predicted, the events of recent times had taken their toll on the bottle, and only half an inch of liquor remained at the bottom.
‘Why do you think it has something to do with Daniel?’ Owen asked, although he couldn’t believe he had been cast in the role of skeptic. He was posing the question for the sake of it, and little more.
‘Gregg was a jerk, but even I didn’t want to kill him, and I had more cause than most. Back when Dido and I were still in regular contact, she told me that Gregg was real pissed when he heard about Daniel. His exact words, if I remember right, were that you couldn’t grow weeds in my womb.’
Owen let the bourbon wet his lips and tongue, trying to make it last.
‘I never liked him,’ he said.
‘You only told me that a thousand times. You even told me on my wedding day, both before and after I’d married him.’
‘I was trying to save you from yourself.’
She took his hand in hers.
‘I know, but I was in love with him.’
‘Almost as much as he was in love with himself.’
Holly had to admit this was true. Gregg Mullis had lived his life as though the world were made of mirrors.
‘And he did have a big mouth,’ she said. ‘I think he might have shot it off about me and my womb, and someone recalled it.’
‘So why not come here instead of going to Gregg?’
‘I don’t know: To find out for sure? And it could be that they’ve been here already, checking the place out.’
‘The kitchen door?’
‘Yes, and more than that: the house doesn’t smell right, doesn’t feel right.’
‘So now we talk to Castin?’
‘First thing in the morning,’ said Holly. ‘The only thing worse than Daniel being taken from me would be to have him get hurt.’
Owen stood.
‘I think you and Daniel should go find a motel room for the night,’ said Owen. ‘Pay cash, and don’t take your car. I’ll call a cab, and follow behind for a while to make sure no one is watching.’
Holly didn’t argue, except to ask ‘What about you?’
Owen shrugged.
‘I got a tire iron. Always had a hankering to use it on more than a tire.’
Parker called Louis when he was about twenty minutes out of Portland and arranged to meet him at Bob Johnston’s place. He was tempted to head straight home, but he needed Johnston to take a look at the book, and it wasn’t as though he was going to be able to do much about the Mustang anyway. Nevertheless, he still wanted to find Billy Ocean very badly indeed, despite Moxie Castin’s warnings against doing anything rash, which had sounded hollow even to Moxie.
Louis had already parked by the time Parker reached Congress Street. Parker pulled up behind and waited for Louis to join him. Once Louis was in the passenger seat, Parker shared with him everything he had learned from Leila Patton, including her fears about the book.
‘It’s in the box?’ asked Louis.
‘You want to see it?’
‘Nope.’
They crossed the street and rang Bob Johnston’s bell. He buzzed them in, and they climbed two floors of book-lined stairs, past rooms filled with shelves and boxes, and the workshop in which Johnston did his binding and printing, until they reached the top of the building. More books here, along with a small kitchen, bedroom, and living area, all of which served as Johnston’s home. His business didn’t have an actual store, although customers could visit by appointment. Few chose to do so, or not a second time, Johnston being of the opinion that if the only good author was a dead one, the only good customer was a distant one. He was a lanky being of cardigans and slippers, with red hair running to gray and a face that appeared to be collapsing from the brow down in a series of V-shaped furrows of annoyance. Parker had bought some books from him in the past, mostly as gifts. Johnston had been recommended to him by Carlson & Turner, the antiquarian booksellers farther down Congress, although they’d sent Parker on his way with the air of generals dispatching a soldier on a mission from which he was unlikely to return unscathed.
Johnston gave Louis a nod of greeting, took the shoebox from Parker’s hands, and carried it to a desk on which sat old invoices, a lamp, a magnifier, and a one-eyed stuffed cat.
‘I’d suggest using gloves,’ said Parker.
‘Why?’ asked Johnston.
‘The person who gave it to me said touching it made her sick.’
‘It’s just a book of fairy tales.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Johnston offered a sigh that spoke volumes about his tolerance, or lack thereof, for the world’s nincompoops, and rummaged in his drawer until he found a pair of white cloth gloves.
‘If he does jazz hands,’ said Louis, ‘we’ll have words.’
Johnston scowled at him, or at least his permascowl deepened.
‘And what is it you do, exactly?’ he asked.
‘I shoot people,’ said Louis.
Parker had noticed in the past that Louis occasionally amused himself by experimenting with honesty as the best policy.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Johnston, pulling on the gloves. ‘Do you take commissions?’
‘Contracts,’ Louis corrected.
‘Whatever.’
‘Not so much.’
‘Pity. I have a list.’
‘Is it long?’
‘Gets longer by the day. You got a card?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have one?’
‘No.’
Johnston sighed again. Parker guessed that he spent a lot of time sighing.
‘I suppose I’ll just have to kill them myself,’ said Johnston, ‘but I was good for the money.’
Gloves now arranged to his satisfaction, Johnston opened the box and removed the book. He examined the spine and boards, checked the copyright page, and progressed to the illustrations, pausing at the additional blank sheets.
‘Odd,’ he said.
He took in the typesetting, with its disarranged words.
‘Odder,’ he said.
Finally, he turned on his desktop computer and checked the listing for the book on various websites.
‘Oddest,’ he concluded. ‘Looks like it was faked. The year’s wrong.’
‘1908,’ said Parker. ‘One year too early.’
‘You know something about it?’
‘Not much more than the date, and that the inserts may have something to do with an atlas.’
‘What kind of atlas?’
‘Maybe you can find out.’