‘Possibly you, but more likely Moxie or me. By now your father will have told them what he knows, or they’ll have figured it out for themselves. They’ll know you’re protected.’
Holly Weaver held her head in her hands for a long time. Parker had rarely seen a human being look more miserable.
‘Can I ask a question?’ she said at last.
‘Of course.’
‘Why are you helping us?’
‘Moxie’s doing it as a service for the dead.’
‘And you?’
‘Moxie’s paying me.’
‘That’s not an answer. I’ve read about you. You don’t work just because someone pays you.’
‘Then call it a service for the living,’ said Parker. ‘I’ll leave the dead to others.’
In the woods behind the Weaver home, a gray figure paced back and forth, back and forth, like an animal driven mad by captivity.
Observed from the shadows by the ghost of a child.
111
Parker left the Inn through a rear security door leading directly to the parking lot. Thin rain, barely more than a mist, was falling on the city, blurring the streetlights and coating the cars with a patina of moisture.
Parker’s thoughts turned to Bobby Ocean, who would soon be burying his only child, all because he had bequeathed his prejudices to his son, whose death would serve only to intensify the malice of his progenitor. As for Louis, Parker doubted that Billy’s passing would cause him a great deal of distress. Louis’s conscience was a nebulous entity, and dwelt largely in slumber. Louis would regard Billy’s murder as the inevitable consequence of the man’s decision to advertise his ignorance, and target the weak as an outlet for his own inadequacies. Billy, in Louis’s view, should have realized his actions might eventually draw the attention of someone whose tolerance for such incitements was inversely proportional to his capacity for retribution. Violence called to violence, and intemperate words were the kindling of savagery.
And where did that leave Parker? He recognized his own willingness to use the rigor of his moral judgments as justification for his rage. The pain of his grief had dulled, but was always present. He could spare others from similar suffering by acting on their behalf, or achieve a measure of justice for them if the harm had already been done, but he knew one of his reasons for doing so was that it allowed him to feed his own rage without even pricking his conscience in the process.
He wiped the rain from his face as the darkness of the lot conjured up a specter. The Englishman no longer resembled the individual Parker had described to the state police in Augusta. His hair was grayer, his spectacles were new, and the eyes behind them, visible as he drew closer, were brown once more. The stubble on his face was growing into a beard, and he walked with the slightest of limps to his left foot. Each was a small change in and of itself, but together they virtually guaranteed that no connection would be made between him and the man sought by the police.
‘Hello, Mr Parker,’ he said. ‘I think the time has come for us to talk again.’
Bob Johnston was progressing from plate to plate through the book of fairy tales, scrutinizing each illustration in turn beneath the lighted magnifier, his confusion growing.
The flaws in the plates were no longer visible. They were all as Rackham had originally intended.
The unworldly figures were entirely gone.
Salvage BBQ was quiet as Parker entered, the Englishman close behind. It felt odd to Parker to be visiting a family-friendly restaurant, with its mostly communal tables, its gaming machines and rolls of paper napkins, in the company of one such as this.
The Englishman had warned Parker to keep his hands away from his weapon and his phone.
‘You’re being watched,’ he said. ‘The old man’s life may depend on how well you behave.’
Parker had been unable to detect any trace of the woman as they walked, but he chose not to doubt the Englishman’s word on this occasion.
Salvage operated bar service only, so Parker ordered a soda for himself and a gin for the Englishman. They took a smaller table, and sat so that neither had his back to the door, and each could see at a glance anyone entering. Up close, and away from the darker interior of the Great Lost Bear, the Englishman appeared older. His face was etched with tiny wrinkles, like the skin of some ancient animal, and the tissue surrounding his lensed pupils was closer to yellow than white. He had a sense of weariness about him, as of one who desires only to sleep.
‘You look sick,’ said Parker.
‘I’m touched by your solicitude.’
‘It was just an observation. I don’t think you’re going to live very long, although that’s unrelated to the current state of your health.’
The Englishman leaned forward slightly, as though to offer a confidence.
‘Whoever or whatever brings my life to an end,’ he said, ‘it won’t be you or your pet darkie.’
‘I’ll let him know you said that. It’ll be a test of his sense of humor.’ Parker sipped his soda. ‘What do I call you? And don’t say “Smith.”’
‘My name is Quayle, but if you try looking for me when all this is over, I guarantee you won’t find me. And you’re almost correct in your estimation: I have no intention of living much longer.’
‘What do you want before you die, Quayle? The boy?’
‘I think you know better than that. I heard your name mentioned on the news bulletins. What did you bring back from Indiana?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I’m wasting my time, and Owen Weaver will be dead before morning, unless he learns to breathe through dirt.’
‘How can I be sure you have him?’
Quayle closed his right fist and rotated it before him, like a sidewalk illusionist demonstrating a trick. When he opened the hand again, a gold signet ring lay on the palm.
‘It’s dated on the inside. You can show it to his daughter, if you like. She’ll confirm that it belongs to her father. But I doubt you’ll feel the need to do so. You know I’m telling the truth.’
Quayle’s tone changed. It was neither hostile nor conciliatory, cajoling nor threatening. It brooked no argument, like a schoolmaster explaining the realities of life to an errant pupil.
‘I want the book, Mr Parker. Give it to me, Owen Weaver lives, and no one will ever see me again. And if you say “What book?,” you’ll force me to conclude that you’re a cretin.’
‘I wouldn’t want that,’ said Parker. He saw no point in denial. It would only condemn Owen Weaver, if he wasn’t dead already. The book was the only advantage Parker had. ‘Suppose I do know where the book is?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Quayle. ‘We’re already making progress. Weaver says the only copy of which he is aware is the one we removed from a shelf in his daughter’s house. I’m inclined to believe this is true, after what we had to do to him to demonstrate our commitment to its recovery.’
Parker breathed in deeply, and overcame the urge to strike Quayle. His effort at restraint was obvious to the other man.
‘Broken bones heal,’ said Quayle. ‘Even older bones like his.’
‘We’ll want proof of life,’ said Parker.
‘You’ll get it. He’ll be permitted to call his daughter. Which brings us back to the book. I didn’t realize my error until Miss Mors retrieved the copy from the Weaver house. It was a first edition, but not the one I was seeking. It was then a matter of establishing when the exchange occurred. Errol Dobey was a buyer and seller of rare books, and it would have been easy for him to trace a suitable replacement copy. He even went to the trouble of inserting some antique vellum pages, probably from his own collection, or picked up cheaply on the Internet. It was a crude effort at dissimulation, but then neither Dobey nor Karis fully understood what it was they were dealing with.