The Wrath of Angels

40





The late morning news bulletins detailed the death of a fifty-eight-year-old woman in an explosion at a lawyer’s office in Lynn, Massachusetts: I knew nothing about it until then because my focus had been entirely on Sam. The woman, who was not being named until relatives could be informed, was said to be an employee of the business. The principal, Thomas Eldritch, was described only as having suffered injuries in the blast, and was being kept under observation. As yet, the police declined to speculate on the cause of the explosion as investigators remained at the scene, but I knew.

‘The list,’ I said to Angel and Louis. ‘Once the Collector killed Tate, they must have known that he had a copy, either partial or full.’

‘And because they couldn’t get to him, they tried to take out his lawyer,’ said Angel.

I thought about the chain-smoking woman who had guarded the stairs to Eldritch’s office, and the look on her face when she believed that I had upset him in some way. I couldn’t say that I had liked her, exactly, but she had been loyal to the old man, and she had not deserved to die.

The picture on the screen returned to a view of the exterior of Eldritch’s offices. The explosion had started a fire that gutted the building, and it had taken fire department units from adjoining towns to bring it under control. The Pakistani cell phone store was gone too. One of its owners was interviewed on the street. He was weeping. An idiot reporter asked him if he thought the explosion might have been linked to Islamic extremists. The Pakistani businessman stopped weeping for long enough to look shocked, and hurt, and enraged, and then started crying even more.

I was saved the trouble of contacting Epstein by his call to me. He was at last in Toronto, after spending most of the previous night with the police telling them of the circumstances of Adiv’s death. I hadn’t liked Adiv much either. It was turning into a bad week for people who had crossed me. While I spoke to Epstein, Louis slipped my delivery copy of the New York Times in front of me. Adiv’s death had made the front page in what was being described as an assassination attempt on a prominent figure in the Jewish community. The picture of Epstein had been taken a long time before, perhaps a decade or more. Epstein had been doing his best to avoid the limelight ever since the death of his son. The story mentioned that as well. I made the continuation of the story inside, since I was the one who had found his son’s killers. That didn’t make me happy at all. When I checked my cell phone there were forty missed calls, and my message box was full. I gave the phone to Angel and let him start listening to, and deleting, the messages.

‘You’re okay?’ I asked Epstein.

‘Shaken, but otherwise unharmed.’

‘I’m sorry about Adiv.’

‘I know you are. Had he lived, he might have grown to find that incident of the Pine Barrens amusing.’

‘It would have taken some time.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Did you see hear the news about our lawyer friend in Lynn?’

‘I was informed of it this morning,’ said Epstein. ‘We’re assuming that the two attacks are linked?’

‘It’s a big step up to the majors for coincidence if they’re not,’ I replied. ‘No word on Eldritch’s client, though. I figure he was out of town when it happened.’

I was always careful how I discussed the Collector on the phone. It was force of habit, but then I was careful how I discussed the Collector, period.

‘And the reason: revenge? An attempt to discourage further investigation? All of these things, and more? After all, it was not my people who killed Davis Tate.’

‘Tate’s death, and whatever else the client might have been up to, let them know that some version of the list is already out there, courtesy of the late Barbara Kelly. If Eldritch and his client had a copy, then it was logical to surmise that you probably had a copy too. Maybe they hoped to catch Eldritch and his client with the blast at Lynn, or maybe they just wanted to destroy his records. At the very least, it was a way of distracting the client for a time, just as they hoped the attack on you, whether it yielded casualties or not, might be enough to—’

I paused. The word that was on the tip of my tongue was ‘delay’, but why did it spring to mind?

‘Mr Parker?’ said Epstein. ‘Are you there?’

‘It was a delaying tactic, a distraction,’ I said.

‘But distracting us from what?’ said Epstein.

‘The plane,’ I said. ‘Somehow they’ve found out about the plane, and they know that we’re looking for it too.’

‘How long before you can start the search?’

‘Tomorrow, if we’re lucky and we can get a solid lead on its location. I still haven’t spoken to Marielle Vetters again. If she can’t help us, I have one other idea.’

‘Meanwhile, what will the client do?’ asked Epstein.

I didn’t have to think for long.

‘The client will hunt down those he believes were responsible for that explosion,’ I said, ‘and the client will punish them.’

The Collector stood at the intersection, smoking a cigarette and watching the police go about their business. The gutted buildings were still smoldering, and the street was awash with filthy black water like the aftermath of an oil slick. The curious and the bored lounged behind the cordon, and the news vans had congregated in the parking lot of Tulley’s bar, where Tulley himself was charging them three-figure sums for the pleasure, although he was throwing in free coffee which, if the reporters had any sense, they were in turn throwing away.

Behind the Collector stood a pawn shop that extended over four floors, the heaviest and largest items on the ground floor, the rest arrayed over the next two floors in diminishing order of size. The top floor, the Collector knew, contained offices. On the side of the building, overlooking its back door and the parking lot beyond, was a camera. Beside it was a second camera, facing away from the door and toward the street.

The Collector killed the cigarette and left the police to their business. He entered the pawn shop, where the two men seated behind the counter barely glanced at him before returning their attention to a TV screen that was showing the same crime scene that the Collector had just witnessed. Had they walked a couple of feet they could have stood outside and watched it in person, but they were ignorant, lazy men, and they preferred to glean their information from the TV where people who were better-looking than they were could tell them things that they already knew.

The Collector climbed the stairs to the top floor, where there was a red metal door with a spyhole and the words PRIVATE – EMPLOYEES ONLY stenciled on it in white paint. There was no buzzer, but the door opened as the Collector approached, and he was admitted.

A very old, very fat woman, and an even older man, sat in a small outer office. They were the Sister and the Brother. If they had other names – and they must have had, once upon a time – then nobody ever used them. The name on the sign outside came from another business, a drapery store that had closed in the 1970s. Shortly after, the Sister and the Brother had moved in, and they had never left. As she grew larger and larger, the Sister had risen higher and higher in the building in opposition to the items for sale, a great balloon of a woman floating slowly upward until the roof finally arrested her progress.

Arrayed around them on a pair of tables covered in green cloth were various items of jewelry, a half dozen watches, an assortment of coins, and a sprinkling of gemstones. The woman was morbidly obese. The Collector knew that she never left the building, eating and sleeping in the living quarters separated from the office by a pair of red drapes. When she needed medical attention, the doctor came to her. So far, either her health had remained stable enough to require no serious treatment, which seemed unlikely given the strain her system was under, or some combination of the dozens of bottles of prescription and non-prescription medicines on the shelves above her head enabled her to keep functioning for the present. Her tiny head sat on massive folds of fat where her neck had once been, and her arms appeared absurdly small for her body. She was like a melting snowwoman. She wore a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses on a chain. Through them she watched the Collector but said nothing, and her face showed no feeling beyond that of a general weariness at a life lived too long, and in too much pain.

The Brother took the Collector by the hand, a curiously intimate gesture to which the Collector did not object, and walked him into a closet space barely big enough for the two of them. Here there was a giant safe, built by the Victor Safe & Lock Company of Cincinnati, Ohio, at the turn of the last century, virtually an antique in itself. The safe was open, and inside were blocks of bills, and gold coins, and old jewelry boxes containing the store’s most valuable pieces. Such an apparently casual attitude to security might not have been considered wise in this day and age, and it was true that the pawn shop had been burgled once, back in 1994. The burglars had beaten the Sister badly, although she presented no threat to them. The attack, more than any other factor, had precipitated her massive gain in weight, and her reluctance to explore an outside world capable of producing such individuals.

The Collector had found those men. They were never seen again.

Actually, this was not entirely true.

Parts of them were seen again.

After that incident, the business of the Sister and the Brother remained untroubled by crime or the fear of crime. Why, then, was there still a need for security cameras? Well, for the same reason that a deserted building at the other end of the street, unoccupied and apparently not for sale or lease, had small, discreet cameras hidden behind bulbs on its façade, and the liquor store down the block operated two surveillance systems running in parallel: because, between them and the cameras in Eldritch’s now ruined building, they offered a full panorama of the street.

Just in case.

Now, on a small computer beside the safe, the Collector logged on to the digital recording system linked to the computer, found the feeds for the two cameras on the pawn shop’s building, and split the screen between them. He used the mouse to move the cursor back to the minutes before the explosion – and now here was the man, his head down, walking toward the camera, looking over his shoulder, turning, raising his hand. Suddenly a flash, and twin bursts of interference on the screen as the explosion shook the cameras. When the pictures cleared, the man was running, his head no longer down, and he vanished from one screen, then the other.

The Collector rewound and slow-forwarded, back and forth, over and over, until he had one image on the screen. He enlarged it, adjusted the area under examination, and enlarged again. The Brother stood behind him, taking it all in.

‘There,’ said the Brother.

‘There,’ said the Collector.

The man’s features were revealed to him. The Collector leaned forward, and touched the face on the screen with his fingertips.

I know you.





41





Later that mornng, Angel, Louis and I traveled to Falls End with two intentions: the first was to find out if there was anything more that Marielle Vetters could tell us about the location of the plane, anything that she might have remembered, however irrelevant it might seem. If she could not help us further, then there was someone else I might ask, although it would mean leaving Falls End temporarily. Marielle had not returned my call from the previous night, but I had not yet started to worry.

Second, we had to plan for the eventual expedition into the woods. With that in mind, I’d called Jackie Garner and asked him to head up to Falls End as soon as possible, because Jackie knew the woods. Andy Garner, Jackie’s old man, had left his wife when Jackie was just a kid. There were irreconcilable differences between them: she thought Jackie’s old man was the biggest a*shole who ever lived – a serial screwer of women, a deadbeat who had never met a steady job he liked, and an oxygen thief – and he disagreed, but he’d continued to be a part of his son’s life until he died, and his wife had continued to love him, despite her better judgment. Andy Garner had that rare gift of charm, a charisma that enabled him to skate over the pain his failings caused others, and inspired a degree of tolerance, and even forgiveness, in those whom he hurt. Jackie’s mother, who knew his weaknesses better than anyone, had sometimes been known to take him back into her bed after they had divorced; it was she who had nursed him during his final illness, and she remained his widow in all but name.

Andy Garner kept his head above water by working as a guide in the Great North Woods during hunting season. He was a premium hire, with regular sports who came back to him year after year. They were wealthy businessmen and bankers, and Andy always ensured that they returned to their city lives content with their hunt, and boasting of the animals they had killed. In lean years, where others struggled to find bear or trophy bucks for their clients, Andy Garner would break records, and his bonuses would increase. He was a man who was only truly happy when he was in the forest, a man profoundly in tune with nature but lost in cities and towns. Away from the woods, he found solace in alcohol and women, but during hunting season he was sober and celibate, and happier than at any other time.

As soon as his son was old enough, Andy began taking him into the woods with him, trying to pass on what he knew and develop the instincts for the forest that he was sure lay in the boy. He was right, to a degree: Jackie had his father’s understanding of, and empathy with, the natural world, but he was softer than his father, and cared little for hunting.

‘You’ll never make money from nature walks,’ his father would tell him. ‘It’s hunting that will put bread on your table.’

Jackie Garner found other ways to put bread on his table, some legal and some illegal, but he still returned to the woods whenever he could, sometimes just to escape his mother, who had always been a very demanding woman. He had that in common with his buddies, the Fulcis. It was probably part of the reason why the three of them got on so well together.

Jackie didn’t have a camp of his own in the woods, but relied on the generosity of friends. When that was not forthcoming, he was happy to pitch a tent. When I called him from my car and asked him to join us in Falls End, he jumped at the chance. I did not tell him what we were looking for, not yet. That could wait.

‘How’s your mom doing?’ I asked. We still had not yet had the chance to talk properly about her illness.

‘Not so good. I ought to have told you about her before but, you know, I think I was in denial.’

‘About what exactly, Jackie?’

‘I can’t even pronounce it, and I’ve heard it often enough in the last month: Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Does that sound right to you?’

I told him that I didn’t know. I’d heard of the illness, but I wasn’t familiar with its symptoms, or its prognosis. Unfortunately, Jackie now was.

‘She’d been acting strange,’ he explained. ‘Well, stranger than normal. She was getting angry for no reason, and then she’d forget that she’d been angry to start with. I thought it might be Alzheimer’s, but the doctors came back to us a couple of weeks ago with a diagnosis of this Creutzfeldt-Jakob thing.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘She has a year, maybe a little longer. The dementia is progressive, and her vision is starting to suffer. Her legs and arms are spasming. She has to go into a home, and we’ve started looking at places. Look, Charlie, there’s money for this job, right? I need to get some cash together. I have to make sure that she’s cared for right.’

Epstein had agreed to cover all expenses. I’d make sure that he paid well for Jackie’s guide skills.

‘You’ll have no complaints, Jackie.’

‘And it’s a short job?’

‘Two days at most, once I get the information that we need. We’ll have to be ready to spend a night in the woods if we have to, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’

‘Then I’m good to go,’ said Jackie. ‘Some time out in the woods will help me to clear my head.’

I told him where to meet us, and the call came to an end. I felt a deep pity for Jackie. He might have been a little screwed up, and with an excessive fondness for homemade munitions, but he was unswervingly loyal to his friends. While he had complained about his mother more than any man I’ve ever met, he loved her too. Her illness and eventual death would hit him hard.

Angel and Louis were following me to Falls End in their own car. I informed them of my conversation with Jackie when we stopped for coffee along the way. Both of them immediately told me to keep whatever Epstein was paying for their time and expertise, and pass it on to Jackie. I planned to do the same.

It was clear that something was wrong in Falls End as soon as we reached the town. There were patrol cars from the Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department parked on the street, along with state police cruisers and the MSP’s mobile crime scene unit. Parked on a side road to the east, just at the edge of the forest, I saw a concentration of vehicles, among them one from the Maine medical examiner’s office, and standing beside it the medical examiner herself, talking to a couple of detectives whom I recognized.

I knew that Marielle Vetters lived at the northern end of town, and it was there that a second group of law enforcement vehicles had congregated. Because it was still hunting season the town was filled with strangers and their vehicles, so we did not stand out, but I was concerned about being seen by any lawman who might recognize me. I still didn’t know for sure that something had happened to Marielle, but I feared the worst.

‘Damn,’ I said, and I spoke out of concern not only for Marielle but also for myself. My message was on her answering machine, assuming that she hadn’t erased it after listening to it. Being connected in any way with what might have happened to her wouldn’t be productive. I parked in the municipal lot, and Angel and Louis pulled up alongside me. Angel went scouting for information while Louis and I waited in my car. Angel returned half an hour later carrying coffees in a cardboard tray. He got in the back of the car and passed them around before speaking.

‘Marielle Vetters is alive,’ he said. ‘So’s her brother, but they’re both in comas. It’s all anyone is talking about in the local diner, which seems to be ground zero for gossip. I just had to sit and listen. Two people are dead, both shot. One is a guy called Teddy Gattle. Marielle’s brother was staying with him, and there’s speculation that they may have got into an argument at Gattle’s place, and maybe Grady Vetters shot Teddy there before heading over to his sister’s house to commit the second killing. He and his sister might have had some falling out over money and the house, but the Grady-Vetters-as-killer theory is coming from the cops at the moment, not the locals. Most folk don’t believe that Grady Vetters could have shot anyone, but there are rumors that a gun was found beside him, and if it’s the murder weapon, well . . .

‘But, Charlie, the other dead man is Ernie Scollay. He was found shot in the back in Marielle Vetters’ house.’

I said nothing. I had liked Ernie Scollay from the moment I’d met him. In his careful, cautious way, he’d reminded me of my grandfather.

It was a set-up; it had to be. Marielle Vetters might have been having difficulties with her brother, but she had given no indication that she was worried about him becoming violent. Then again, there were a lot of victims of domestic killings who had never seen it coming, never suspected that someone of their own blood would turn against them. If the potential for violence was that easy to spot, there would be far fewer dead people. Was it too much of a stretch to imagine that, on the same evening attacks were launched on two other people connected with the list, the Vetters family, also linked to the list, should become embroiled in a domestic dispute that left two people dead and two others apparently in a coma?

But if Grady Vetters was not, in fact, a killer, how had he and his sister been found by those who had also sought to silence Eldritch and Epstein? Both Marielle and Ernie Scollay had known the risks involved in telling anyone else of what they knew. Ernie hadn’t even wanted me to be brought into their little circle. That left Grady Vetters, because he had been with his sister by their father’s bedside when the story of the airplane in the woods had been told.

I had to make a decision. Unless Marielle had erased my message after listening to it, it would only be a matter of time before the police came knocking on my door. I could come forward immediately and tell them what I knew, or try to avoid them for as long as possible. The second option sounded best. If I spoke to them I’d have to tell them about the plane, and that would mean the fact of its existence becoming public. I recalled Epstein’s refusal to share what he knew even with SAC Ross in the FBI’s New York office for fear that it might reach the wrong ears, and Ross was his tame federal agent, a man whom we both trusted, even if I didn’t trust him quite as far as Epstein. For now, telling the police anything about that plane was not an option.

I went for the worst case scenario: Grady Vetters had not killed his friend Teddy Gattle, or Ernie Scollay. He and his sister had been found by those who were seeking the plane, and Gattle and Scollay had been killed because they were in the way. Marielle and Grady had probably been forced to share whatever they knew, and then silenced. The decision not to kill them was odd: if someone was trying to frame Grady Vetters for murder, having him shoot his sister and then himself would have left the police with a tidy murder-suicide. Instead, according to gossip – and who knew how true that might be? – there were two potential witnesses still alive, but in comas. On the other hand, leaving them breathing but incapacitated would concentrate the focus of the investigation on the survivors, and muddy the waters for a while. If Marielle or Grady had revealed some new information about the location of the plane, whoever was responsible for what had just occurred in Falls End wouldn’t need to distract the police for long: just until the plane was found and the list secured.

‘What now?’ said Louis.

‘Find us a couple of rooms at a motel, and tell Jackie Garner where you’re at. I’ll be back here by evening.’

‘And where are you going?’ asked Angel, as they got out of my car.

I started the engine.

‘To ask an old friend why he lied to me.’





42





Ray Wray wasn’t happy.

He had arrived at Joe Dahl’s camp just south-west of Masardis knowing only that there was a job waiting for him, a job that would pay him a couple of grand for a couple of days’ work involving an airplane, which meant that the work was probably illegal. Illegal work in that part of Maine generally meant smuggling, and the only thing really worth smuggling was drugs. Hence Ray Wray had decided that what he and Joe Dahl were looking for in the Great North Woods was a crashed plane full of drugs.

Of course, Ray Wray had no trouble with drug smuggling. He’d done enough of it in the past to know how to limit the risk of getting caught, which was the main worry in that line of work. Getting caught caused all kinds of difficulty, and not only with the law: the individuals who paid folk to smuggle their drugs for them often took it amiss when the consignment didn’t reach its intended destination. Paying your debt to society was one thing; paying your debt to the bikers, or the Mexicans, or a piece of shit like Perry Reed was another thing entirely.

So the fact of smuggling wasn’t the issue for Ray, and neither was securing the plane and its cargo without getting caught. What he did have trouble with was the fact that a woman and a boy were sleeping like vampires in Joe Dahl’s place, the drapes drawn on the windows of the little cabin, the woman curled up on the camp bed and the boy sleeping beside her on the floor. Ray could see that the woman’s face was badly disfigured when he peered around the thick sheet that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the room, but he’d been troubled more by the kid, who had woken suddenly when Ray appeared and shown Ray the business end of a knife.

Now Ray was sitting on a roughhewn bench overlooking the Oxbow with a cup of coffee in his hand, Joe Dahl beside him, and Dahl was so jittery that he was giving Ray a case of the jitters too.

‘This plane?’ said Ray.

‘Yeah, what about it?’

‘When did it come down?’

‘Years ago.’

‘How many years ago?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How come nobody’s found it before now?’

‘They didn’t know where to look.’ Dahl pointed to the forest beyond with his own cup. ‘Come on, Ray, you could lose a jumbo jet in there, you know that. What we’re talking about is a small plane. Folk could have passed within feet of it and not have seen it if they weren’t already looking for it.’

‘What’s on it?’ asked Ray.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Drugs?’

‘I said I don’t know, Ray. Jesus.’

This wasn’t right. Joe Dahl was hard. Unlike Ray, he’d done some killing. Ray wasn’t the killing kind, but he was good in the woods, could hold up his end in a fight, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Dahl, on the other hand, had knocked heads with some serious people in the past, and was still standing, but he was giving off bad vibes about this job, and Ray was increasingly inclined to put it down to the woman and her spooky kid.

‘So how do we know where it’s at?’ asked Ray. There was no point in pursuing the subject of the plane’s contents any further with Dahl, not now. Maybe later, once he’d calmed down some.

‘She says it’s near the ruins of a fort, and there ain’t but one fort in there,’ said Dahl.

Suddenly Ray understood why he was being paid so much money for heading out into the woods for a day or two. It didn’t really matter what was on that plane. It wasn’t even so much the difficulty in getting to it. But he had heard the stories about that fort, about Wolfe’s Folly. It was situated in a part of the forest where hunters didn’t go because game stayed away from it; where there were no trails, and the trees hunched like the forms of giants; where the air smelled wrong, and north and south, east and west, got all screwed up, didn’t matter how good your compass was, or your own sense of direction. It was a place where a man could get lost, because something in there wanted you to get lost, something that maybe looked like a little girl.

Ray had never been out there, and had never intended going. Even the stories about it tended to be kept among locals, just to ensure that no idiot thrill-seekers or hardened skeptics took it into their heads to start exploring to prove some point that only they could understand. There was a time when hikers used to go missing, and it was said that they might have strayed too close to Wolfe’s Folly, but that didn’t happen so much anymore, not since care had been taken to excise it from the general discourse and ensure, by unspoken agreement, that whatever was out there was left undisturbed. Most of what Ray knew about it he’d learned from Dahl, and Dahl didn’t hold with ghost stories, so if you heard it from Joe Dahl’s mouth you knew that it was true. Dahl said that nobody with an ounce of sense had been out near Wolfe’s Folly in years, and Ray believed him. If the plane had come down near there, it would explain a lot.

‘How much is she paying again?’ asked Ray.

‘Two thousand up front to each of us, and another thousand each when we find the plane. That’s good money, Ray. I could sure use it.’

Amen to that, thought Ray. He’d only managed to get through last winter with cash from the Home Energy Assistance Program, and now that state benefit had been halved because of the recession. Without money for heating oil, a man could die.

‘Out there’s no place for a woman and a child,’ said Ray. ‘And that boy looks sick. They ought to stay here, leave the finding to us.’

‘They’re coming, Ray. There’s no discussion about it. I wouldn’t worry about her and the boy. They’re –’ Dahl sought the right word. ‘Stronger than they look.’

‘What happened to her face, Joe?’

‘She got burned, looks like.’

‘Burned bad. She ain’t never going to see out of that eye again.’

‘You an eye surgeon now?’

‘Don’t need to be a surgeon to tell a dead eye from a live one.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Who does that to a woman?’

‘Whoever it was, I don’t believe they’re around to ask no more,’ said Dahl. ‘Like I told you, don’t misjudge that woman by her appearance. Cross her, and she’ll leave you buried in a hole.’

‘Is the boy her son?’

‘I don’t know. You want to ask her, maybe pry into her other affairs while you’re about it?’

Ray looked back at the cabin. The drapes moved on one of the windows, and a face appeared. The boy was awake, and watching them, probably with that blade in his hand. Ray shuddered. He shouldn’t ought to be scared by a child, but something of Dahl’s own unease had communicated itself to him.

‘The kid’s watching us,’ he said.

Joe didn’t turn around. ‘He looks out for the woman.’

‘He’s a creepy little f*cker, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, and he’s got real good hearing too.’

Ray shut up.

‘This woman, she’ll put more work our way if it all goes right for her,’ Dahl said. He paused. ‘As long as you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.’

Ray didn’t mind. He’d seen the guns: a pair of Ruger Hawkeyes and two compact 9 mm pistols. So Ray Wray had never killed anyone: that didn’t mean he wouldn’t, if it came down to it. He’d come close once or twice, and he thought that he could take the final step.

‘Are we the only ones looking for this plane, Joe?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t believe we are.’

‘I thought not,’ said Ray. ‘When do we start?’

‘Soon, Ray. Real soon.’