She didn't move until Mr. Pudd nodded once. “Do as he says,” he said. She responded immediately, taking her empty hand from her coat quickly but without any fear.
“Now tell me, Mr. Pudd,” I said, “just exactly who are you?”
“I represent the Fellowship,” he said. “I am asking you, on its behalf, to cease your involvement in this matter.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then we may have to take further action. We could involve you in some very expensive and time-consuming litigation, Mr. Parker. We have excellent lawyers. Of course, that is only one of the options open to us. There are others.” This time the warning was explicit.
“I see no reason for conflict,” I said, mimicking his own tone and mannerisms. “I simply want to find out what happened to Grace Peltier, and I believe Mr. Paragon could help me toward that end.”
“Mr. Paragon is occupied with the work of the Lord.”
“Things to do, people to fleece?”
“You are an irreverent man, Mr. Parker. Mr. Paragon is a servant of God.”
“It's hard to get good staff these days.” Mr. Pudd made a strange hissing noise, an audible release of the pent-up aggression I sensed within him.
“If he talks to me and answers my questions, then I'll leave him alone,” I said. “Live and let live, that's my motto.”
I grinned, but he didn't return the favor.
“With respect, Mr. Parker, I don't believe that is your motto.” His mouth opened a little wider, and he almost spit. “I don't believe that is your motto at all.”
I cocked the pistol. “Get off my property, Mr. Pudd, and take your chatterbox friend with you.”
That was a mistake. Beside him, the woman shifted to her left suddenly and made as if to spring at me, her left hand tensed like the talons of a hawk while her right hand made a move for her coat. I lowered the gun and fired a shot into the ground between Mr. Pudd's feet, sending a spray of dirt into the air and causing birds to scatter from the surrounding trees. The woman stopped as his hand shot out and gripped her arm.
“Take off your scarf, my dear,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. The woman paused, then unknotted her black scarf and held it limply in her left hand. Her exposed neck was crisscrossed with scars, pale pink welts that had left her so badly mutilated that to allow them to remain uncovered would be to invite stares from every passerby.
“Open wide, dear,” said Mr. Pudd.
The woman's mouth opened, revealing small yellow teeth, pink gums, and a tattered red mass at the back of her throat that was all that remained of her tongue.
“Now sing. Let Mr. Parker hear you sing.”
She opened her mouth and her lips moved, but no sound came. Yet she continued to sing a song heard only in her own head, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy, her body swaying slightly in time to the unheard music, until Mr. Pudd raised his hand and she closed her mouth instantly.
“She used to have such a beautiful voice, Mr. Parker, so fine and pure. It was throat cancer that took it from her: throat cancer and the will of God. Perhaps it was a strange blessing, a visitation from the Lord sent to test her faith and confirm her on the one true path to salvation. In the end, I think it just made her love the Lord even more.”
I didn't share his faith in the woman. The rage inside her was palpable, a fury at the pain she had endured, the loss she had suffered. That wrath had consumed any love that once existed within her, and now she was forced to look beyond herself to feed it. The pain would never ease, but the burden could be made more bearable by inflicting a taste of it on others.
“But,” Mr. Pudd concluded, “I like to tell her it was because her voice made the angels jealous.”
I had to take his word for it. I didn't see anything else about her that might have aroused the envy of angels.
“Well,” I said, “at least she still has her looks.”
Mr. Pudd didn't respond but now real hatred appeared in his eyes. It was a passing thing, gone as quickly as a mayfly to be replaced with his habitual look of false good humor. But what had flickered briefly in his eyes burst into glorious, savage flame in those of the woman: in her eyes I saw churches burn, with the congregations still inside. Mr. Pudd seemed to sense the waves of contained violence rolling from her, because he turned and touched her cheek gently with the hairy back of one finger.
“My Nakir,” he whispered. “Hush.”
Her eyes fluttered briefly closed at the caress, and I wondered if they were lovers.
“Go back to the car, my dear. Our business here is concluded, for the present.” The woman looked at me once more, then walked away. Mr. Pudd seemed about to follow her, then stopped and turned back.
“You are unwise to pursue this. I advise you for the last time to cease your involvement in this affair.”
“Sue me,” I said.
But Mr. Pudd only shook his head. “No, it's gone far beyond that, I'm afraid. I fear we shall be seeing each other again, under less favorable circumstances for you.”
He raised his hands.
“I am going to reach into my pocket, Mr. Parker, for my business card.” Without waiting for a reply, he took a small silver case from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He flipped open the case and removed a white business card, holding it gently by one corner. Once again, he extended his hand, but this time it didn't falter. He waited patiently until I was forced to reach for it. As I took it, he shifted his hand slightly and the tips of his fingers brushed against mine. Involuntarily, I shied away from the contact and Mr. Pudd nodded slightly, as if I had somehow confirmed a suspicion he had.
The card said only ELIAS PUDD in black Roman letters. There was no telephone number, no business address, no occupation. The back of the card was completely blank.
“Your card doesn't say a lot about you, Mr. Pudd,” I remarked.
“On the contrary, it says everything about me, Mr. Parker. I fear that you are simply not reading it correctly.”
“All it tells me is that you're either cheap or a minimalist,” I responded. “You're also irritating, but it doesn't say that on your card either.”
For the first time, Mr. Pudd truly smiled, his yellow teeth showing and his eyes lighting up. “Oh, but it does, in its way,” he said, and chuckled once. I kept the gun trained on him until he had climbed into the car and the strange pair had disappeared in a cloud of dust and fumes that seemed to taint the very sunlight that shone through it.
My fingers began to blister almost as soon as they had driven away. At first there was just a feeling of mild irritation but it quickly became real pain as small raised bumps appeared on my fingertips and the palm of my hand. I applied some hydrocortisone but the irritation persisted for most of the day, an intense, uncomfortable itching where Mr. Pudd's card, and his fingers, had touched my skin. Using tweezers, I placed the card in a plastic envelope, sealed it, and placed it on my hall table. I would ask Rachel to have someone take a look at it while I was in Boston.
7
I LEFT MY GUN BENEATH THE SPARE TIRE in the trunk of the Mustang before walking to the granite masonry bulk of the Edward T. Gignoux Courthouse at Newbury and Market. I passed through the metal detector, then climbed the marble stairs to courtroom 1, taking a seat in one of the chairs at the back of the court.
The last of the five rows of benches was filled with what, in less enlightened times, might have been referred to as the cast of a freak show. There were five or six people of extremely diminished stature, two or three obese women, and a quartet of very elderly females dressed like hookers. Beside them was a huge, muscular man with a bald head who must have been six-five and weighed in at three hundred pounds. All of them seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to what was going on at the front of the courtroom.
The court was already in session and a man I took to be Arthur Franklin was arguing some point of law with the judge. His client, it appeared, was wanted in California for a range of offenses, including copyright theft, animal cruelty, and tax evasion, and was about as likely to avoid a jail term as mayflies were to see Christmas. He was released on $50,000 bail and was scheduled to appear later that month before the same judge, when a final decision would be made on his extradition. Then everybody stood and the judge departed through a door behind his brown leather chair.
I walked up the center aisle, the muscular man close behind me, and introduced myself to Franklin. He was in his early forties, dressed in a blue suit, under which he was sweating slightly. His hair was startlingly black and the eyes beneath his bushy brows had the panic-stricken look of a deer faced with the lights of an approaching truck.
Meanwhile Harvey Ragle, who was seated beside Franklin, wasn't what I had expected. He was about forty and wore a neatly pressed tan suit, a clean, white, open-necked shirt, and oxblood loafers. His hair was brown and curly, cut close to his skull, and the only jewelry he wore was a gold Raymond Weil watch with a brown leather strap. He was freshly shaven and had splashed on Armani aftershave like it was being given away free. He rose from his seat and extended a well-manicured hand.
“Harvey Ragle,” he said. “CEO, Crushem Productions.” He smiled warmly, revealing startlingly white teeth.
“A pleasure, I'm sure,” I replied. “I'm sorry, I can't shake hands. I seem to have picked up something unpleasant.”
I lifted my blistered fingers and Ragle blanched. For a man who made his living by squashing small creatures, he was a surprisingly sensitive soul. I followed them both out of the courtroom, pausing briefly while the old ladies, the obese women, and the little people took turns hugging him and wishing him well, before we crossed into attorney conference room 223 beside courtroom 2. The huge man, whose name was Mikey, waited outside, his hands crossed before him.