I found Shaky in his bed at the Oxford Street Shelter. They’d done their best to keep him comfortable while the wound to his head was healing. He still had a headache, and his scalp had begun to itch, but otherwise he was doing as well as could be expected for someone who had been hit over the head with a liquor bottle. I put him in my car and took him to the Bear for a burger and a beer. When he was settled into his seat with a rodeo burger on order and a Shipyard Old Thumper in a glass before him, and Cupcake Cathy had fussed over him some, I told him a little of the day I’d had. After all, I was working for him. I’d made him pay me a dollar while he was lying on the hospital gurney. One of the nurses had taken it amiss, and my reputation at Maine Medical was now probably lower than most ambulance chasers.
‘So he definitely went to Prosperous?’ said Shaky.
‘He didn’t just go there, he got run out of town. Twice. The first time politely, the second time less so.’
‘He could be a stubborn man,’ said Shaky.
‘He was a bright one too,’ I said. ‘Brighter than I am at least, because I’m still not sure what he was doing nosing around an old church.’
‘Do you believe what that cop told you?’
‘I’ve no reason not to. The job Jude’s daughter spoke of could have fallen through. She might have changed her mind about it, or that old couple, if they existed at all, could have reconsidered their Good Samaritanism while she left to get her bags. Or she might just have been unlucky.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘She was a vulnerable woman living on the streets. There are men out there who’d regard someone like her as easy prey.’
Shaky nodded and took a long sip of his beer.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve met enough of them in my time, and they don’t all sleep on mats on floors.’
‘You may be right,’ I said. ‘In my experience the worst of them wear suits and drive nice, well-maintained vehicles. But one thing is certain: as far as the services in Bangor are concerned, Annie dropped off the radar on the day she spoke about that job. I went by the women’s shelter on my way back down here, and nobody has seen or heard from her since then.’
‘And this woman, this Candy, she’s certain Annie said she was going to Prosperous?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean Prosperous is where she ended up.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Go back there. Look for a blue car. See what happens.’
‘Wow, good plan. You have it all worked out. And people pay you for that?’
‘Not a lot,’ I said, pointedly. ‘And, sometimes, not at all.’
26
In the living room of Hayley Conyer’s house, Morland steepled his hands over his face, closed his eyes and made a prayer of thanks to a god in whom he did not believe. It was force of habit, and no more than that. It looked good for him to go to church on Sundays. All of the most influential citizens in Prosperous were members of one congregation or another. Some even believed. Just like their ancestors back in England who had carved faces into the walls of their church, their faith could encompass more than one deity. Morland was not of their kind. He no longer even knew what he believed in, apart from Prosperous itself. All he could say for sure was that no Christian god impinged on his consciousness.
He was weary from arguing, but at least his view had prevailed, for now. As the guardian of the church it was Warraner and not Morland who had Hayley’s ear in times of crisis, but on this occasion Morland had managed to sway Hayley. He had been helped by the absence of two members of the board: Luke Joblin was attending a realtors’ convention in Philadelphia, and Thomas Souleby was currently under observation at a sleep clinic in Boston, having recently been diagnosed with sleep apnea. In times of crisis Hayley could act without a vote from the board, but Morland had convinced her that the situation was not that desperate. The detective was simply asking questions. There was nothing to link the death of the girl’s father to the town, and the girl herself was no more. Unless the detective could commune with the deceased he would find his avenues of inquiry quickly exhausted.
Hayley Conyer poured the last of the tea into her cup. It must have been cold and unbearably strong by now, but she was not one to let it go to waste. To her right sat Warraner, his face frozen. That was the other thing: Warraner had wanted them to take action but he couldn’t specify what kind of action. Killing the detective wasn’t an option, and Warraner had no solution of his own to offer. He just didn’t like seeing Morland get his way. Warraner would rather have been the king of nothing than the prince of something.
‘I’m still not entirely happy,’ said Warraner. ‘This man is a threat to us.’
‘Not yet,’ said Morland, for what seemed like the hundredth time. He removed his hands from his face. ‘Not unless we make him a threat.’
‘We’ll discuss it again when Thomas and Luke have returned,’ snapped Hayley. She seemed as weary of Warraner as Morland was. ‘In the meantime, I want to be informed the moment he returns to Prosperous, if he returns here. I don’t want to have to wait to hear it from the pastor.’
Warraner’s face thawed into a smile. Morland didn’t react. He simply wanted to be gone from the house. He stood and took his coat from the chair.
‘If he comes back, you’ll know,’ said Morland.
He was hungry. Julianne would have done what she could to save some dinner for him, but it would still be dried to hell and back by now. He’d eat it, though, and not just because he was hungry. He’d have eaten it even if Hayley Conyer had force-fed him caviar and foie gras during their meeting. He’d eat it because his wife had prepared it for him.
‘Good night,’ said Morland.
‘Just one more thing, Chief,’ said Hayley, and Morland stiffened as surely as if she’d inserted a blade into the small of his back.
He turned. Even Warraner seemed curious to hear what it was she had to say.
‘I want the girl’s body moved,’ said Hayley.
Morland looked at her as though she were mad.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I’m far from kidding. This detective’s presence in Prosperous has made me uneasy, and if that body is discovered, we’ll all be fucked.’
Warraner looked shocked. Even Morland was surprised. He hadn’t heard Hayley Conyer swear in a coon’s age.
‘I want the girl’s remains taken beyond the town limits,’ she continued. ‘Far beyond. How you dispose of her is your own concern, but get her gone, do you understand?’
In that moment, Morland hated Hayley Conyer more than he had ever hated anyone before. He hated her and he hated Prosperous.
‘I understand,’ he said.
This time, he didn’t call her a bitch. He had a stronger word for her instead, and he used it all the way home. He’d dig up the body the next day, just as he had been told, but he wouldn’t do it alone, because fucking Harry Dixon would be right there alongside him.
‘Fuck!’ shouted Morland, as he drove. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’
He slammed the steering wheel hard in time with each use of the word, and the wind tugged at the branches of the trees as around him the woods laughed.
27
There were three towns within a two-mile radius of Prosperous’s limits. Only one, Dearden, was of any significant size; the other two were towns in the same way that Pluto used to be a planet, or a handful of guys standing at a crossroads counted as a crowd.
Every town has someone who is a royal pain in the ass. This role divides pretty evenly between the sexes, but the age profile is usually consistent: over forty at least, and preferably older still; usually single, or with the kind of spouse or partner who is either lost in hero-worship or one step away from murder. If a meeting is held, they’re at it. If change is in the air, they’re against it. If you say it’s black, they’ll say it’s white. If you agree that it’s white, they’ll reconsider their position. They’ve rarely held an elected position, or if they once did, then no one was crazy enough to reelect them. Their self-appointed role in life is to ensure that they’re nobody’s fool, and they want as many people as possible to know it. Because of them, things get done more slowly. Sometimes, things don’t get done at all. Very occasionally, they inadvertently do some good by preventing from happening that which might ultimately have proved to be unbenefcial or actively destructive to their community, but they manage to do so only on the basis that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
If a town is sufficiently large, there may be many such persons, but Dearden was only big enough to contain a single entity. His name was Euclid Danes, and even a cursory Internet search in connection with Dearden threw up Euclid’s name with a frequency that might lead one to suspect that he was the only living soul in town. In fact, so omnipresent was Euclid Danes that even Dearden was not big enough to contain him, and his sphere of influence had extended to encompass parts of Prosperous too. Euclid Danes owned a couple of acres between Prosperous and Dearden, and it appeared that he had made it his lifelong business to singlehandedly resist the expansion of Prosperous to the south. His land acted as a buffer between the towns, and he had steadfastly and successfully fought every attempt by the citizens of Prosperous to buy him, or force him, out. He didn’t seem interested in money or reason. He wanted to keep his land, and if by doing so he irritated the hell out of the wealthy folk up the road, then so much the better.
Euclid Danes’s house was the original bad neighbor nightmare: poorly kept, with a yard that was a kissing cousin to wilderness and littered with pieces of unidentifable machinery which, with a little work and a lot of chutzpah, might even have qualified as some form of modern sculpture. An original Volkswagen Beetle stood in the drive. In an open garage beyond stood the skeleton of a second Beetle, scavenged for parts.
I parked and rang the doorbell. From somewhere at the back of the house came the sound of excited barking.
The door was opened by a stick-thin woman in a blue housecoat. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand. In her left she held a small mongrel puppy by the scruff of the neck.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I was looking for Euclid Danes.’
She took a drag on the cigarette. The puppy yawned.
‘Jesus, what’s he done now?’ she said.
‘Nothing. I just wanted to ask him a few questions.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
I showed her my identifcation. Even the puppy looked more impressed by it than she did.
‘You sure he’s not in trouble?’
‘Not with me. Are you Mrs Danes?’
This provoked a burst of laughter that deteriorated into a ft of coughing.
‘Jesus Christ, no!’ she said, once she’d recovered. ‘I’m his sister. There’s nobody desperate enough to marry that poor sonofabitch, or if there is then I don’t want to meet her.’
I couldn’t see a wedding ring on her finger either. Then again, she was so thin that it would have been hard to make one ft, or if it did the weight would have unbalanced her. She was so skinny as to be almost sexless, and her hair was cut shorter than mine. If it hadn’t been for the housecoat and the pale twig legs that poked out from under her skirt, she could have passed for an elderly man.
‘So, is Mr Danes around?’
‘Oh, he’s around somewhere, just not here. He’s on his throne, holding court. You know where Benny’s is?’
‘No.’
‘Head into town and take the first left after the intersection. Follow the smell of stale beer. When you find him, tell him to get his ass home. I’m cooking meatloaf. If he’s not sitting at the table when it comes out of the oven, I’ll feed it to the dogs.’
‘I’ll be sure to let him know.’