‘There’s a homeless man in the church grounds,’ said Warraner. ‘He’s shouting about a murder.’
Shit.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Morland.
He looked to his wife.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
But she was already gone.
Warraner hung up the phone. In a corner of the living room lay the body of Bryan Joblin. It was Joblin’s misfortune to have been present at Warraner’s house when the men arrived, and to have reached for his gun at the sight of them. Joblin had died instantly. He had recently fixed his eye on Warraner’s eldest daughter Ruth, a development about which Warraner had been deeply unhappy. That problem, at least, now appeared to have been solved.
Nearby, Warraner’s wife and children were under a gun. One not dissimilar to it was only inches from the pastor’s face. If he focused on the muzzle – and he was focusing, because it was very, very close to him – the masked face of the man holding the weapon became a blur. Warraner could only see one or the other properly, but not both: the instrument of killing, or the man who might let him live.
‘You did good.’
Warraner couldn’t reply. It was all that he had been able to do just to keep his voice steady as he spoke to Morland. He managed to generate some spittle in his mouth, and found his voice.
‘What’s going to happen to my family?’
‘Nothing,’ replied the gunman. ‘Although I can’t promise the same for you.’
The Prosperous Police Department kept one officer on duty at night. In the event of an emergency, that officer could call the chief, or even the Maine State Police, but so far no nighttime incident had ever been sufficiently serious to require the assistance of the MSP. The officer on duty that night was named Connie Dackson, and she was trying to rewire the plug on the coffee machine when two men entered the Town Office. One carried a shotgun, the other a pistol. Both wore black ski masks.
‘Not a move,’ said the one holding the shotgun, which was now pointing at Dackson.
Nobody had ever pointed a gun at her before. She was so scared that she couldn’t have moved even if she wanted to. She was forced facedown on the floor, and her hands were secured with her own cuffs. A gag was placed over her mouth, and she was shown into the town’s single holding cell. It was over one hundred years old, just like the building that housed it. The bars were green, and Dackson had a clear view through them as the two men began disabling the department’s entire communications system.
Morland couldn’t raise Connie Dackson on her cell phone as he drove. He wasn’t worried, though, not yet. She might have left it in her vehicle if she was patrolling, or simply be in the john. She might already even be with Warraner, trying to coax some bum out of the churchyard, a bum who was muttering about murder. That was when Morland knew that he was tired: Warraner wouldn’t be dumb enough to call Dackson if there was a chance that she might hear something she shouldn’t. This was up to him, and him alone.
The first thing that struck him as he reached the churchyard was the fact that the door of the church was open. The gate to the churchyard was unlocked, the chain lying on the ground. The chain had been cut, just like the one farther down the road.
The second was that he could find no trace of any bum.
He didn’t call out Warraner’s name. He didn’t have to. He could now see him kneeling in the doorway of the church. Behind him stood a tall man in a ski mask. He held a gun to the pastor’s head.
‘Chief Morland,’ said the man. ‘Glad you could make it.’
Morland thought that he sounded like a black man. Prosperous didn’t have any black residents. It wasn’t unusual in such a white state. Maine was one of the few places where nobody could try to blame blacks for crime. The white folks had that one all sewn up.
Morland raised his own gun.
‘Lower your weapon,’ he said.
‘Look around you, Chief,’ said the man.
Morland risked a glance. Three other figures, also masked, materialized from the gloom of the cemetery. Two were armed, their weapons pointing in his direction. The third held a coil of wire, and the sight of it caused Morland to notice for the first time the cables that crossed the cemetery and hung over some of the gravestones. He moved slightly to the right, and saw one of the holes that had so interested the state police investigators when they’d come looking for Kayley Madsen. A length of wire led into its depths.
‘What are you doing?’ said Morland.
‘Putting the finishing touches to thermite and Semtex devices,’ said the man. ‘We’re about to destroy your town, starting here. Now put down your gun. I want to talk. The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.’
But Morland wasn’t about to talk to anyone.
Instead, he simply started shooting.
Nobody lived on Prosperous’s Main Street. It was strictly businesses only. As midnight approached, the street and its surroundings stood empty.
Slowly, men began to emerge from the shadows, eight in all. Ronald Straydeer led them, his features, like those of the others with him, concealed. Beside him walked Shaky.
‘You sure you’re okay to do this?’ asked Ronald.
‘I’m sure,’ said Shaky.
He held an incendiary device in his good hand. A cold wind was blowing from the east. That was good. It would fan the flames.
There came the sound of breaking glass.
Minutes later, Prosperous started to burn.
Morland was running for his life. Shots struck the old gravestones, or whistled past his ear to vanish into the forest beyond. He stayed low, using the monuments for cover, firing, weaving and dodging, but never stopping. He was outnumbered, and these men could easily surround and kill him. Anyway, staying in the cemetery was not an option, for it was now one massive explosion waiting to occur.
He didn’t head for the gate. That would be too obvious. Instead he sprinted for the railings and scrambled over them. He took a shot to the upper arm but did not stop. The forest was ahead of him, and he lost himself in its darkness. He risked only one look back and saw that the church door was now closed. The shooting had stopped, and in the silence Morland heard Warraner’s voice raised in song from behind the old stone walls. Somehow, in the confusion, he had managed to lock himself inside.
‘When men begin to weed,‘ sang Warraner, ‘The thistle from the seed …’
The figures in the churchyard started to run. Morland reloaded his gun and drew a bead on the nearest man. Perhaps he could yet stop this. His finger tightened on the trigger.
But he did not fire. Was this not what he wanted, what he sought? Let this be an end to it. He lowered his gun and retreated deeper into the forest, faster now, putting as much distance between him and the church as he could. If he could get to his car and return to town, he and Dackson could hole up in the Town Office while they called for backup.
He reached the road and saw an orange glow rising from Prosperous. His town was already burning, but he barely had time to register that fact before a massive blast rent the night. The ground shook, and Morland was knocked from his feet by the force of it. Debris was hurled high into the air, and earth, stone and wood rained down on him where he lay. He could feel the heat of the detonation, even from the road.
He covered his head with his hands, and prayed to every god and none.