A Time of Torment (26 page)

‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘How long will you stay?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘You can come with me, if you choose. You don’t have to remain all alone.’

And the child inhaled her father’s pain, carried on a wind between worlds. It smelled of copper and dead flowers.

‘And if I do, what will become of him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you care?’

The landscape flickered, and the Almost-Mother and the Mother of Sorrow and Rage briefly became one, and somewhere in their conjoined hearts was a kind of love.

‘I can’t help him.’

‘Can I?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I want to go back.’

‘Then go.’

And she did.

Time passed. She walked in shadows. Once, maybe twice, the Almost-Mother joined her in the world of her father, and brought a child from the confusion of death to follow the water, but mostly she was alone, or drifted with the Mother of Sorrow and Rage, and watched her father from afar. She willed him to see her, and sometimes he almost did. She glimpsed as he came close to falling, felt him nearly touch damnation before drawing back. She—

She was on the rock again, and the dead flowed around her, and the Almost-Mother was seated beside her. But the air was different, and the sky had changed, and when Jennifer raised her hand blue light arced across her fingers.

‘Listen to me,’ said the Almost-Mother. The child heard the fear and awe in her voice, and she listened. ‘That which once slept is awaking.’

Jennifer felt it – a consciousness returning, exploring – and the ranks of the dead shivered. A few paused in uncertainty, and a man and woman drifted away hand in hand to wander among low hills, and the child could not tell what might befall them now that they turned their backs on the distant sea.

‘What must I do?’

‘Hold close. Listen. Listen hard.’

She heard it – the crying of an infant: a girl, a new daughter. For the first time since the Traveling Man had come and cut her from her old life, she wept.

‘He will forget me,’ she said. ‘I want to leave. I want to go with you. He doesn’t need me anymore.’

‘No,’ said the Almost-Mother. ‘He will need you more than ever.’

And in the darkness of the depths between worlds, something stirred.

P
arker’s phone rang shortly after seven a.m. No good could ever come of a phone call at such a time on a Sunday.

It was Moxie Castin.

‘Turn on Channel Six,’ he said. ‘It looks like someone burned Harpur Griffin alive …’

Parker watched the news while he dressed, then drove over to Forest Avenue, parked a couple of blocks from the scene, and walked as far as the police cordon. Behind it was a mass of cars, both marked and unmarked, and a crime scene van. Over to the right, he saw the medical examiner’s vehicle, and a pair of figures dressed in overalls. Screens had been placed around Griffin’s car to protect it from curious onlookers, of which there were already a few. A breeze blew the stink of the burnt-out car at them. Up close, the police would be able to smell Griffin as well.

His cell phone rang: Castin again.

‘I’ve been asking around,’ he said. ‘There’s no positive ID, not yet, but it’s definitely Griffin’s car, and they found nylon and buckles fused to the victim’s chest and neck. Looks like he was strapped to his seat and left to burn. Do you want me to arrange the sit-down with Portland PD? The sooner we tell them some of what we know, the better.’

‘No, I’ll make the call. If you do it, we’ll look adversarial from the start.’

‘You have friends in the department?’

Parker watched as a female detective appeared from behind the screen. Her face was concealed by a mask, and she was wearing blue plastic gloves. She tore off the gloves and dropped them in a waste bag before removing the mask, but Parker had recognized her the moment he saw her.

Sharon Macy. They’d dated, and it didn’t take, but at least he hadn’t left scorched earth in his wake.

‘Kind of,’ he said.

‘Since it’s you, “kind of” is the best that can be expected under the circumstances. Let me know the time, and I’ll join you.’

‘Sure,’ said Parker.

‘You told me it might go south,’ said Castin. ‘At least you didn’t lie.’

Parker hung up as Angel and Louis appeared. He’d called them from the house.

Louis stared at the screens, and sniffed the air.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that didn’t work out so good.’

Angel and Louis headed over to the Big Sky Bread Company to get coffee and breakfast, leaving Parker to attract Macy’s attention. He skirted the cordon until he came into her line of sight. He didn’t need to wave, or even whistle; she noticed him quickly enough. Anyway, if he’d tried whistling at Sharon Macy he might have ended up eating through a straw. He saw her say something to the other detective from the Criminal Investigation Division who was with her – Parker thought his name might be Farrow or Farnham, something like that, and he was enrolled in the Criminal Justice program at one of the local colleges, taking advantage of the department’s fifty percent discount on tuition fees. That meant he was ambitious, and was probably secretly pleased that someone had set Harpur Griffin alight. Homicides were good for those hoping to gain a foothold on the career ladder. Farlow or Frobisher seemed inclined to follow Macy, but she waved a hand at him and he hung back, watching her depart with an abandoned expression, like a dog left behind when its owner has gone into a store.

Macy looked good, but then she always looked good. She was small, dark, and pretty. Parker had missed his chance with her, but he had no regrets. Well, few regrets. Local gossip claimed that she was seeing Cliff Sanders, one of the city’s new tribe of restaurateurs. Sanders had already opened two Portland restaurants in which the size of the portions was inversely proportional to the prices, and was planning to add two more to his roster before the next tourist season kicked in. It confirmed Parker’s suspicion that pretty soon anyone on the state’s average wage would be able to dine out in the greater Portland area only if they stuck to happy hours and buffets.

‘Rubbernecking?’ asked Macy, when she reached where Parker was waiting. ‘It’s not really your style.’

Parker indicated Griffin’s car.

‘You think it might be suicide, or a dropped cigarette?’

‘We haven’t made any official announcement yet. Maybe if you watch the news later, you’ll learn something.’

‘Like that he was strapped to his seat before he was killed?’

Macy hadn’t stopped smiling, but the smile seemed to be struggling to climb as far as her eyes, and was currently marooned somewhere around her cheekbones.

‘You’re well informed.’

‘Even without the TV news. I think we need to arrange a sit-down.’

‘You know who’s in that car?’

‘Harpur Griffin. If it’s not him, I’ll pay you a dollar.’

‘Friend?’

‘Hardly.’

‘Client?’

‘I’m not that desperate – yet. I’ve been doing some work for Moxie Castin, and Griffin wandered into range.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, that’s why I thought we should meet: you, me, Moxie, and whoever. Look, this isn’t about pulling privilege: I just thought it would be better if I made the first approach. I’ve got nothing to hide, but Moxie’s client already has enough troubles, and this is Moxie’s case, not mine.’

‘This client wouldn’t be Jerome Burnel, would it?’ asked Macy.

Damn, but the woman was smart.

‘Impressive,’ said Parker.

‘I read the bulletins. You tell Moxie to be at Middle Street in one hour. If he’s not there on time, I’ll personally come around to his office and see how many cans of that soda of his I can shove up his ass. And before you make the call’ – she raised an index finger; the smile was entirely gone now. – ‘do I need to start thinking about an arrest warrant for Burnel?’

Parker looked past her. From this angle, he could see the car in a gap through the screens. What was left of Harpur Griffin was covered by white plastic, but the blackness of him was visible beneath it. Macy’s question was the reason why Parker had wanted to hold off on saying anything about Burnel until Moxie Castin was present. He couldn’t see Burnel tying someone to a car seat and setting him on fire, but then Burnel probably hadn’t seemed like someone capable of shooting two men at a gas station until he’d pulled a gun and killed them, and if anyone had a reason for murdering Harpur Griffin, it was Jerome Burnel. Now that Griffin had been immolated, the possibility existed that Burnel hadn’t been abducted at all, and had instead dropped out of sight in order to target his tormentor.

Except Parker couldn’t really see it happening that way. Had Griffin been found stabbed or beaten in an act of panic or rage, then Parker might have been inclined to add Burnel’s name to the list of suspects, but equally he would have expected Burnel to have been found beside the body. He wouldn’t have run, but would instead have waited for the cops to come and get him. No, Griffin’s murder suggested a degree of sadism and premeditation, and Parker believed it would probably have taken more than one man to carry it out. He couldn’t picture Burnel with an accomplice. He didn’t have many friends left.

Macy was waiting for his answer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Burnel didn’t do this.’

‘You sound very sure of that.’

‘I’ve met him.’

‘And you don’t think he’s the type.’

‘Not to set a man alight, but that’s only part of it.’

‘What’s the rest?’

‘I believe Burnel is dead. And if he’s not, he may be wishing that he was.’

Macy thought about what he’d said, then turned slightly so that she too could see the ruin of the car, and the shape of the body inside.

‘So you think that whoever did Griffin—’

‘Did Burnel too?’ he finished for her. ‘Possibly. No, probably.’

‘Call Moxie,’ she said. ‘Now.’

S
hortly after eight that same morning, Sheriff Edward Henkel turned his cruiser into the parking lot of Shelby’s Diner and killed the ignition. Since his divorce, and the decision not to haul the kids over to stay with him more than once every month, it had been his habit to take the early shift on weekends, if only because it gave him something to do. He had never been one for letting his deputies do all the hard work. Anyway, Plassey’s size and population meant that its sheriff’s department was small by the standards of the state, so everyone helped to carry the burden, Henkel included, which he was more than happy to do.

There wasn’t much to Plassey County, but it was his. He knew every corner of its speed-trap towns, every trailer park, every creaking shack. He saw the beauty of it, even in its decline. The small mine at Berber Hill was long closed, but Plassey still bore the marks of a coal county in the disused railway lines, the locked-up storage yards by the Colney River, and the roadside advertisements for lawyers specializing in cancers and other ailments caused by years spent amid darkness and dust.

Even when he wasn’t rostered, Henkel would sometimes put on his uniform and take a run along the county roads. Occasionally he’d pull someone over for speeding, or roust some kids who were indulging in a little illicit drinking, but mostly he’d just stop by homes and businesses, making sure that folks were happy, and if they weren’t, finding a way to do something about it. He had an election coming up next year, and was conscious of Channer breathing down his neck. Rob was probably still too young and unseasoned to be considering a run for sheriff, but it remained good politics to make sure people understood that new blood wasn’t always better than old.

Sheriffs in West Virginia were limited to two consecutive four-year terms, but Henkel was already grooming Ned Ralston, his chief deputy, to succeed him, assuming Henkel won the next election, which he fully intended to do. Ralston wasn’t even very keen on being sheriff, but Henkel had assured Ralston that he’d back him all the way, and stay on as his chief deputy in turn. Then, four years later, if Ned decided that he’d had enough, well, Henkel would be happy to run again. Henkel liked to think of himself as a modest student of politics, which is why he made sure to read something more than the comics in the papers every day. You could say what you liked about that Putin fella in Russia, Henkel believed, but he certainly knew how to hold on to power, even if it meant becoming prime minister instead of president for a while in order to get around those term limits in Russia. He probably hadn’t even moved out of his old office, but just found someone to switch the nameplates on the doors.

Part of Henkel’s weekend routine was to pick up the thick Sunday copies of the
Washington Post
and the
Charleston Gazette-Mail
in order to continue his education on world affairs, and head to Shelby’s not too long after Miss Queenie, Shelby’s widow – Shelby having departed for the great diner in the sky some years earlier – opened the doors. Sundays tended to be pretty quiet, which was why Queenie opened at the later hour of seven a.m., and stayed behind the register until nine thirty, when it was time for her to go to church. Usually, if Henkel got in early enough, he would find himself alone in the diner for a while, during which time Miss Queenie made sure that he was adequately fed and watered, but otherwise left him to his reading. He was running a little late this morning, but the diner remained almost empty as far as he could see. Business would pick up after the church services finished, and the various congregations came to Shelby’s for brunch and conversation.

There was a time when the background music in Shelby’s on Sundays was WVGV – 89.7 FM, West Virginia’s Gospel Station – in honor of the Sabbath, but it meant that the accompaniment to Henkel’s reading was
Preaching Time
with Dr Larry Brown and
Word of Life
with Michael Bailey, neither of which, for all their undoubted merits, Henkel found conducive to his enjoyment of the papers. After some consultation with her pastor, Miss Queenie agreed to replace WVGV with classical music, at least while Henkel was on the premises.