Her cell phone sat on the table before her. A series of meetings, both personal and professional, had run late that day, with the last not concluding until after nine p.m. As soon as she turned her cell phone back on, she was greeted by messages from the private detective named Charlie Parker. She decided to wait until she got home, or even the next morning, before returning his calls, mainly to ensure that she wouldn’t have to meet him that night. She was tired, and had survived the day on bottled water, bad coffee, and worse pastries. She wanted a bath, a glass of wine, and a hot meal. Parker could wait.
Oddly, her first meeting with Jaycob Eklund had been similarly delayed, although on that occasion it was he, not she, who was responsible. Still, they’d been destined to meet – not in a romantic sense, or even on any significant level of friendship, as they’d never grown close, but because, like him, she had for a number of years been quietly and discreetly collating information on the Capstead Martyrs and their leader, the one who called himself Peter Magus.
The reason for her caution was initially different from Eklund’s. He had convinced himself that some vestige of the Capstead Martyrs – or the Brethren, as he generally termed them – still existed, both physically present in the form of descendants and as something more ethereal. Consequently, he was wary of drawing attention to his inquiries.
She, by contrast, saw in the story of the Martyrs the potential for bringing together any number of subjects with which she was fascinated, among them nineteenth-century American frontier history, murder, false preachers, and esoteric belief systems – in the case of the Martyrs, a potent compound of alchemy, eschatology, the apocryphal scriptures, angel lore, and demonology that, as far as she could tell, was entirely the creation of Peter Magus himself.
What Eklund’s theories added to this already heady brew was more bloodshed, and Souliere was savvy enough to realize that blood sold books. She made it clear to him that she still wasn’t fully prepared to accept his view that all of the disappearances and killings pinpointed by him were linked to the Capstead Martyrs, but at least a few were interesting in that regard. As for the sightings, she’d encountered enough instances of collusion, hysteria, and miscommunication to be able to dismiss that part of Eklund’s tale virtually without a second thought, although the consistency of the witness statements was a factor worth addressing in her book, perhaps in a chapter relating to the contaminant potential of mythologies.
But the figure of the Magus fascinated her. He would have been worthy of examination if only as an example of the transformative power of the immigrant dream, and the possibilities for reinvention offered by the United States in pioneer times.
Few images of the Magus existed. Given his activities, and those of his followers, he was reluctant to permit himself to be photographed, even allowing for his distinctive appearance. But perhaps in a moment of vanity, and spurred by a recognition that his pursuers were closing in for the kill, he consented to having a daguerreotype made of himself shortly before the retreat to Capstead. Souliere possessed a copy of it, as did Eklund. It depicted a tall, thin man dressed in the black suit of a preacher, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. His hair was long and red, and his skull was misshapen and pitted, a consequence of the violent existence that he led. In the photograph, the Magus was facing the camera, his distinctive beard disguising the weakness of his chin, and the angle of the lens hiding the flattened profile of which contemporary records spoke.
The Magus’s left eye bulged, which Souliere believed might have been a symptom of Graves’ disease, or even a form of cancer: the Magus was said to have suffered diarrhea and fevers in the final months of his life, which, like the bulging of the left eye, were symptoms of neuroblastoma. DNA analysis of the Magus’s remains might have provided a definitive answer had his body not been badly burned during the Capstead siege, and the corpse thrown in the Mississippi, denying him a proper burial as further punishment for his sins. Meanwhile, the right side of the Magus’s face was almost entirely covered by scar tissue, a souvenir of the Brethren’s attack on the Kjellson homestead near Marietta, Ohio. The patriarch of the family, Bjorn Kjellson, turned out not to be quite as dead as was thought, and managed to get off a shotgun blast that left the Magus near blind in one eye. Kjellson’s sister, who lived in Chillicothe, was named Agata, and she married a man named Christer Eklund, who was Jaycob Eklund’s great-great-great-grandfather. For Jaycob, therefore, the Capstead Martyrs were a matter of personal interest, with a specific connection to his family’s past.
Souliere blinked, and a single droplet of blood exploded on the kitchen table. She coughed, and the droplet was lost in a greater spray of red, but she barely noticed. She had already forgotten about the two people behind her, even though one of them – the woman – had stuck a knife in her. Souliere had put up a good fight before the end, though, and managed to land one particularly sharp blow to the bitch’s cheek. Souliere might have taken her, too, if the bastard with her hadn’t rabbit-punched her on the back of the head, leaving Souliere momentarily stunned and open to the blade.
None of that was of consequence now. She was dying, and her attention was fixed on the man standing before her. The Magus didn’t look quite as he did in the daguerreotype. That version of himself was wounded and tired, corrupted by years of predation and rapine. This one glowed. The scarring to his face was gone, and his head was perfectly smooth. Only his eyes were cloudy, with a milky-gray cast to them like water mixed with bleach. She saw other figures moving behind him, mostly women. Given time, she might have been able to put names to them.
The knife had felt very cold when it entered her, which surprised her. Even as the coldness spread through her system, her body remained warm. She didn’t know how that could be. The Magus might have been able to tell her, but she didn’t want to ask him. She didn’t like having him in her kitchen. His presence made her feel dirty.
She heard a mewing sound from the back door: Creswell returning from his evening wanderings. The cat flap was broken, and she’d been forced to seal it up temporarily to keep out the cold until she could get around to replacing it. She willed the cat to go away. She didn’t want them to kill Creswell.
The Magus was watching her. He was very still. She thought she could detect some residue of dark pupils in the pale fathoms of his eyes. They reminded her of frogspawn.
She coughed again. It hurt, but not as much as before. She wished that she’d replied to the detective’s messages. He might have been able to save her from this.
The cat stopped mewing.
The Magus and his people vanished.
The cold went away.
It was done.
69
Parker woke shortly before eight a.m. It didn’t take long for his concerns about the situation with Sam to gather like clouds on the horizon, but he did his best to set them aside. He had work to do, and his personal problems wouldn’t help him to do it any better.
He reached for his phone. He always left it on because, like any parent, he lived in fear of being out of contact in the event of a problem with his child. There was still no sign of contact from Michelle Souliere. He called her number again – he knew it by heart now, even with a redial button – and was surprised to hear it ring. He waited, but nobody picked up, and eventually the familiar voice message sounded in his ear once more.
He grabbed a coffee in the lobby of the hotel, checked out, and drove over to South End. A car now stood in Souliere’s drive: a lovely old blue VW Beetle that, judging by its condition, was clearly its owner’s pride and joy. Parker pulled up to the curb, opened the front gate, and walked up to the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, but nobody answered. He tried again, this time holding down the bell for long enough to be considered rude if Souliere did respond, but there was still no response from inside.
Parker called Souliere’s number and heard it ring twice: once in his ear, and the second time from somewhere in the house. The ringing in the house ceased, and he heard S
ouliere’s by now familiar voice speaking from his phone: ‘Hi, this is Michelle. I’m sorry I can’t pick up right now, but …’
He silenced her. He peered in the window at the front of the house and saw a small room furnished with a pair of armchairs, a lot of bookshelves, and not much else. Connecting doors led into the next room, but they were closed. He followed the left side of the house to a small yard, and heard a mewing from beside the kitchen door. A white cat was sitting by a closed flap. While Parker watched, the cat scratched at the plastic. Parker drew closer, but the cat didn’t appear frightened. It just mewed again, and looked up at him expectantly as he reached the door. He knocked hard and called Souliere’s name. The drapes were closed on the only window, so he couldn’t see inside.
‘Can I help you with something?’
A man had emerged from the neighboring house. He was big and broad, with a sallow complexion and a long mustache that made him look like a Mexican revolutionary. Two small children peered from the kitchen behind him.
‘I was looking for Michelle Souliere.’
‘Well, that’s where Ms. Souliere lives, but most people, they wait to go in by the front door.’
The word honest remained unspoken before ‘people’, but Parker heard it anyway. He identified himself as a private investigator, and Souliere’s neighbor introduced himself as César Valenzuela.
‘I was due to meet with Ms. Souliere yesterday,’ said Parker, ‘but I never heard from her. I assume that’s her car in the drive.’
‘Yes, that’s hers.’
‘Did you hear her come home last night?’
‘No, I work late. I think it was there when I got back, but I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘After eleven.’
Valenzuela shifted nervously from foot to foot, and looked over Parker’s shoulder at Souliere’s home.
‘You think she’s all right in there?’ he asked.
‘I hope so, but I don’t want to call the cops only to find that she’s been in the bathroom, or took a sleeping pill and zonked out.’
The children were still watching through the open kitchen door. Valenzuela told them, in English, to go inside, then added ‘Hace frío.’
Parker waited.
‘I got a key,’ said Valenzuela. ‘She’s asked for it maybe twice in five years, when she locked herself out.’
‘Get it, please, and I’ll stand with you while you open the door,’ said Parker. ‘We’ll call her name, and if we get a reply, then fine. If we don’t – well, let’s just hope that she replies.’
Valenzuela went into his house to find the key. While he was gone, Parker paced the yard and called Ross. The FBI man answered on the second ring.
‘We may have a problem,’ said Parker, and explained about Souliere’s failure to make their meeting, or return his calls. ‘I’m outside her house now. Her cell phone rings inside, but nobody answers. Her neighbor’s gone to find the spare key, but if she’s run into some trouble, then the police are going to become involved.’
The silence over the phone was not an easy one, and went on a little too long for Parker’s liking.
‘If I have to call the police, they’ll ask me what business I had with Souliere,’ Parker prompted. ‘That means telling them about Eklund, which will raise the question of who hired me to look for him.’
‘I’d prefer, and you might also find it beneficial, if Eklund’s disappearance was not mentioned,’ said Ross. ‘The same goes for my involvement.’
‘With respect, your preferences could land me in a jail cell.’
Through the kitchen window, Parker could see Valenzuela waving a key fob at him, and indicating that he would come around from the front of the house, as a fence separated the properties. He frowned at the sight of Parker talking on the phone. Time was running out.
‘Give them Eklund, but only if you have no other choice,’ said Ross.
‘And when they ask who hired me? In case you needed reminding, I don’t have any kind of protection here.’
Communications between private investigators and their clients were not privileged. If something had happened to Souliere, and the police asked Parker about his efforts to contact her, he would have no option but to provide answers.
‘Refer any questions that you don’t want to answer to Moxie Castin,’ said Ross.
‘I’m not employed by Moxie on this.’
‘I’ll rectify that situation.’
That didn’t make Parker much happier. Even in the case of an investigator working for an attorney, privilege only applied to communications relating to advice or strategy on a court case, and there were no legal proceedings involving Eklund for Moxie to fall back on. But Parker understood what Ross was doing: delay, delay, delay.
‘Moxie’s not going to like it,’ he said.
‘Then he should never have started working with you,’ said Ross. ‘From experience, I can attest that there’s not a great deal about it to like.’
‘The feeling’s mutual.’
‘I thought it might be,’ said Ross, then added: ‘Understand something: when I said I would prefer if Eklund’s current nebulous status was kept out of this, I should clarify that, in my world, the word prefer is generally construed as an instruction.’
Ross hung up without another word, and Valenzuela appeared. The key fob in his hand was shaped like a white cat, a plastic miniature of the one that continued to cry at Souliere’s back door. It was clear that Valenzuela was curious about whom Parker might have been speaking with, but didn’t want to ask. Discreetly, Parker deleted Ross’s number, flicked to his contacts list, and called Moxie Castin. He let the number ring twice before ending the call and slipping the phone into his pocket. If the police had to be summoned, and Valenzuela subsequently mentioned witnessing Parker having a telephone conversation, the list of recently called numbers would show only Souliere’s and Castin’s. If the police decided to investigate further, they’d need a court order. It was another imperfect solution, but then it was an increasingly imperfect world.
Parker and Valenzuela went to the back door together. Parker picked up the cat and held it in his arms while he knocked hard a couple of times and called Souliere’s name, to no result. He was wearing a sweater under his jacket, so he pulled the sleeve down until it covered his hand and tried the door. It was locked.
‘Put the key in,’ he told Valenzuela, ‘but don’t touch anything else, okay?’
Valenzuela nodded. He inserted the key and twisted. The lock clicked, and Parker opened the door.
Michele Souliere was sitting in a chair, her head on the kitchen table, her hands hanging almost to the floor. Parker recognized her from photographs on the Internet. Her face was turned to the door, and her eyes were closed. The surface of the table and the floor around her chair were sticky with blood.
‘Híjole,’ whispered Valenzuela. He covered his mouth with his hand and backed away. From somewhere in the distance, Parker heard the sound of approaching sirens and realized that Valenzuela had probably called the police while he was searching for Souliere’s spare key.
The cat was wriggling in Parker’s arms, and its cries blended with the noise of the sirens.
It’s just hungry, Parker thought, as he stared down at Souliere’s body. It can’t know.
Then the little cat grew still, and wailed and wailed.
70
Parker didn’t have much time. He handed the cat to Valenzuela, who was leaning against the fence taking deep breaths, and stepped away to make another call. He remained in Valenzuela’s sight, mostly so there would be no issue with the police when they arrived. He didn’t want there to be any question about his possible intrusion on a crime scene.
He called Angel.
‘Where are you?’
‘About half an hour out of Greensburg.’
A Waterbury PD patrol car pulled up outside Souliere’s home. He only had seconds left.
‘M
ichelle Souliere’s dead. Get to Thayer, and keep him safe. I’m going to be tied up with the police for a while. Let Moxie Castin know when you have Thayer.’
He hung up, deleted the number, and put his phone away. The approaching officer had his right hand on his weapon, so Parker made sure to keep his own hands clearly in sight. He was about to tell Valenzuela to do the same, but Valenzuela was already ahead of him.
For the second time that morning, Parker identified himself as a private investigator, then indicated the open back door.
‘You’ve got a body,’ he said. ‘Her name is Michelle Souliere.’
He corrected himself. Everything about her would be in the past now.
‘Was Michelle Souliere.’
The Buckners had checked into a chain motel a couple of miles off the highway. They had discussed heading straight back to Turning Leaf, but neither of them had ever killed before, and Sally was surprised by how exhausted she felt. Thanks to TV and the Internet, they were reasonably familiar with forensics and DNA. They’d scrubbed Souliere’s hands thoroughly after she died, and checked the floor for any stray hairs that might have fallen from Sally’s head during the fight. They found a couple, helped by the fact that Sally’s hair was so red, and now were certain they’d left few, if any, traces of their presence at Michelle Souliere’s house – with the obvious exception of a dead body, as Kirk noted while they worked on the clothing they’d worn at the scene. They soaked everything in water mixed with Clorox in the motel tub, and sealed the items in separate bags. When that was done, Kirk showered then drove around for a time placing the bags in trash cans and Dumpsters. He returned, and they slept for a few hours.
A Game of Ghosts Page 28