Charlie Parker Collection 1

by John Connolly

  ‘This town died along with those kids. No new people came to live here and anyone with an ounce of sense or ambition got the hell out. Now the gene pool here’s so shallow you couldn’t drown a rat in it.

  ‘In the last month or two there’s been signs that something might happen to change that. There’s a Japanese firm interested in locating about half a mile out of town. They do research and development of computer software, I hear, and they like the idea of privacy and a quiet little backwater they can call Nippon. They’d bring a lot of money to this town, a lot of jobs for locals and maybe a chance to put the past to rest. Frankly, the people here don’t much care for the idea of working for the Japanese but they know they’re sucking shit as it is, so they’ll work for anyone as long as he’s not black.

  ‘The last thing they want is someone sniffing around ancient history, digging up the past to come up with the bones of dead children. They may be dumb in a lot of cases. They may also be racists and shit-kickers and child-fuckers, but they’re desperate for a second chance and they’ll mess up anyone who gets in their way. If they don’t do it, Earl Lee will.’

  He raised a finger and waved it purposefully in my face. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying here? Nobody wants questions asked about child-killings that took place thirty years ago. If Catherine Demeter came back here, and frankly I don’t know why she would since she ain’t got no one here to come back to, then she wouldn’t be welcome either. But she ain’t here, because if she had come back it would be all over this town like shit on a shoe.’

  He took a sip of his coffee and gritted his teeth. ‘Damn, it’s cold.’ He gestured to the waitress and called for a fresh mug.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to,’ I said. ‘But I think Catherine Demeter may have come back here, or tried to come back here. She certainly wanted to talk to the sheriff and I want to talk to him too. So where is he?’

  ‘He took a couple of days’ leave to get out of town for a while,’ said Martin, twisting the brim of his hat so that it spun on the vinyl seat. ‘He’s due back – well, he was due back today but he may leave it until tomorrow. We don’t have too much crime here beyond drunks and wife-beaters and the usual shit that goes with a place like this. But he may not be too pleased to see you waiting for him when he returns. I’m not so pleased to see you myself, no offence meant.’

  ‘None taken. I think I’ll wait around for the sheriff anyway.’ I was also going to have to find out more about the Modine killings, whether Martin liked it or not. If Catherine Demeter had reached into her past then I was going to have to reach into that past too, or I would understand nothing about the woman for whom I was searching.

  ‘I’ll also need to talk to someone about the killings. I need to know more.’

  Martin closed his eyes and ran his hand over them in weariness. ‘You’re not listening to me—’ he began.

  ‘No, you’re not listening. I’m looking for a woman who may be in trouble and who may have turned to someone here for help. Before I leave I’m going to find out whether or not that’s the case, even if it means rattling every cage in this godforsaken dump and scaring your Japanese saviours back to Tokyo. But if you help me, then this can all be done quietly and I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days.’

  We were both tensed now, leaning towards each other across the table. Some of the other diners were staring at us, their food ignored.

  Martin looked around at them then turned back to me again. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Most of the people who were around then and might know something useful have either left, or died, or won’t talk about it for love or money. There are two who might, though. One is the son of the doc who was around at that time. His name’s Connell Hyams and he has a law office in town. You’ll have to approach him yourself.

  ‘The other is Walt Tyler. His daughter was the first to die and he lives outside town. I’ll talk to him first and maybe he’ll see you.’ He stood up to leave. ‘When you’ve got your business done you’d better leave and I never want to see your face again, understand?’

  I said nothing and followed him towards the door. He stopped and turned towards me, placing his hat on his head as he did so. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a word with those boys from the bar but, remember, they ain’t got no reason to like you. I’d watch my back if I was planning on poking my nose into this town’s business.’

  ‘I noticed one of them, I think his name was Gabe, had a Klan shirt on,’ I said. ‘You got much of that around here?’

  Martin blew breath heavily from puffed cheeks. ‘In a poor town, the dumb ones always look for someone to blame for being poor.’

  ‘There was one guy – your deputy called him Clete – who didn’t look so dumb.’

  Martin eyed me from under his hat brim. ‘No, Clete’s not dumb. He sits on the council, says the only way anyone’s gonna get him off the council is with a gun barrel. Whipping you could be good for another twenty, thirty votes. Shit, maybe he’ll send you a campaign badge.

  ‘But as for the Klan, this ain’t Georgia or North Carolina, or even Delaware. Don’t go reading too much into this. You can pay for the coffee.’

  I left a couple of bucks at the till and walked out towards the car, but Martin was already pulling away. I noticed that he’d taken his hat off again inside the car. The man just didn’t seem comfortable with that damn hat. I went back into the diner, called Haven’s only cab operator and ordered another coffee.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was after six when I got back to the town. Connell Hyams’s office and home address were listed but when I drove by his office all the lights were out. I called Rudy Fry at the motel and got directions for Bale’s Farm Road, where not only Hyams but also Sheriff Earl Lee Granger had homes.

  I drove cautiously along the winding roads, looking for the concealed entrance Fry had mentioned and still glancing occasionally in my mirror for any sign of the red jeep. There was none. I passed the entrance to Bale’s Farm Road once without seeing it and had to go back over my tracks again. The sign was semi-obscured by undergrowth and pointed towards a winding, rutted track, heavy with evergreens, which eventually opened out on to a small but well-kept row of houses with long yards and what looked like plenty of space out back. Hyams’s home was near the end, a large, two-storey white wooden house. A lamp blazed by a wire frame, which opened on to a solid oak front door with a fan of frosted glass near the top. There was a light on in the hallway.

  A grey-haired man, wearing a red wool cardigan over grey slacks and a striped, open-necked shirt, opened the inner door as I pulled up and watched me cautiously.

  ‘Mr Hyams?’ I said, as I approached the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m an investigator. My name’s Parker. I wanted to talk to you about Catherine Demeter.’

  He paused for a long time in silence with the wire screen between us.

  ‘Catherine, or her sister?’ he inquired eventually.

  ‘Both, I guess.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I’m trying to find Catherine. I think she may have come back here but I’m not sure why.’

  Hyams opened the wire door and stood aside to let me enter. Inside, the house was furnished in dark wood, with large, expensive-looking mats on the floors. He led me into an office at the back, where papers were strewn over a desk on which a computer screen glowed.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  He took a brandy glass from his desk and gestured me towards a chair at the other side before seating himself. I could see him more clearly now. He was grave and patrician in appearance, his hands long and slim, the nails finely manicured. The room was warm and I could smell his cologne. It smelt expensive.

  ‘That all took place a long time ago,’ he began. ‘Most people would rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Are you “most people”?’

  He shrugged and smiled. ‘I
have a place in this community and a role to play. I’ve lived here almost all my life, apart from the time I spent in college and in practice in Richmond. My father spent fifty years practising here and kept working until the day he died.’

  ‘He was the doctor, I understand.’

  ‘Doctor, medical examiner, counsellor, legal adviser, even dentist when the resident dentist wasn’t around. He did everything. The killings hit him particularly hard. He performed the autopsies on the bodies. I don’t think he ever forgot it, not even in his sleep.’

  ‘And you? Were you around when they took place?’

  ‘I was working in Richmond at the time, so I was back and forth between Haven and Richmond. I knew of what took place here, yes, but I’d really rather not talk about it. Four children died and theirs were terrible deaths. Best to let them rest now.’

  ‘Do you remember Catherine Demeter?’

  ‘I knew the family, yes, but Catherine would have been much younger than I. She left after graduating from high school, as I recall, and I don’t think she ever came back, except to attend the funerals of her parents. The last time she returned was probably ten years ago at the very least and her family home has been sold since then. I supervised the sale. Why do you believe she might have come back now? There’s nothing here for her – nothing good at any rate.’

  ‘I’m not sure. She made some calls here earlier this week and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘It’s not much to go on.’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not.’

  He twisted the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl. His lips were pursed in appraisal but his gaze went through the glass and rested on me.

  ‘What can you tell me about Adelaide Modine and her brother?’

  ‘I can tell you that, from my point of view, there was nothing about them that might have led one to suspect that they were child killers. Their father was a strange man, a philanthropist of sorts, I suppose. He left most of his money tied up in a trust when he died.’

  ‘He died before the killings?’

  ‘Five or six years before, yes. He left instructions that the interest on the trust fund should be divided among certain charities in perpetuity. Since then, the number of charities receiving donations has increased considerably. I should know, since it is my duty to administer the trust, with the assistance of a small committee.’

  ‘And his daughter and son? Were they provided for?’

  ‘Very adequately, I understand.’

  ‘What happened to their money, their property, when they died?’

  ‘The State brought an action to take over the property and assets. We contested it on behalf of the townspeople and eventually an agreement was reached. The land was sold and all assets absorbed into the trust, with a portion of the trust used to fund new developments in the town. That is why we have a good library, a modern sheriff’s office, a fine school, a top-class medical centre. This town doesn’t have much, but what it does have comes from the trust.’

  ‘What it has, good or otherwise, comes from four dead children,’ I replied. ‘Can you tell me anything more about Adelaide and William Modine?’

  Hyams’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘As I’ve said, it was a long time ago and I really would prefer not to go into it. I had very little to do with either of them: the Modines were a wealthy family, their children went to a private school. We didn’t mix very much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did your father know the family?’

  ‘My father delivered both William and Adelaide. I do remember one curious thing, but it will hardly be of any great help to you. Adelaide was one of twins. The male twin died in the womb and their mother died from complications shortly after the birth. The mother’s death was surprising. She was a strong, domineering woman. My father thought she would have outlived us all.’ He took a long sip from his glass and his eyes grew sharp with a remembered perception. ‘Do you know anything about hyenas, Mr Parker?’

  ‘Very little,’ I admitted.

  ‘Spotted hyenas frequently have twins. The cubs are extremely well developed at birth: they have fur and sharp incisor teeth. One cub will almost invariably attack the other, sometimes while still in the amniotic sac and typically to the death. The victor is also usually female and, if she is the daughter of a dominant female, will in turn become the dominant female in the pack. It’s a matriarchal culture. Female spotted-hyena foetuses have higher levels of testosterone than adult males and the females have masculine characteristics, even in the womb. In adulthood the sexes can still be difficult to differentiate.’

  He put his glass down. ‘My father was an avid amateur naturalist. The animal world always fascinated him and I think he liked to find points of comparison between the animal world and the human world.’

  ‘And he found one in Adelaide Modine?’

  ‘Perhaps, in some ways. He was not fond of her.’

  ‘Were you here when the Modines died?’

  ‘I returned home the evening before Adelaide Modine’s body was found and I attended the autopsy. Call it gruesome curiosity. Now, I’m sorry, Mr Parker, but I have nothing more to say and a great deal of work to do.’

  He led me to the door and pushed open the screen to let me out.

  ‘You don’t seem particularly anxious to help me find Catherine Demeter, Mr Hyams.’

  He breathed in heavily. ‘Who suggested that you talk to me, Mr Parker?’

  ‘Alvin Martin mentioned your name.’

  ‘Mr Martin is a good, conscientious deputy and an asset to this town, but he is still a comparatively recent arrival,’ said Hyams. ‘The reason why I am reluctant to talk is a matter of client confidentiality. Mr Parker, I am the only lawyer in this town. At some point, nearly everyone who lives here, regardless of colour, income, religious or political belief, has passed through the door of my office. That includes the parents of the children who died. I know a great deal about what happened here, Mr Parker, more than I might wish to know and certainly much more than I plan to share with you. I’m sorry, but that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘I see. One more thing, Mr Hyams.’

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, wearily.

  ‘Sheriff Granger lives on this road too, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Sheriff Granger lives next door, the house on the right here. This house has never been burgled, Mr Parker, a fact that is surely not unconnected. Goodnight.’

  He stood at the screen door as I drove away. I cast a glance at the sheriff’s house as I passed but there were no lights within and there was no car in the yard. As I drove back to Haven, raindrops began to strike the screen and by the time I reached the outskirts of the town it had turned into a harsh, ceaseless downpour. The lights of the motel appeared through the rain. I could see Rudy Fry standing at the door, staring out into the woods and the gathering darkness beyond.

  By the time I had parked, Fry was back behind his desk.

  ‘What do folks do around here for fun, apart from trying to run other folks out of town?’ I asked.

  Fry grimaced as he tried to separate the sarcasm from the substance of the question. ‘There ain’t much to do around here outside of drinking at the Inn,’ he replied, after a while.

  ‘I tried that. Didn’t care for it.’

  He thought for a little while longer. I waited for the smell of smoke but it didn’t come.

  ‘There’s a restaurant in Dorien, ’bout twenty miles east of here. Milano’s, it’s called. It’s Italian.’ He pronounced it Eye-talian, in a tone that suggested Rudy Fry was not overfond of any Italian food that didn’t come in a box with grease dripping from the vents. ‘Never eaten there myself.’ He sniffed, as if to confirm his suspicion of all things European.

  I thanked him, then went to my room, showered and changed. I was getting tired of the unrelenting hostility of Haven. If Rudy Fry didn’t like somewhere, then that was somewhere I probably wanted to be.

  Dorien wasn’t much bigger than Haven but it had a bookstore a
nd a couple of restaurants, which made it a cultural oasis of sorts. I bought a typescript copy of Viva by e.e. cummings in the bookstore and wandered into Milano’s to eat.

  Milano’s had red check tablecloths and candles set in miniatures of the Coliseum, but it was almost full and the food looked pretty good.

  A slim maître d’ in a red bow-tie bustled over and showed me to a table in the corner. I took out the copy of cummings and read ‘somewhere i have never travelled’ while I waited for a menu, enjoying the cadence and gentle eroticism of the poem.

  Susan had never read cummings before we met and I sent her copies of his poems during the early days of our relationship. In a sense, I let cummings do my courting for me. I think I even incorporated a line of cummings into the first letter I sent her. When I look back on it, it was as much a prayer as a love-letter, a prayer that Time would be gentle with her, because she was very beautiful.

  A waiter strolled over and I ordered bruschetta and a carbonara from the menu, with water. I cast a glance around the restaurant but no one seemed to be paying me much attention, which was fine with me. I had not forgotten the warning Angel and Louis had given to me, or the couple in the red jeep.

  The food, when it arrived, was excellent. I was surprised at my appetite and, while I ate, I turned over in my mind what I had learned from Hyams and the microfiche, and I remembered the handsome face of Walt Tyler, surrounded by police.

  And I wondered, too, about the Travelling Man, before forcing him from my mind along with the images that came with him. He was not to be so easily denied. After I finished the water and paid the bill, I left the restaurant and vomited in an alleyway until my throat ached. Then I got back in my car and returned to Haven.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My grandfather used to say that the most terrifying sound in the world was the sound of a shell being loaded into a pump-action shotgun, a shell that was meant for you. It woke me from my sleep in the motel as they came up the stairs, the hands of my watch glowing the time at 3.30 a.m. They came through the door seconds later, the sound of the explosions deafeningly loud in the silence of the night as shot after shot was fired into my bed, sending feathers and shreds of cotton into the air like a cloud of white moths.