A Song of Shadows

by John Connolly

  ‘It looks a little like me, but it is not me,’ he concluded. ‘Is this where the mistake was made?’

  ‘I don’t think there is a mistake, Mr Baulman. Is this your handwriting?’

  He looked at the document before him. It was some of the paperwork from his Petition for Naturalization filed in 1958, after he had lived in the US for long enough to apply.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this?’

  Another document, this time is German. It was a requisition from, filed during his time at the RSHA and dated 1942. Again, there were superficial similarities between the handwriting on the American form and the German, but he had practiced hard at changing his handwriting in the intervening years.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve begun preliminary handwriting analysis, Mr Baulman. Already we’ve picked up some points of similarity.’

  Baulman didn’t think ‘points’ would be enough. He was growing more confident. They had very little on him, and nothing that would stand up as evidence. He was increasingly convinced that all they really had was Engel’s testimony against him, but Baulman knew what hearsay was worth in a court of law, especially coming from an old Nazi trying to save his skin.

  Demers set the three photographs of Baulman side by side: young, older, old.

  ‘We’re thinking of showing these photos around to see if they jog anyone’s memory.’ Only now did she smile at him. ‘We’ll be in touch again once we’re done. Thank you for your time, Mr Baulman.’

  She stood, and the others stood with her.

  ‘Wait!’ said Baulman. ‘What do you mean by this “showing around”? Showing it to what people? You cannot do this. This is not legal. You are spreading lies about me!’

  But they did not reply as they trooped out, and then a uniformed officer appeared at the door to escort Baulman from the building. Still, Baulman knew what they planned to do.

  They were going to show his picture to Isha Winter.

  45

  The surgeon gave Parker the all-clear, along with more painkillers and some advice – about taking it easy, not straining himself, and not chasing armed men over dunes – only some of which he intended to take. He made a call to Angel and Louis, and read a newspaper in his room while he waited for them to pick him up.

  Only once did he venture from his room, and that was to peer through a window at Cory Bloom. A man was sitting by her bed, his face in profile. He was holding Bloom’s hand and speaking to her, even though she was asleep. Parker did not disturb them. Shortly after midday, a worried-looking female nurse appeared at the door, along with an orderly pushing a wheelchair. He looked worried too.

  ‘I don’t need a chair,’ said Parker. The hospital had given him a crutch, but he had no intention of using it. He had only just decided to rid himself of his stick – his fall on the beach conveniently dismissed as an aberration – before the encounter with Steiger, and he wasn’t about to replace one support with another.

  ‘We thought it might be, um, quicker this way,’ said the nurse. She had a detectable Scottish accent.

  ‘You in that much of a hurry to get rid of me?’ Parker asked, as he shifted from his seat to the chair.

  ‘No, it’s just that, well, the men who are here to collect you are’ – she struggled to find the right word, and settled for ‘large.’

  Parker closed his eyes. The fucking Fulcis. Maybe I should just stay here, he thought. I could barricade the doors. Then he had a vision of the Fulci brothers breaking through like a pair of rampaging monsters, tossing aside fragments of wood and furniture like so much kindling.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

  ‘They haven’t done any harm,’ said the nurse, walking alongside him as he was being pushed. ‘They just look intimidating. Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘Yes. Kind of.’

  He felt about nine years old, like he was being picked up from school by a pair of embarrassing uncles. The Fulci brothers had their hearts in the right place – well, most of the time, depending on the other parties involved, and the degree of offense that they’d caused. The trouble was that the same couldn’t be said for their brains, which had a resistance to chemical intervention to rival the Ebola virus.

  ‘They can’t help how they look, I suppose,’ said the nurse, adding, slightly hopefully, ‘I imagine they’re lovely men, really.’

  He was wheeled into an elevator.

  ‘That depends,’ said Parker.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether or not they like you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the same for most people, isn’t it?’

  Parker recalled the tale of the driver – an insurance salesman, if he remembered correctly – who had consistently parked in the disabled spot at the back of the Fulcis’ mother’s house. He’d received one warning, which he ignored. That in itself was surprising. People who were warned by the Fulcis usually stayed warned. The next time he offended, the Fulcis pushed his car into the sea with their truck. The salesman was lashed to the driver’s seat when they did it, and as the water climbed slowly to the level of his chest, he tried to tell them that he intended to reconsider his parking habits, although the ball gag in his mouth muffled his words somewhat.

  Subsequently, when he’d started to dry off, he might have made noises about pressing charges, until it was pointed out to him that the Fulcis knew where his house was and were not above, as Tony Fulci put it, ‘picking that up as well and putting it in the fucking ocean,’ a point they emphasized by returning the salesman to his car and pushing the car, once more, into the sea, this time until the water reached his chin. Since then, the Fulcis’ mother had enjoyed problem-free parking – and her vehicle insurance bill had gone down into the bargain.

  ‘Maybe they react more emotionally than most people,’ said Parker.

  ‘I always think big men like that have very deep feelings,’ said the nurse.

  ‘That must be it.’

  The elevator opened, and he was wheeled through the lobby and out the main door, where the Fulcis’ monster truck stood waiting by the curb, although it was hard to see because the Fulcis themselves were standing in front of it. Had they stood in front of the hospital itself, then it would largely have disappeared too. They were dressed in matching Izod golf shirts and tan pants that could have been filled with air and used as barrage balloons. As they lumbered in Parker’s direction, the security guard at the door uttered an involuntary ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘Don’t run,’ said Parker. ‘It’ll just set them off.’

  The guard glanced at Parker to see if he was joking. When he looked away again, he didn’t appear reassured.

  ‘How you doin’, Mr Parker?’ said Paulie.

  The Fulcis had a habit of calling him ‘Mr Parker.’ He supposed that it was a token of respect, in the same way that Tony, the less well-adjusted of the two – although this, too, varied depending on circumstance, inclination, and possibly the cycles of the moon – had once told Parker that if anyone ever pissed him off, ever, Tony would feed him to crabs ‘and wouldn’t even ask why.’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ Parker replied.

  ‘Sure, sure. You want us to push you?’

  He looked ready to fight the orderly for control of the chair, which wouldn’t have worked out well for anyone involved.

  ‘No, this guy’s got it. Just get the door open, please.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  He hurried back to the truck while Tony stayed alongside the detective, ready to leap in and save him should a stone on the ground cause the chair to wobble. When they reached the truck, Parker had to stretch to get in the back. He couldn’t help but give a small groan of pain, which led each of the Fulcis to lend a hand, almost propelling him headfirst into the bench seat.

  ‘We got him now,’ Tony told the nurse.

  He radiated reassurance, as if their possession of her patient could not possibly be a cause for concern. The strange
development, Parker thought, was that the nurse now looked as though she might be falling slightly in love with one or both of the Fulcis, or it could just have been shock. Whatever it was, she kept staring at them as they drove away. Parker wouldn’t have been surprised if she had waved a white handkerchief in farewell.

  He couldn’t recall ever being in their truck before, and wasn’t sure that he ever wanted to again. Paulie drove with a hunched intensity: not particularly quickly, and not unduly slowly, but with the single-minded implacability of a tank commander advancing on a retreating foe. Other vehicles didn’t linger long in his way, preferring to take their chances in adjoining lanes, or even on the curb. Paulie did stop for red lights, but appeared to take them very personally, and glowered in their direction until they were terrorized into changing.

  ‘We bought you grapes,’ said Tony.

  He gestured to a Whole Foods bag on the floor beside Parker.

  ‘That’s kind.’

  Tony waited, grinning encouragingly.

  ‘Right,’ said Parker. He could see where this was going. He dipped into the bag and popped one of the grapes into his mouth. He grimaced. He thought about spitting it out, but somehow managed to force it down.

  ‘Guys, those are olives.’

  Paulie punched his brother on the arm.

  ‘I fucking told you!’ he said.

  ‘You don’t like olives?’ Tony asked, rubbing his arm while hoping to salvage something from the situation.

  ‘It was just that I was kind of expecting a grape.’

  ‘You see?’ said Paulie to his brother. ‘You fucking idiot.’

  ‘I never been in Whole Foods before,’ said Tony. ‘I didn’t recognize nothing there.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Parker. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

  Tony wasn’t to be comforted. He stared out of the window and didn’t speak. Paulie put on some music. It was a Carpenters’ compilation. He patted his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you.’

  ‘Only Yesterday’ began playing. Tony cheered up some.

  Parker vowed, someday, to kill Angel and Louis for this.

  Angel and Louis were waiting for them at Dysart’s Truck Stop and Restaurant on the outskirts of Bangor. Dysart’s had been around since the 1940s, and counted as a Maine institution. It also housed the city’s Greyhound bus station, so the whole place was busy, although not so busy that the arrival of the Fulcis and their truck didn’t attract attention. The world could have been ending, and people would still have stopped screaming for long enough to pause and stare at them.

  Angel and Louis were sitting across from each other in a booth at the back. Parker still had his crutch as he advanced on them. Tony had insisted: ‘You know, just until you’re sure you can walk again.’

  ‘I’m not crippled,’ Parker told him.

  ‘Man, that’s what all crips say,’ Tony replied. ‘And I don’t think you’re allowed to call them crips no more.’

  ‘I didn’t call them crips. You did.’

  Tony shrugged and gave his brother the eye, as if to say that he wasn’t about to argue with a sick man, but, well, you know …

  ‘You mind moving to the other side?’ Parker asked Angel as he reached the booth. ‘It’s less uncomfortable if I can stretch out.’

  Tony and Paulie took the booth across from them and started studying the menu.

  Angel moved. He gestured at the crutch on his way past.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s called a crutch.’

  ‘I know what it’s called. You need it?’

  ‘Just to shove up your ass for having me collected by the Hardy Boys over there. If I’d known, I’d have asked for a second crutch to use on your friend too.’

  ‘They wanted to help,’ said Louis. He was keeping a straight face, but it was clearly a struggle.

  Parker slid into the booth.

  ‘They fed me an olive disguised as a grape.’

  ‘It’s an easy mistake to make,’ said Angel.

  ‘I hate olives.’

  ‘Man, you’re touchy today.’

  Parker let out a long breath.

  ‘Yeah, I am touchy. If only I had a reason.’

  A waitress came over. Parker ordered some dry toast and a decaf coffee. Angel and Louis asked for refills. The Fulcis opted for a pair of club sandwiches. Each.

  ‘So what do you want to do now?’ said Louis.

  ‘I can’t drive for a couple of days. I’d appreciate a ride to Vermont. I want to see Sam.’

  ‘Did you speak to Rachel?’ asked Louis.

  ‘From the hospital. She said Sam was okay – a bit shaken up, but that’s all.’

  ‘You know,’ said Louis, ‘I’m sure Tony and Paulie would be glad to act as chauffeurs.’

  ‘Don’t even joke about it. Seriously.’

  ‘In that case, we’re happy to help,’ said Angel, acting as peacemaker. ‘What about where you’re going to stay? You don’t want to go back to Boreas, right?’

  ‘Boreas is still in the cards,’ said Parker. ‘After that, I may go home.’

  ‘Back to Scarborough?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Angel. ‘There’s an apartment for rent across the hall from the one we got in Portland.’

  ‘Why are you still holding on to that?’

  ‘We’re starting to like Portland. We might move permanently.’

  ‘I’ll tell the city fathers. I’m sure they’ll be pleased, once they’ve had a chance to sell their homes. Look, you don’t have to stay in Portland for me. I’m okay. In fact, I’m better than okay.’

  Angel thought that there might be some truth to what Parker said. The distance that he had maintained since the shooting, the sense of his being at arm’s length from what was going on around him, had lessened. He looked tired and drawn, and he was grumpy as a dying wasp, but he exuded a sense of purpose.

  ‘Scarborough is still a mess,’ said Angel.

  ‘I know.’

  As he’d told Walsh, he had been back to pick up some things before moving to Brook House. A medical orderly had wheeled him inside, and Parker had been forced to point out what he needed, or shout instructions from the bottom of the stairs. Someone had come in – probably at the instigation of Angel and Louis – to clean up the blood, but damage remained to the doors and walls in the kitchen, the hallway, and his office. He hadn’t lingered. He wasn’t prepared to spend longer in his home than necessary, not then: the sense of intrusion, of violation, was too strong.

  But he was ready now.

  ‘You know,’ said Louis, ‘Paulie and Tony, they’re pretty good with their hands. Let them go in while we’re in Vermont, see what they can do. They love you. You’re like a god to them. You ask, and give them long enough, they’ll turn it into your own palace.’

  Parker had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea – not the palace part, but the rest. When he put it to the Fulcis, they reacted as though he were doing them a huge favor, and their genuine delight made him feel bad. They even tried to refuse payment for any work that they did on the house, but he wasn’t about to be made to feel like a charity case, or more of a charity case than he already felt himself to be.

  ‘That’s a done deal, then,’ said Angel. ‘We go to Vermont, they head to Scarborough.’

  Parker’s coffee and toast came, along with the Fulcis’ food.

  ‘So,’ said Parker, ‘tell me about your dinner with Walsh.’

  46

  Marie Demers sat at the old mahogany dining table in Isha Winter’s home. The wood was a deep brown, and polished to within an inch of its life. Demers couldn’t see a mark on it, and she doubted if it was used more than once or twice a year. It would seat ten people comfortably, twelve at a squeeze, and she could picture it set for Thanksgiving or Hanukkah. She doubted if those holidays would be celebrated this year, not after what had happened to Ruth Winter. Demers alread
y felt bad for intruding on Isha’s grief.

  Ruth’s death had set in train a complicated series of negotiations about Amanda Winter’s future, although all involved, whether state or family, agreed on a number of important issues: that the girl’s grandmother loved her very much, but was too old to take care of the child alone; nevertheless, it would be good for Amanda to be close to her grandmother, and to remain in the area where she had grown up and was attending school; and suitable foster parents should be found as a matter of urgency.

  Those parents might already have presented themselves, it seemed, for Amanda was currently staying with the Frobergs, a couple in their early forties with two children of their own, a boy and a girl, respectively a year older and a year younger than Amanda. They lived only five minutes from Isha’s house. It helped that Isha approved of them, and Amanda was already friendly with their kids from school. While the whole process was still in its early stages, signals from the Maine Department of Health and Human Services were favorable.

  Isha Winter arrived from the kitchen, carrying a tray containing a pot of coffee, cups, cream, sugar, and three plates, the topmost of which was dominated by a massive cake of some kind. She had declined Demers’s offer of help with her preparations. This was her domain, but it also struck Demers that the old woman might be anxious to show just how strong and independent she remained, as if to further enhance the case for her granddaughter’s continued presence in the town – not that Demers would have any say in what was going to happen, although if anyone did ask, she would have no compunction about remarking on Isha’s continued vitality, which was remarkable for a woman in her nineties.

  They had met a number of times before, the first during the investigation into Thomas Engel, when Demers had visited Isha to ask if she recalled him. Isha didn’t, but that was not surprising: from what the Human Rights Section had been able to piece together from fragmentary evidence about Lubsko, Engel only arrived when there was killing to be done. When he came to Lubsko for the final time, chaos had already erupted, with guards turning on guards. Isha, initially alerted to what was happening by the sound of gunfire, and then confirmed in her fears by the sight of her parents lying dead outside their hut, was already trying to hide herself.