Caspar Webb’s real name was unknown, and even his nationality was a matter of dispute, although it was generally agreed that he had roots somewhere in Eastern Europe. How he had come by the money that enabled him to establish himself in Rhode Island was also a mystery. He began as a smuggler, thus positioning himself as part of a long and noble tradition in the region’s black market. He brought in cigarettes, narcotics, and women for the sex trade. Through intermediaries, he cut mutually beneficial deals with the Patriarcas while never meeting with any of their hierarchy, or even acknowledging that his operations were the source of their contraband.
Webb owned a vast property on the outskirts of New Shoreham, the only municipality on tiny Block Island, officially the smallest town in the smallest state in the Union, where the median house price was roughly $1 million. If he ever came to the attention of law enforcement, then nothing resulted from it. Slowly, carefully, and always through others, Webb insinuated himself into the interconnected political and criminal spheres of life in Rhode Island, and from there into the rest of New England. He was a malign and largely undetected influence on the economies of six states for decades, and left no bodies in his wake, because those who crossed him simply disappeared. When he died, his passing went almost entirely unremarked, publicly at least. In private, by contrast, most of those who knew of him quietly offered up a prayer of gratitude for his demise.
Now, as Parker and the others stood watching the man who claimed to be Webb’s emissary, another BMW pulled into the lot and parked alongside the first. Four men could be glimpsed inside. They didn’t emerge, and the driver didn’t cut the engine. They just waited.
Webb’s representative clasped his hands before him.
‘Mr. Webb would have appreciated being informed of your presence in his state,’ he said.
‘Well,’ said Angel, ‘we forgot to bring a medium. Maybe next time you could organize a séance.’
Parker gave Angel a look. They were now outnumbered, and this wasn’t helping.
‘Who are you?’ asked Parker.
‘My name is Philip.’
Parker gestured at the new arrivals.
‘I take it these guys are with you.’
‘We really would be grateful if you would accompany us back to Providence,’ said Philip. ‘You can bring your own vehicle, if you’ll permit me to travel with you. My colleagues will follow.’
A large group of young men and women emerged from the bar and looked in their direction. They were beginning to attract attention. It wasn’t anything they were doing, but people were more sensitive to potential violence than they were often given credit for, and Louis’s left hand was only barely concealing the gun in his right.
‘Just for argument’s sake, what if we were to refuse?’
Philip smiled. No wrinkles showed, so it was like watching plastic reshape itself.
‘You’re not going to refuse,’ he said, ‘so why sow disquiet?’
‘“Sowing disquiet”,’ said Louis. ‘I never heard it called that before.’
Parker didn’t see what choice they had. If they stayed in the parking lot any longer, there was a chance that someone might call the cops.
‘Then I guess we’re going back to Rhode Island.’
33
Sally was in the bathroom. She’d retreated there shortly after Kirk discovered her in the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since, even though he’d hammered on the door to ask if she was okay. In the end he simply sat against the wall outside, and wondered what they were going to do now. It all depended, he supposed, on how Routh had died. If he’d expired of natural causes, then they had little to worry about, and his death would be more of an inconvenience than anything else. But if his passing was connected to Eklund, they could have a problem.
He heard the water running in the tub, followed by the sound of a body climbing in and settling. For a time silence descended – no splashing, no small noises of pleasure or relaxation – and he had a vision of Sally with vertical slashes on her arms, lying in a bath of bloody water. It had happened to others of their number in the past, when their burden became too much to bear. Mostly, though, the women of their family endured. Oddly, more males than females had taken their own lives down the centuries. It was guilt, Kirk guessed, or a form of madness brought on by the nature of the pact into which they had been forced. Either way, he did not really understand why they chose death. After all, they knew what waited for them beyond it.
And then, of course, there were those who had been about to turn, the ones who decided it might be better for all if the pact were brought to an end, but they were always sniffed out in time. They would be spoken to, and reminded of their obligations to all. On occasion, a period of restraint and isolation was necessary. In the most extreme cases, they were removed and dealt with, but such actions had been carried out only a handful of times over the years. The last occurred when Kirk was a teenager and Aunt Hattie was diagnosed with cancer. She’d started wondering aloud about repentance, which was fine while she was in her own bed but could have presented difficulties when she was transferred to a care facility, as would ultimately have been required. When it became clear that she posed a potential threat, Routh was summoned. It was quick and painless. It might even have been considered a blessing in light of how Hattie would have suffered had the cancer been allowed to take its course.
Kirk had never killed anyone. He didn’t know if he could. He liked to think he’d be able to do it if worse came to worst, but he was happy to leave murder to others. Then again, he was still relatively young, and the prospect of his own mortality was not yet real to him. He’d noticed the years passing faster, though. His day would come, and like all the others, he wanted to be sure he would be safe when it did.
Sally could kill someone, he thought. He’d seen what she’d done to the private investigator, and that was worse than murder. She hadn’t taken any delight in it, or none that he could see. She’d just gone about it the way she would with any other unpleasant chore that needed her attention. Still, her capacities frightened him. They reminded him of the now departed Donn Routh.
A single lamp lighted this end of the hallway. The bulb was bright – brighter than was needed for the space – but Kirk liked it that way. The bulbs in the basement and the garage were also very bright, and he kept them on even when the light was good. He avoided darkness as much possible, because they liked the dark. Even if he couldn’t see them, he could often smell them, and he didn’t care to have them around him, especially when Sally was absent. The light kept them away, and that suited Kirk just fine. Sally understood what he was doing, but never commented on it. It was different for her. They knew better than to intrude upon her against her wishes. It meant that he and Sally could turn off the lights when they made love, and when they rested. Otherwise, Kirk wasn’t sure he could have performed at all, or slept without nightmares. On those nights when Sally wasn’t with him – and they had been few over the years – he kept the bedroom brightly lit, and used a pair of airline shades to cover his eyes.
Kirk could see the telltale flicker of candlelight through the crack under the bathroom door. Maybe one of them was in there with Sally right now, staring down at her nakedness. Man or woman, it wouldn’t trouble Sally. She claimed they didn’t have those desires anymore, but Kirk wasn’t so sure. They felt rage and fear, so why not desire, or even envy? Kirk suspected that envy might be the emotion that drove them above all others, even more than fear. How could the dead fail to envy the living, and these dead more than most? They were trapped, and they had to remain that way, because the other option was—
Well, the other option didn’t bear considering. It was as simple as that. The choice was no choice at all.
And eventually – sooner, but oh-so-preferably later – he and Sally would take their place among them, and the whole damn cycle would continue for another generation, the stain of the sin growing with the years, and with it the punishment that would befa
ll them all if their line faltered.
He heard a noise from the bathroom. It sounded like Sally moving in the water, and he waited without speaking in the hope that she would get out, dry herself, and tell him just what was going on.
But she didn’t. He called her name again, if only to remind her that he was there, and then, like generations of the Brethren’s males before him, he waited for a woman to guide him.
Reclining in the tub, the water slowly growing colder around her, Sally watched as the dead girl paced the tiles of the bathroom floor, back and forth, back and forth, like an animal trapped in its own madness.
34
The man named Philip sat in the front passenger seat, Louis driving, Parker directly behind him, and Angel at Philip’s back. Philip consented to being frisked before joining them, because Louis was very particular about not allowing strangers with weapons in his car, and Parker confirmed him to be unarmed. The same probably couldn’t be said of the four men who were escorting them back to Providence – one BMW in front, the other shadowing – but since Parker hadn’t suggested frisking them as well, the truth would have to remain unknown.
Philip sat with his back turned slightly to the door so that he could keep staring at Parker. Seen up close, his face had a slight sheen to it, like the faintest of glaze on an uncooked pastry. He also had a distinctive scent, which grew stronger as the interior of the car warmed up. He smelled like dying violets. Philip ignored any questions, and didn’t give any directions, content that Louis would follow the car before them. If he was aware of the gun that was now in Angel’s hand, he gave no sign of it. The little .22 was the perfect weapon for the situation, because its bullets would kill without exiting the body, thereby avoiding embarrassing damage to the windshield or interior of Louis’s car. Parker wondered idly if Angel simply happened to have the gun on him, or if Louis had somehow contrived to pass it to him. It never ceased to amaze Parker just how many weapons Louis could lay hands on at short notice. Parker had no idea where he kept them all, and decided that, on reflection, he really didn’t want to know.
‘It’s strange,’ said Parker, ‘but I once broke up with a girl because she kept staring at me the way you do.’
Philip maintained his gaze. As far as Parker could tell, he didn’t seem to blink. It was like finding oneself under the scrutiny of a stuffed bird. His attention was not hostile, or even particularly designed to disconcert, but Parker detected perhaps a hint of curiosity, and a certain amount of disappointment, as though the object of his scrutiny had failed to live up to rumor and reputation.
Eventually they re-entered Providence, this time heading south of downtown, through the small financial district and into the grungier area beyond the fringes of what had been christened an arts quarter, a designation common when a city had blocks of old buildings and not enough tenants for them. That situation didn’t seem likely to persist for much longer. Most of the vacant lots appeared to have been flattened in preparation for development, probably by Johnson & Wales University, which was in the process of expanding.
But islands of old brownstones still remained, particularly around the Jewelry District off Ship Street, and it was to one of these old relics that their little fleet was drawn. They stopped before a five-story detached building with a brass plaque beside its black door, and a single ornate stained-glass window that gave no indication of what business might be conducted within but served to hide from public view whatever it might be. Louis pulled up behind the first car, and the second immediately boxed them in.
‘You can’t bring any weapons inside,’ said Philip. ‘Leave them in the vehicle. They’ll be perfectly safe.’
Louis turned to Philip for the first time since he’d invaded the space of his beloved Lexus.
‘Hell of a thing, asking us to trust you by walking in there unarmed.’
Philip’s features melted and re-formed to create his approximation of a smile.
‘I wasn’t asking.’
‘You got a way with people,’ said Louis.
‘Is that sarcasm?’ Philip sounded genuinely puzzled, as though sarcasm were something of which he had heard but of which he had no direct experience, like an exotic, untested food.
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Trust runs both ways. I trusted you not to kill me in your car. You now have to trust me not to have you killed beyond that door.’
‘Since you put it like that,’ said Angel, ‘fuck you.’
The four men who had escorted them to Providence were now ranged around the Lexus. One of them was giving his attention to the weapon in Angel’s hand. The expression on his face suggested he didn’t like what he was seeing. There were no other guns in sight as yet, but Parker had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before that changed.
Philip put his hand on the door handle.
‘We just have some questions for you,’ he said.
‘“We”?’ said Parker.
‘Mother and I,’ said Philip. ‘There will be tea.’
He got out of the car and waited. Parker turned to Angel and nodded. Angel let the gun dangle from his finger by the trigger guard, raised it so the men outside could see, then set it carefully on the floor. Parker was not armed. He held his jacket open, inviting a search, but none came.
Louis sighed, and relieved himself of the weight of a Glock.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if there’s going to be tea …’
The front door clicked and unlocked as they approached it, although nobody had produced a fob. The brass plate on the wall read Agave Associates. The plate was shiny and without blemish, at least until Angel ran a finger across the surface and smudged it. Instantly, a handkerchief was produced from the pocket of one of the quartet of escorts, and the stain vanished. Philip paused in the doorway.
‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.
‘It was too clean,’ said Angel. ‘I don’t like things that are too clean. It always means there’s dirt hidden somewhere else.’
Philip considered this for a moment before filing it away for further examination later. Beyond them lay a small foyer and a glass door. As with the window outside, the glass was stained, but it was clearly a layer that had been placed against a thicker pane. The door looked as though it could take a grenade blast and not yield. Again, it opened without contact, revealing a hall with walls covered by antique mahogany on the lower half and expensive red-and-gold wallpaper above, patterned with what appeared to be death masks, waxen faces with closed eyes. Gas lamps were inset at regular points, and flames flickered inside them. The floor bore a blood-red wool carpet so thick that a small child could have become lost in its weave. It led to a massive set of wooden stairs that wound up to the next floor. The framed prints on the walls depicted scenes of Providence from centuries gone by, all of which had the patina of age.
This time, Philip held the door open for them to enter, but no one else joined them, so Parker and the others were alone with Philip in the hall. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of dust and woodsmoke. Combined with Philip’s distinctive scent, it was reminiscent of a fire in a florist shop. Added to the old lighting, the thick carpet, and the peculiar wallpaper, the odors lent a turbid atmosphere to the place, so that Parker felt as though his vision were blurring.
This, he thought, is what it’s like to step back in time.
The door was closed behind them, and Philip walked toward the stairs, not bothering to check that they were following him. With few other options available, they did.
‘You live here?’ Angel asked Philip’s back.
‘Nobody lives here.’
‘Probably for the best.’
They passed a darkened landing on the second floor. A door stood ajar, and through it Parker glimpsed furniture draped with sheets, and what might have been medical equipment, all of it barely visible in the gloom, as the shutters on the windows were closed. He caught a faint antiseptic tang, and the stink that underpinned it. It reeked of a hospital ward, and the final days of
the dying. He saw, from a brief wrinkling of his nose, that Louis had picked up on it too. Maybe this was where Caspar Webb had made his last stand against the encroaching darkness.
They reached the second landing. Philip knocked softly on the first door to his left, then waited for a moment before opening it and indicating they should enter. Parker and the others paused, and each was thinking the same thing: if this was a trap, they were dead men.
Parker moved first. After all, the Eklund investigation was his responsibility.
The space was vast, taking up what must have been almost the entirety of the floor. A second door, closed, stood immediately opposite the first, and Parker saw another to his right, at the far wall. The room was unoccupied: Parker was the only person in it, at least until Angel and Louis joined him. To his left was a carved oak desk the size of a king’s sarcophagus, inlaid with green leather and lit by a pair of ornate lamps. It stood before the window, but the heavy red drapes were drawn. The room was warm, but not uncomfortably so. A fire burned in the grate on the opposite wall, with leather armchairs at either side of it. The walls at this end were shelved to the ceiling, where an unlit crystal chandelier hung, one of three along the length of the room. All the light came from floor and table lamps, and the flickering of flames. The floor, visible at the margins, was wood, and looked like the original boards, or a very good re-creation of them using salvaged materials. A series of heavy Persian rugs, the largest at least ten feet in length, and almost as wide, helped to dull any sound.
A Game of Ghosts: A Charlie Parker Thriller: 15. From the No. 1 Bestselling Author of A Time of Torment Page 13