A Game of Ghosts: A Charlie Parker Thriller: 15. From the No. 1 Bestselling Author of A Time of Torment

by John Connolly

  Sumner managed to get Eklund turned, and Richard caught hold of him by the hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. Richard gritted his teeth and placed the blade to the left of Eklund’s lower jaw.

  ‘Hold him still, dammit.’

  ‘Just get it finished.’

  For a moment, Sumner thought Richard was going to chicken out. His hand was shaking, and his face was all scrunched up. Then he took a deep breath, dug the blade in, and slashed once, quick but deep.

  Sumner had never seen so much blood. He looked away, but stayed where he was until Eklund stopped flopping around and grew still.

  Richard rose and pushed up his spectacles. He had some blood on his hand, and the movement spread it to his nose and left cheek. He stared down at Eklund’s body before dropping the knife, covering his mouth, and stumbling up the stairs to the guest bathroom. Seconds later, they heard him puke.

  Sumner felt himself start to sway. The smell of blood was heavy and intense. Hands gripped him, and Sally helped him up.

  ‘Well,’ said Sumner, when he had recovered himself, ‘I guess Richard passed.’

  58

  The Brethren began to disperse. There were babysitters to be paid, and chores to be done in the morning, the mundane coexisting with the extraordinary, although sometimes days, or even weeks, could go by without most of them giving even a passing thought to the strangeness of their lives. It was different for those like Sally and Madlyn, the ones who were haunted, but if any of the others began to waver, or needed a reminder of what it meant to be born or wed into this family, then the two women would always be happy to give them a sense of those who had gone before. All it took was a brief summoning, a touch, and once experienced, no one was ever in a hurry to ask for a repeat performance.

  Richard and Sophia remained at the Buckners’, along with Sumner and his wife, Jesse, and Madlyn and Steven Lee. Richard had recovered from his initial reaction to the killing of Eklund, and now appeared energized by it. Sally guessed that he’d enjoyed what he’d done, or was juiced by the fact that he’d managed to do it at all, which might be useful for what was to come, even if it did raise serious questions about Richard’s psychological makeup. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed hurting Eklund, and she’d stopped once he told her what she wanted to know. She’d have been forced to kill him herself, if nobody else was willing – that, or convince Steven Lee to do it for her, which would depend on his mood – but she was glad Richard had taken care of it instead.

  They drank coffee and herbal tea while Sally produced a list of three names: the furniture salesman, Tobey Thayer; Lydia Orzel, known as ‘Mother’, who was bankrolling Eklund’s investigation through the bequest of a man named Caspar Webb; and an academic and historian named Michelle Souliere, who lived in Waterbury, Connecticut, and was a visiting lecturer at NYU and Bowdoin College in Maine. Souliere’s background lay in psychology, particularly the history of extra-religious beliefs in the United States. She specialized in debunking psychics and other hucksters, and had published a number of books, including a well-regarded feminist history of witchcraft. She was single, and Eklund’s notes indicated that she owned a cat. Sumner took this as evidence that she was a lesbian, since it would serve to confirm everything he had ever suspected about feminists. He was nothing if not unreconstructed in his opinions.

  Thayer, the first individual on the list, had a wife and children, and appeared in his own TV commercials and newspaper adverts. Sally found a couple of the commercials on the Internet, and showed them to the others.

  ‘He looks like a clown,’ said Sophia.

  It was a fair assessment. Thayer favored check suits and loud ties, and ended every pitch with an invitation to ‘Come talk to Tobey!’ He had a comb-over, which he made no effort to disguise, and the production values on his commercials were so poor that they could only have been a deliberate decision. Richard suggested he wouldn’t accept the time of day from a man like Thayer without double-checking it with someone else first, and Sophia agreed. Richard grinned at her, seemingly in surprise, and Sophia gave him a more tentative smile in return. The wounds left by Richard’s affair were still raw with Sophia, and Sally supposed that Richard was grateful for any scraps of apparent forgiveness Sophia might throw in his direction.

  ‘And Eklund claimed this man was a psychic?’ said Jesse.

  ‘It’s in Eklund’s notes,’ said Sally, ‘but there isn’t a single reference in the media to anything of that nature in connection with him.’

  ‘Could Eklund have been lying?’ asked Sumner.

  ‘Not unless he falsified all the notes on his laptop, and why would he do that? No, I think Thayer may really have some kind of gift. Eleanor thinks so too. The Brethren have felt him looking for them.’

  ‘On our side?’ asked Madlyn.

  ‘No, on theirs.’

  This was unusual, and troubling. Even Madlyn was unable to walk the paths of the dead.

  ‘It seems that he’d been making inquiries of his own before Eklund got in touch with him,’ Sally continued. ‘They were coming at the same problem – us – from different directions. It was probably inevitable that they’d meet up at some point.’

  ‘And the academic?’

  ‘According to Eklund’s records, she may be working on a paper, or even the chapter of a book, about the Capstead Martyrs. She didn’t accept everything Eklund told her, but she was open to considering his central thesis.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That setting aside any suggestion of paranormal phenomena, it was possible that at least some of the killings referenced by Eklund might have been carried out by descendants of the original Brethren, or individuals influenced by a cult of Peter Magus.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Madlyn.

  Kirk winced. She might have looked like some East Coast Brahmin, but Madlyn had a whore’s mouth.

  ‘Which leaves Lydia Orzel,’ said Sally. ‘According to Eklund, this man Caspar Webb was a criminal, and a wealthy one. Caspar Webb wasn’t even his real name, although Eklund didn’t know what it might be, except that he was probably Eastern European by birth. He was estranged from his younger brother, who went by the name of Michael MacKinnon.’

  ‘Fuck it twice,’ said Madlyn, recognizing the name.

  ‘Come on, Madlyn,’ Kirk pleaded. ‘Do you have to?’

  Madlyn regarded him with something like pity.

  ‘You have a body in your basement, we’re conspiring to murder three more people, and you’re complaining about my language? You’re a milksop, Kirk. Unless you have something sensible to offer, just keep your fucking mouth shut.’

  Kirk noticed that Sally didn’t leap in to defend his honor. He couldn’t blame her, not where Madlyn was concerned, but it still hurt.

  ‘The cousin’s murder of MacKinnon was an error in judgment,’ said Sally. This was understating the case. MacKinnon, while on a business trip, had crossed Routh’s path, and a simple argument over a parking space had erupted into a full-on shouting match. Sometimes that was all it took with Routh. He’d simmered for a few weeks, his growing rage drawing the worst of the Brethren to him like vultures to meat, then, with them whispering in his ear, he’d gone looking for the object of his ire.

  ‘Had he known who MacKinnon was, he’d have stayed away, but unfortunately nobody outside MacKinnon’s immediate family knew he was related to Webb. When he disappeared, and the police failed to find any trace of him, his wife eventually turned to her brother-in-law, who was already dying. But instead of Webb’s death putting an end to any interest in MacKinnon’s fate, responsibility devolved to this Lydia Orzel, who continued to fund Eklund, encouraged by MacKinnon’s widow. And so Donn killed MacKinnon’s wife and child, just as he would eventually have taken care of Orzel, Thayer, and Souliere for us, if required.’

  ‘Maybe he shouldn’t have killed the MacKinnons,’ said Jesse. ‘Wasn’t that just likely to attract more attention?’

  Sally glanced at Madlyn, who gave the tiniest of nod
s. Sally felt a strange sense of relief. Until now, only she and Madlyn had known what they were about to share with the rest.

  ‘If not them, then it would have been someone else,’ said Sally. ‘Silencing the MacKinnon woman offered a temporary solution to not one, but two problems.’

  ‘What was the other?’ asked Sophia.

  It was Madlyn who replied – Madlyn, who monitored the debt owed by the living and the dead, the price of the deal struck by Peter Magus as the flames rose at Capstead. It was a bargain made with an entity that called itself

  an angel, a curse on every generation of the Brethen to come. They would be spared punishment for their sins. The angel would hide them and their descendants from divine justice. All it asked in return was blood. Refuge in the next world would be bought by the killing of innocents in this one. The Brethren would spread suffering, and thus avoid suffering in turn.

  ‘It’s getting harder to do what we have to, to feed the flames. Technology, cameras, DNA – they all mean that killing is much riskier than it was in the past. Every death buys us time, but as our family has grown, and new generations are born into it, our efforts have not commensurately increased in turn. Donn acted on our behalf, and Steven Lee helped out where he could, but it wasn’t enough. If we were dealing with a bank, we’d almost be out of credit. The ones who have gone before us are uneasy. If we don’t hold up our side of the bargain, well, I don’t need to tell you what the consequences will be – for all of us.’

  ‘So if we kill these three, on top of Eklund and the MacKinnons, we can stave off trouble,’ said Sally.

  ‘For how long?’ Sumner asked.

  ‘A decade. More.’ She didn’t know for sure, but that felt about right. By then, Jeanette would be old enough to include in these discussions, and mature enough to act. Sally and Madlyn had spoken to her before she left, and she confirmed that she and her brother had ‘grown closer’, as she put it. Jeanette also told them she’d had sightings of a girl. The girl was still keeping her distance, but was slowly drawing nearer. It was good news, because it confirmed everything Sally had hoped about Jeanette.

  The various couples exchanged looks with their respective partners, and with one another. Sumner shrugged.

  ‘Then it looks like it’s decided,’ he said.

  ‘Who do we begin with?’ asked Richard.

  ‘The academic, Souliere, ought to be the easiest,’ said Sally. ‘But I feel that we should deal with Thayer at the same time. Eklund believed in him, and the fact that we can find no reference to his abilities means that he’s been careful to keep them hidden. Only frauds boast.’

  ‘What about Orzel?’

  ‘She’ll be the most difficult to kill. She told Eklund that she hardly ever leaves her building, not since Webb’s death.’

  ‘Do you think she’s afraid?’ asked Richard.

  ‘No, I think she’s in mourning.’

  ‘Does she live alone?’

  ‘She has some of Webb’s people around her.’

  ‘A criminal’s associates? They’ll be armed.’

  ‘Most likely. But she also has a son.’ Sally smiled. ‘And according to Eklund, he may have very mixed feelings about his mother.’

  So it was agreed: Sally – aided, as best he could, by Kirk – would deal with Souliere, on the grounds that a woman might find it easier than a man to gain her trust, while Richard, assisted by Sumner, would kill Thayer. Sumner worked for himself, while Richard’s exclusive school had just commenced a short break. Sally and Kirk were flexible, as long as Sally made arrangements to have her baking orders filled by someone else. A woman named Patti Best helped her with bigger batches, and covered for her when she took vacations. Patti would be glad of the extra money.

  Thanks to Eklund, they had addresses for the three targets. It would take some coordination on all their parts, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to get rid of Souliere and Thayer within a day of each other. After that, they could turn their attentions to Lydia Orzel.

  The final farewells were made. Sally looked across at the Ferrier house, but it was after midnight, and all the rooms were dark. Steven Lee backed his car up to the Buckners’ garage door so that Kirk and Richard could bring up Eklund’s body, concealed by black garbage bags, and dump it in the trunk. Eklund’s remains would go the way of his car, compacted to shit and lost amid the rest of the junk in Steven Lee’s yard in West Abbot, about thirty miles from Turning Leaf.

  Sumner and Jesse departed, followed by Richard and Sophia. Madlyn stayed back to speak with Sally, Steven Lee sitting behind the wheel of the car, as silent and implacable as ever. Sally suspected he might be the craziest of them all.

  ‘Eleanor wrote something on my bathroom wall,’ said Sally.

  Madlyn’s pinched features, the skin stretched drum-tight over the bones, somehow managed to register surprise.

  ‘Eleanor wrote?’

  ‘Two words: Hollow Men. What are they?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I think she’s frightened of them, whatever they are.’

  ‘It could be linked to the bargain. Perhaps it will fade after the killings.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Madlyn laid a hand on Sally’s arm.

  ‘You’ve done so well,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They hugged, and Madlyn climbed into the car beside her son, Kirk holding the door and helping her in. He and Sally waved goodbye, and waited until they were out of sight before heading back inside, donning gloves, and scrubbing the final traces of Jaycob Eklund from their walls and floor.

  59

  Louis woke to find the other side of the bed empty. The clock on the nightstand showed 3:30 a.m. He waited, but heard no sounds from elsewhere in the apartment. He rose, put on his robe, and walked down the hall to the living room. One end was effectively a glass wall that looked out over Casco Bay, and because of the orientation of the apartment the adjoining properties were not visible from the window. As their block was the last building on the outcrop of land, and they owned the penthouse, standing at the window during the day was like standing on the prow of a great ship. At night, it was like floating among stars.

  Angel was sitting in an armchair, facing into the darkness. It took Louis a few seconds to spot him, curled up as he was with a blanket around his shoulders.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Pain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it pain. Discomfort, maybe.’

  ‘Is it getting worse?’

  ‘Nah. Usually I just toss and turn for a while, then go back to sleep. Can’t figure out why it didn’t work this time.’

  ‘Because it is getting worse.’

  ‘Everyone’s a doctor now.’

  Louis joined him at the window, but did not sit. He discerned the beacons of a tanker moored out to sea, waiting for dawn to break before being guided in. Farther out, the streetlights on the nearest islands glowed like fireflies. He reached down and slipped a hand beneath the blanket so that it rested against the bare skin of Angel’s shoulder. It felt hot to the touch, like an infected wound.

  These were not gentle men. Each had suffered, and made others suffer in turn. Because of this, their devotion to each other was unconditional, and untroubled by concealment or illusion. It was a hard love, but love nonetheless.

  ‘I’m scared,’ said Angel.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can’t even say of what. Everything. Of knowing, and not knowing; of what’s to come. Not the pain so much – I can deal with pain – but being sick. I don’t want to be one of those people, the gray kind, all worn down by poisons.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away. It could be a hernia.’

  ‘It’s not a fucking hernia.’

  ‘Oh, so now you’re at death’s door? Couple of nights ago, sitting in the bar, you were trying to convince us it was nothing.’

  ‘It’s different in the dark.’
/>   ‘Yes, I guess it is.’

  Angel shifted position, and Louis saw him wince.

  ‘You want me to stay here with you?’ he asked.

  ‘You got anything better to do?’

  ‘Just sleep.’

  ‘That would be a no, then.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Louis moved a second armchair so they were sitting side by side, like a pair of old farts waiting for daybreak, except they were not old, and if this was mortality, then it should not be taking such a form. They had faced down guns. They had been cut, and shot. The end, when it came, was always destined to be a violent one, not some creeping pollution of the body.

  Louis was not a religious man. He named no gods. But because of Parker, he was conscious that what lay beyond this life was not a void, although it was possible that a void might be less troubling. Now he communed in silence with whatever waited, and made his obeisance to it.

  Let it be nothing, he asked. Let this not be the end.

  When he was done, he spoke aloud.

  ‘If you die,’ he told Angel, ‘I’ll kill you a second time myself.’

  But Angel, no longer alone, had fallen asleep.

  To the south, a similar vigil was being kept. The Collector sat by his father’s bedside while the old man, lost in a delirium, recited a list of names, only some of which were familiar to his son: clients, friends, relatives, a litany of those who had crossed his path. Among them were some he had fed to his son’s justice. It was as well, the Collector thought, that his father was here and not in some old age home. Who knew who might have been listening to his ramblings otherwise?

  The nurse had been summoned, and would arrive the next morning to take up permanent residence. His father had objected, but the Collector was no longer able to care for him unaided, and there was work to be done. He had decided that he would not entrust to Charlie Parker the identity of the man he had killed in Providence. Call it what you would: a small act of rebellion, a hunter’s pride, or a refusal to feed any longer on scraps from Parker’s table.