So Daniel decided to bury it.
* * *
HE WAITED UNTIL HIS mom was at work and his grandpa was napping. Grandpa Owen usually nodded off between four and five in order to recharge his batteries before Rob Caldwell—and later, Lester Holt—came on WCSH. Grandpa Owen said Rob Caldwell looked trustworthy, which was why he liked watching him co-anchor News Center. Grandpa Owen said Lester Holt also looked trustworthy, but Rob Caldwell was local, and Grandpa Owen said it was more important to be able to trust the local guy. Daniel wasn’t sure why this was, unless Grandpa Owen was planning to leave Rob Caldwell with the keys to his truck, or ask him to look after his wallet.
So while Grandpa Owen snored in an armchair, and Willona was turning down a wedding proposal on Good Times, Daniel went to the tree line at the end of the yard shared by the two properties, and dug a hole using a small trowel that he’d removed from the woodshed for this purpose. The ground was harder than Daniel had anticipated, so the hole took a while to dig, and his hands and clothes got messy, but eventually he had a hollow before him that would take the phone. Daniel would have preferred if the hole were deeper—in an ideal world, the hole would have gone halfway to China—but he was afraid Grandpa Owen might wake up and start wondering where he was, so he dropped the phone in the hole and commenced covering it up. He kept his face turned away at first because those plastic eyes were looking up at him like those of some living creature, and they made him feel bad; but eventually he could no longer see them, and finally he could no longer see the phone either. He tramped the dirt down so it was level with the rest of the ground. He thought it still looked a little different, but not so much that anyone would really notice, not unless they searched really hard.
Grandpa Owen was just beginning to stir when Daniel returned to the house, giving him enough time to get to the bathroom and clean the dirt from his hands and under his fingernails. The knees of his jeans were filthy, and he wished he’d had the foresight to bring a piece of cardboard or an old towel on which to kneel, but it was too late now. He stripped off the jeans, stuck them at the bottom of a pile of laundry, and changed into a new pair. They weren’t the same color, but Grandpa Owen would never notice the difference.
When all this was done, Daniel went to the kitchen and stared out over the yard to the spot where the phone was now buried. Even if it rang underground, he wouldn’t be able to hear it. No one would. He hoped this might make Karis give up. Maybe she’d go back to where she came from, wherever that might be. He’d seen the footage of the body being carried away from the woods on a stretcher. It had looked very small. Daniel wondered if Karis had been little in real life, or if death had just made her so. Perhaps only bones had been left by the time she was found. If so, how was she speaking to him? Skeletons didn’t talk, except in cartoons. Daniel had heard his mom and Grandpa Owen say that the dead lady had been taken to a mortuary. When Daniel asked what that was, his mom told him it was a place where dead people were kept before it came time to bury them, although she seemed annoyed that he’d asked, or just annoyed he’d overheard them speaking about the woman to begin with; Daniel wasn’t sure which. Did they have phones in mortuaries? Daniel guessed so. Was that how Karis was calling him? Did she creep out of her drawer at night (because that was where they kept the bodies, in drawers, like Grandpa Owen’s business files), bare bones clacking on the floor, and hide under a desk so she could call Daniel?
But Karis couldn’t be in a drawer, because she claimed to live in the woods, and sometimes Daniel could hear the sound of branches rustling in the background. In the end he decided it was probably best not to think too hard on such matters. Karis was a ghost, that was all, and ghosts weren’t like people. They probably had their own ways of doing things. He just wanted Karis to do those things someplace else, and with someone else. Perhaps they just needed to bury her again. It could be that Karis didn’t like being locked away in a drawer, although being buried under dirt seemed worse to Daniel, and being burned—like some dead folks were—sounded worse still.
He heard Grandpa Owen calling, asking if he was okay.
“Yes,” he said.
Yes, he hoped.
CHAPTER
LIX
Ivan Giller knew nothing of atlases or buried gods. He did not go to church, and believed that death marked the snuffing out of all consciousness. He disliked violence, and consequently did not own a gun, even though he regularly dealt with violent men. He was a buyer and seller, mostly of information. He was a source, and a channel, and was very good at what he did.
Giller’s introduction to the lawyer Quayle had been facilitated through a series of trusted cutouts, with the promise of a bonus well above the norm if he could help the Englishman successfully tie up his affairs, and thus—it was made clear—encourage his speedy departure from the continental United States. Giller was aware that the commission ultimately came from the same people who paid him to watch Parker, although he had never met any of them face-to-face, and didn’t care to. From what Giller had gleaned of them, a little knowledge certainly qualified as dangerous, and a lot might prove fatal.
Initially it had seemed like a simple assistance job, but now Giller was regretting ever becoming involved in it. First of all, there was the lawyer himself. Giller had met plenty of attorneys in his time, and could count on his thumbs the number he trusted, but Quayle resembled a being created from the distilled essence of all that was disreputable about the legal profession. Giller suspected that when Quayle died, every bone in his body would be revealed as slightly bent.
Next there was Mors, Quayle’s shadow, who dressed like a schoolmarm and smelled like a whorehouse mattress. Giller couldn’t recall ever encountering a more malformed woman, with her graveyard pallor, her too-shiny skin, her too-small teeth, her fingers like the legs of a spider crab, and a voice that had the same impact upon the ear as an abrading instrument. She made Giller want to hide in a cellar.
Then there was Parker. Giller’s days of monitoring him from a discreet distance had come to an end. Parker now knew what Giller looked like and was probably already endeavoring to put a name—other than Smith—to the face. No good could come from having Parker take an interest in the fact of Giller’s existence.
Finally, and most pressingly, there was the not insignificant matter of the mutilated child—Giller could conceive of it in no other way—glimpsed the previous evening. He might have managed to convince himself he had imagined it, or conjured it from his subconscious as a prelude to a fever, except he knew Parker had seen it too. Giller understood on some primal level that its presence must somehow be linked to Quayle and Mors, but he wasn’t about to invite either of them to clarify the relationship. He was simply aware of having wandered into a situation that presaged no good for anyone, least of all Ivan Giller, and it would be a very good idea for him to extricate himself from it as quickly and efficiently as possible.
With that in mind, Giller made a call to his contact, he who had initially put Giller in touch with Quayle, seeking to void what was, in essence, no more than a gentlemen’s agreement, absent the gentlemen. This particular contact was an elderly dealer in rare coins and stamps, although he was said to have secured a comfortable old age by selling very specialized pornography back in the good old days before the Internet drained much of the profit from distributing sexual images on paper and film. The dealer got back to him within the hour, making it clear that Giller’s involvement with Quayle could not be undone, and not only Giller’s continued good health but the good health of a number of people up the line, including the dealer himself, were dependent on his remaining in Quayle’s good graces.
So Giller was screwed, and no mistake. This left only plan B: get Quayle what he wanted, collect the bonus, and consider not answering the phone again for a very long time.
To this end, Giller began calling in a lot of favors.
* * *
THE PRINCIPAL BACKER WAS working on the restoration of a Georgian walnut bure
au dating from about 1740. It was in miserable condition when he first acquired it, although that was part of the challenge for him, and the pleasure. The feet were beyond salvation, and the handles were incongruous Victorian replacements, but the boxwood inlay and ebony stringing remained intact, and it had somehow retained its original leather writing surface, along with the eighteenth-century lock and key for the desk itself.
He had been laboring over the piece for almost a year now, and had recently sourced appropriate handles from a similar bureau with mortal injuries. His bureau, by contrast, would soon be suitable for resale—through an agent, of course, and without the Principal Backer’s own name ever being mentioned in connection with it. He expected it to make about $2,000 at auction, even if this return wouldn’t even begin to compensate him for his efforts. Money wasn’t the object, though; it was the act of bringing something back almost from the dead. It was about returning some beauty to the world. This was why he was so careful to conceal his involvement in the restoration. He was surrounded by those who regarded this world as forfeit, and would therefore consider even the most minor of aesthetic improvements to it as indicative of a deeper malaise, one worthy of further investigation.
Beside him, his cell phone began to ring. He wiped the oil from his hands before picking up.
“Yes?”
“It’s Quayle,” said a woman’s voice. Her name was Erin, and she took care of the minutiae of the Backers’ affairs.
“What now?”
A pause.
“He wants to meet with you.”
The Principal Backer had a certain profile, and a circle of acquaintances, both professional and personal, that knew nothing of his baser vocation, but he remained careful to meet in conclave even with his fellow Backers only once or twice a year, and had never yet encountered Quayle in person. In theory, Quayle did not know the Principal Backer’s true identity, but in practice . . .
“I suppose declining the invitation is not an option?” he said.
“It’s always an option. Whether it’s advisable is another question.”
The Principal Backer considered the situation. Perhaps it was time to call in his marker in return for the assistance Quayle had already received. He would have Erin pass on the necessary details. Quayle wouldn’t refuse. He wanted the Atlas too badly.
“Did he nominate a venue?”
“He left the decision to you. What about your club?”
The Principal Backer’s Boston club was both exclusive and discreet. It was regularly swept for listening devices of all kinds, and the windows had been treated with signal-defense film to block Wi-Fi transmissions and thwart the use of laser microphones to pick up voice data. It was a safe haven for those concerned about business competitors, the U.S. government, or any number of law enforcement agencies eavesdropping on their affairs, which was why it was able to command membership fees of breathtaking expense.
“Why not? I’ll tell them to fumigate it after he leaves.”
“That may not be the best frame of mind in which to approach the engagement.”
“Thank you for your concern,” said the Principal Backer. “Now make the arrangements. And Erin?”
“Yes.”
“Keep your distance from him.”
“He only has this number.”
“Then after you’ve informed him of the time and place of the meeting—and a small favor I plan to ask of him, the details of which I will forward to you—I want you to change your phone.”
This was an unusual level of precaution, even by the standards of the Backers. The phone was new. Erin had only recently circulated its number to the others.
“Would you like me to provide additional protection for you?” she asked.
“There is no protection,” said the Principal Backer. “Not from Quayle.”
CHAPTER
LX
Parker called Maela Lombardi from his car, but both the cell and home numbers went straight to voice mail. He guessed that Molly Bow would probably have tried to contact Lombardi to let her know that she’d shared Lombardi’s details with him, which might be for the best. If Lombardi was involved in sheltering desperate women from violent men, it was possible her view of the male sex could qualify as somewhat jaded. Even in her present mood, Bow would be able to smooth the way.
Parker was traveling against the traffic for most of his journey, and only got snarled up when he reached the outskirts of Portland. He thought about leaving Lombardi until the following morning, as it was now dark and he didn’t want to disturb an elderly woman who might be about to settle down with a meal in front of her TV. Then he remembered that this was an elderly woman who was involved in an abuse victims’ equivalent of the Underground Railroad, and was therefore probably familiar with being roused from her chair at inconvenient moments. He tried Lombardi’s numbers for the fourth time, with the same result, before deciding to call Molly Bow as he crossed the Casco Bay Bridge to South Portland. There was always the chance that Bow had managed to get hold of Lombardi, who was now battening the hatches against him. If so, she was underestimating his persistence.
Bow sounded harried when she came to the phone, but it might have been a hangover from their earlier conversation.
“One quick question,” said Parker. “Have you been in touch with Maela Lombardi since we spoke?”
“No. I mean, I tried, but I haven’t been able to make contact.”
“I haven’t either.”
“Where are you?”
“South Portland. I’m on my way to Lombardi’s now.”
“She usually answers her phone. It’s rarely off, for obvious reasons.”
“If she was planning to leave town, who would she inform?”
A pause.
“I can’t give you any more names. I shouldn’t have given you Maela’s.”
“Fine, I understand.” And Parker did, although he wished he didn’t. “I’ll take a look at the house and see what’s happening. But if I get back to you, be ready to make some calls. Just don’t go alarming anyone yet.”
Molly agreed. She didn’t have a whole lot of choice, and didn’t like not having a whole lot of choice. She was still letting Parker know this when he hung up, but by that point he’d gotten the message.
* * *
THE LOMBARDI HOUSE ON Orchard Road was dark when Parker arrived, and he saw no car in the drive. He rang the doorbell twice, just in case Lombardi was sleeping, before making a circuit of the property. All the doors and windows were locked, and nothing appeared to be disturbed when he shone his pocket flashlight inside.
He was about to call Molly Bow again when a neighbor began hovering in a yard across the street. Parker headed over and showed the woman his ID. She was in her forties, but with the kind of long, prematurely gray hair that suggested either massive self-confidence or the blessed state of not giving a rat’s ass. Judging by her clothes, which were expensively casual, Parker opted for the former, but he still felt the hair wasn’t doing her any favors. He guessed she might have been described as “handsome,” but not by him. Cary Grant was handsome. Lots of men were, but generally speaking Parker believed it was better for women to avoid the label.
The neighbor told him her name was Dakota, which figured, and she’d been living on Orchard for ten years now. She knew Maela Lombardi well; they worked together at various community organizations. Dakota asked if Parker was concerned about Maela, and he answered that he wasn’t as yet, but remained anxious to speak with her.
“I haven’t seen her for a few days,” said Dakota.
“Is that unusual?”
Dakota frowned, and scrunched up her nose. It made her look younger than she was, that damn gray hair apart.
“You know, it kind of is. She’d usually let me know if she was going away, just so I could keep an eye on her place. It’s not like we have a lot of burglaries round here, but it pays to be careful.”
It turned out that Maela Lombardi had a niece named Janette Howa
rd who lived a couple of blocks away on Arlington Lane, so Parker drove over there, parked outside the house, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a young woman who might have been taken for about fifteen were it not for the three young kids, two boys and a girl, alternately tugging at her arms and calling her “Mommy,” while simultaneously peering with varying degrees of interest at the visitor on their doorstep.
“Janette Howard?”
“Yes?”
For the second time in thirty minutes, Parker identified himself and indicated that he was seeking to speak with Maela Lombardi.
“My aunt lives just over on Orchard,” said Howard. “She should be home right now.”
“She isn’t. I was wondering if she’d given any indication that she might be about to leave for somewhere.”
“Maela never goes away. She doesn’t approve of vacations.”
“Would she tell you if she intended to take a trip?”
“Maybe, if she was going to be out of town for a while, but like I said, she’s a homebody.” She hushed her children, and silence descended for a moment or two. “Should I call the police?”
Parker said it was her decision, but if she wanted to check the house first, he’d be happy to accompany her.
“I don’t have anyone to look after the kids. My husband is working nights this week.”
Parker could see she was starting to worry now.
“What about the woman who lives across the road—Dakota?” he said. “Would it be okay if she entered the house with me?”
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