‘No,’ she said. ‘Which just leaves you.’
‘I’m not bound by issues of client confidentiality since, strictly speaking, you’re not a client, but I know what these people are like. I’m not going to put you, your family, or Mr Scollay at risk.’
She nodded in understanding, both at what I had said and its subtext, and rose.
‘I have one last question, Mr Parker,’ she said. ‘Do you believe in fallen angels?’
I did not lie to her.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
From her bag she produced a sheet of paper. It looked old, and had clearly been unfolded and refolded many times. She placed it by my right hand.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘My father left the satchel on the plane, but he took from it one sheet of names. He couldn’t say why. I think he saw it as some form of additional security. If something happened to him or to Paul, then this might have provided a clue to the identity of those responsible.’
She rested her hand on my shoulder as she passed.
‘Just don’t mention
In the pristine kitchen of a Connecticut house, Barbara Kelly was fighting for what little life she had left.
Darina Flores took an instant to react to the pain as the coffee struck her face. She screamed and raised her hands, as though she could simply wipe the liquid from her face. Then it began to burn, and her shrieks rose in pitch as she stumbled back against the kitchen island. Her legs tangled under her, and she fell to the floor. The boy’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’ of shock. He froze, and Barbara pushed him aside so hard that the back of his head hit the marble countertop with a hollow, sickening sound that set her teeth on edge. She didn’t look back, not even when she felt Darina’s nails raking at her ankle. Barbara almost lost her footing, but she held her nerve and kept her eyes fixed on the hall stand, and her car keys, and the front door.
She grabbed the keys in passing, yanked the door open, and found herself out in the pounding rain, the car parked a few feet away in the drive. She clicked the ‘unlock’ button on the fob, the lights came on, and the car beeped its welcome. She already had the driver’s door fully open when something landed on her back, wrapping its legs around her belly as its hands tore at her hair and eyes. She turned her head and saw the boy’s face close to the left side of her own. His mouth opened, revealing nasty, rodentlike teeth, and he bit hard into her cheek, tearing at the flesh until a chunk of it came away; now it was Barbara’s turn to scream. She reached behind her, pulling at his windbreaker, trying to yank him off. He held on tightly, and now his jaws were coming in for a second bite, this time at her neck.
She slammed him hard against the body of the car, and felt the wind go out of him. She did it again, and this time she followed through with the back of her head. His nose broke against her skull, and he released his grip on her, but he knocked the keys from her hand as he fell. He slumped to the ground, one hand protecting his ruined nose. She turned on him and aimed a sharp kick at his ribs. God, her face hurt! She could see her reflection in the glass, a jagged red hole the size of a silver dollar in her cheek.
She looked to the gravel and found the keys. She bent to pick them up, and when she stood again Darina was behind her. Barbara had no time to react before the knife sliced at her left leg, cutting the tendons behind the knee. She went down hard, and the full weight of the woman struck her, followed by more pain as the second sweep of the blade disabled Barbara’s right leg. Now she was the one being kicked as the woman forced her onto her back, forced her to gaze upon what Barbara had done to her looks.
Darina would never be beautiful again. Most of her face was a deep, scalded red. Her left eye was red and swollen. From the way she held her head, Barbara could tell that she was now blind in that eye.
Good, thought Barbara, even as she writhed in agony against the hard gravel, her legs on fire.
‘What have you done to me?’ said Darina. Only the left side of her mouth moved, and then just slightly, slurring the words.
‘I fucked you up, you bitch,’ said Barbara. ‘I fucked you up good.’
Darina raised her ruined face to the heavens, allowing the cooling rain to fall upon it. The boy appeared beside her. His nose had swollen and was streaming blood.
‘Where is your three-headed god now?’ asked Darina. ‘Where is your salvation?’
She pointed at the boy.
‘Show her,’ she said to him. ‘Show her the meaning of true resurrection.’
The boy lowered his hood, exposing an uneven skull that was already balding, wisps of hair clinging to it like lichens to rock. Slowly, he unzipped his jacket, revealing his neck to her, and the purple goiter that was already swelling there.
‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘No, no . . .’
She put her hands out, as though they might have the power to ward him off, and then her arms were being grasped, and she was being pulled back into the house, her screams lost against the thunder and the rain, her blood spilling then vanishing, washed away just as surely as hope and life were about to be.
She began to whisper an Act of Contrition.
II
What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my step, and points to yonder glade?
9
North again: north of New York, north of Boston, north of Portland. North, to the last places.
They were lost. Andrea Foster knew it even if her husband wouldn’t admit it: he never admitted his failings if he could avoid it, but she could tell that he wasn’t sure of where they were. He kept looking at his map as if its neat details of hills and trails bore any relation to the haphazard reality of the forest around them, and consulting his compass in the hope that, between paper and instrument, he might be able to find his bearings. Still, she knew better than to ask if he had any idea where they were, or where they were going. He’d just snap, and sulk, and an already irksome day would deteriorate further.
At least they’d remembered to bring the 100 percent DEET spray so the insects were being kept at bay, although probably at the cost of some kind of long-term damage to brain cells. If it came down to a choice between being eaten alive in the woods right now and a deterioration of her mental functioning somewhere down the line, she’d take her chances with brain death. He’d assured her that insects wouldn’t be a problem at this time of year, but here they were: small flies mostly, but she’d also had to fight off a wasp, and that had bothered her more than anything else. Wasps had no business being alive in November, and any that survived would be in a foul mood. She’d killed the wasp by swatting it with her hat and then crushing it beneath her boot, but she’d seen others since then. It was almost as if, the deeper they went into the woods, the more of the insects there were. There was still some repellent in the dispenser, but it was running disturbingly low. She wanted to get back to civilization before it ran out entirely.
It was warm too. Logic said that the shade of the trees should have cooled them some, but that didn’t seem to be the case. She had found herself struggling for breath on occasion, and her thirst never seemed to be slaked no matter how much water she drank. She usually liked day hikes, but after this one she’d happily spend a couple of days in a nice hotel, drinking wine, taking long baths, and reading a book. Once today was over and they were back in Falls End, she’d talk to Chris about heading up to Quebec or Montreal a little earlier than they’d planned. She’d had enough of the great outdoors, and she suspected that, secretly, he had as well. He was just too stubborn to admit it, just as he was too stubborn to hold up his hands and confess that, if they weren’t quite up shit creek, they could smell it from where they were.
She’d only reluctantly agreed to this trip. Pressure of work meant that Chris had been forced to cancel his summer vacation plans, so she and their daughters had joined her sister and her kids in Tampa for ten days while
