‘How about you tell us now?’ said Walsh, recovering some of his mojo, and in the process extirpating whatever modicum of goodwill Parker had succeeded in dredging from the bottom of his heart.
‘How about you try doing your own police work?’ Parker replied. ‘And if you ever call me a son of a bitch again, I’ll put you down.’
He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
‘We’re all done here.’
Bob Johnston called Parker as he was passing the Freeport exit.
‘I’d like you to come over, when you have a chance,’ said Johnston.
‘It could be a couple of hours.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, and there’s something you should see.’
109
Moxie Castin had installed Holly Weaver and her son in a room at the Inn at St John, which stood at the western end of Congress Street, near the former site of the beautiful old Union Station, now a strip mall. Parker had stayed at the Inn when he first returned to Maine, and he retained a great deal of affection for the last of the city’s railroad hotels. But Castin’s reasons for choosing it as a safe house were less to do with sentiment or aesthetics, and more closely related to issues of protection. The Inn didn’t have a restaurant or bar, so the only people with an excuse to be inside its walls were staff and guests, and the latter had to pass through the lobby to get to their rooms.
The suite selected for the Weavers was just off that lobby, with exposed brick, wood floors, and a flat-screen TV. Its window looked out on the parking lot at the back, with only a short drop to the ground if it needed to be used as an exit point. When Parker arrived, Daniel Weaver was sitting on the bed watching a movie, his mother beside him. Louis had taken up a post near the window, giving him unimpeded sight of the door and the lot, and a clear shot at anyone approaching through either. He had also ensured that the location services on Holly Weaver’s iPhone were disabled before bringing her to the Inn, so her whereabouts couldn’t easily be traced through the device.
Parker introduced himself to Holly, and asked if she and her son were okay.
‘I’m worried about my father,’ she said. ‘He should have called by now.’
Parker looked at Louis, who shrugged.
‘Moxie asked the local cops to swing by the house,’ said Louis. ‘Found a big rig, and Mr Weaver’s car, but no sign of him. The neighbors have a key, and Ms Weaver here gave them permission to let the cops take a look around. Empty, and no indication of a struggle.’
‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’ Parker asked Holly Weaver.
‘He’s supposed to be here, with us,’ she replied. ‘That was what we agreed. And how could he have gone anywhere without a vehicle?’
Daniel Weaver’s eyes moved between the TV and the adults in the room. He was a somber-looking child, with very dark hair that accentuated his pallor, and his aspect was so different from the woman with him that they might almost have been born of different species. Parker wondered how much the boy understood of the truth of his parentage, and guessed that Daniel probably suspected more than he actually knew. It never paid to underestimate children.
‘I think we need to speak in private,’ said Parker to the woman.
‘Not until you tell me what’s being done to find my father.’
Parker was familiar with a couple of private investigators up in Piscataquis. One of them, Julia Hancock, was smarter than the average bear, and knew her way around a missing person case. More to the point, she also had good relations with the Dover-Foxcroft PD, the Piscataquis County sheriff, the Warden Service, and the Maine State Police.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Parker.
He stepped outside, called Moxie, and suggested he engage Hancock to work with the police to trace Owen Weaver. Moxie agreed.
‘She doesn’t work cheap,’ Parker warned him.
‘Then she’s in good company. This case will put me in the poorhouse yet.’
‘But when you die, maybe they’ll only have to say ten months of Kaddish for you instead of the full eleven.’
‘I’m sure that will be some consolation to my bank manager and ex-wives. I’ll call Hancock now.’
Parker went back inside to inform Weaver of what had been arranged. Only then did she consent to leave the boy. He watched his mother go, but made no complaint and showed no signs of concern. In fact, Parker noticed that Daniel Weaver hadn’t spoken once since his arrival.
‘You hungry?’ Parker asked him, while his mother waited at the door.
Daniel thought about this before nodding.
‘You like pizza?’
Another nod.
‘Do you talk?’
Daniel smiled, and nodded again, which made Parker warm to him. He felt sorry for what the Weavers were going through, and all that must inevitably follow.
‘So what kind of pizza do you want?’
Daniel opened his mouth, but shut it again before a sound could emerge. Instead, he raised his hands in a ‘dunno’ gesture.
‘Well,’ said Parker, ‘maybe we’ll just get a few different kinds delivered from Pizza Villa across the street. God forbid you might have to break your vow of silence.’
Castin had given Parker much of the story while he was driving down from Augusta, but he wanted to hear it again from Holly Weaver. The staff at the Inn allowed him the use of a second room, and in it he and Holly Weaver now sat, a table between them, the empty bed a curiously unwelcome distraction in a space occupied by two strangers.
‘Tell me,’ said Parker.
And she did.
110
If it were a folk tale, a story to be shared with a child before bedtime, a boy like Daniel Weaver, this is how it might have begun:
Once upon a time there was a young girl who was spirited away by an ogre. The girl did not know he was an ogre at first, because the ogre was very clever. He disguised himself as a wiser, older man, and treated the girl kindly, more kindly than anyone had ever treated her before.
But as time went on, the spell concealing the ogre’s true form began to weaken, and the girl perceived him as he truly was, in all his cruelty and wickedness.
‘Kiss me,’ the ogre would say to the girl. ‘Kiss me, so that I may know you love me.’
And if the girl refused to kiss him, the ogre would tie her down and make her kiss him, and his kisses were so hard that she would bleed for days after.
The ogre had no love for anything but books. They filled every room in his house, the house that the girl could never leave unless the ogre was with her, and in the gardens of which she was not even permitted to wander without his shadow beside her. The ogre collected books of spells, and rites of dark magic, but one volume in particular obsessed him: a collection of fairy tales, beautifully illustrated, into which two additional leaves had been sewn, fragments of a greater work: the Atlas.
The book of fairy tales was believed to have been lost, but the ogre continued to search for it because he knew that nothing is ever really lost until it has been destroyed, and the fragments, like the Atlas of which they were a part, could never be destroyed. It was beyond the capacity of men to remove them from this world, because the atlas was not the creation of any man.
But the ogre did not desire the fragments for his own collection, and had no intention of keeping them if they were found. There were others who shared his nature – his, and worse. Whoever secured the fragments would gain great credit, and might even evade punishment for all the wickedness of a life long lived. The ogre hoped that this might be true, for he had lived a life of considerable devilry indeed.
And after many years of searching, after decades of promises and lies, of threats and bribes, the book came to him, and he rejoiced. But the girl overheard him, and learned the reason for his exultation, and saw in it the opportunity to revenge herself for all the kisses, and all the blood.