The Wolf in Winter (32 page)

CHAPTER

LIII

Lucas Morland felt as though he had aged years within a matter of days, but for the first time he was starting to believe that Prosperous might be free and clear, at least as far as the law was concerned. The MSP hadn’t been in touch with him in forty-eight hours, and its investigators were no longer troubling the town. A certain narrative was gaining traction: Harry Dixon, who had been depressed and suffering from financial problems, killed his wife, her half sister and her huband, and, it was presumed, their daughter, before turning his gun on himself. Extensive searches of the town and its environs had failed to uncover any trace of Kayley Madsen. The state police had even done some halfhearted exploring in the cemetery under Pastor Warraner’s watchful eye. The only tense moment occurred when some disturbance to the earth near the church walls was discovered, but further digging exposed only the remains of what was believed to be an animal burrow of some kind—too narrow, it seemed, to allow for the burial of a young woman’s body.

Then there was the matter of the detective. The hit on him had been botched, and, just as Morland had warned, the attack had brought with it a series of convulsive aftershocks, culminating in the killing of the Daunds. Morland didn’t know how the couple had been tracked down. Neither did he know if they had kept silent as they died, or
confessed all to their killers in an effort to save themselves or, more likely, their son, who had been held captive while his parents were shot dead in their own home. At best, those who were seeking to avenge the shooting of the detective were now only one step away from Prosperous. He had tried to get Hayley Conyer and the others to understand the danger they were in, but they refused to do so. They believed that they had acted to protect the town, and that the town, in turn, would protect them. Why wouldn’t it? After all, they had given a girl to it.

Now he was back in Conyer’s house, sitting at that same table in that same room, sipping tea from the same mugs. Sunlight flooded through the trees. It was the first truly warm day in months. The air was bright with the sound of snow and ice melting, like the dimly heard ticking of clocks.

“You’ve done well, Lucas,” Conyer told him, as she sipped her tea. Morland had barely touched his. He had begun to resent every minute he was forced to spend in Conyer’s presence. “Don’t think the board doesn’t appreciate all your efforts.”

He was there only because that old bastard Kinley Nowell had finally given up the ghost. He had died that morning in his daughter’s arms. It was a more peaceful passing than he deserved. As far as Morland was concerned, Kinley Nowell had been severely lacking in the milk of human kindness, even by the standards of a town that fed young women to a hole in the ground.

But Nowell’s death had also provided him with what might be his final chance to talk some sense into Hayley Conyer. The board would need a replacement, but Conyer had vetoed the suggestion that the young lawyer Stacey Walker should be the one, despite the majority of her fellow board members being in favor. Instead, Conyer was holding firm on Daniel Cooper, who wasn’t much younger than Nowell and was among the most stubborn and blinkered of the town’s elders, as well as an admirer of Conyer’s to the point of witlessness. Even after
all that had occurred, Conyer was still attempting to consolidate her position.

“We just need to stand together for a little while longer,” Conyer continued. “And then all this will pass.”

She knew why he was here, but she wasn’t about to be dissuaded from her course. She’d already informed Morland that she felt that Stacey Walker was too young, too inexperienced, to be brought onto the board. Hard times called for old heads, she told him. Morland couldn’t tell whether she’d just made that up or it was an actual saying, but he rejected it totally in either case. It was old heads that had gotten them into all this trouble to begin with. The town needed a fresh start. He thought of Annie Broyer, and a question that had come to mind after he and Harry Dixon had spent a cold night burying her.

What would happen if we stopped feeding it?

Bad things, Hayley Conyer would have told him had she been there. She would have pointed to the misfortunes that had blighted Prosperous so recently—the deaths of those boys in Afghanistan, of Valerie Gillson, of Ben Pearson—and said, “There! See what happens when you fail in your duty to the town?”

But what if this was all a myth in which they had mistakenly chosen to believe? What if their old god was more dependent on them than they were on it? Their credence gave it power. If they deprived it of belief, what then?

Could a god die?

Let the town have its share of misfortunes. Let it take its chances with the rest of humanity, for good or ill. He was surprised by how much Kayley Madsen’s fate had shaken him. He’d heard stories, of course. His own father had prepared him for it, so he thought he knew what to expect. He hadn’t been ready for the reality, though. It was the speed of it that haunted him most—how quickly the girl had been swallowed by the earth, like a conjurer’s vanishing trick.

If Morland had his way, they would feed this old god no longer.

But Hayley Conyer stood in his way: she and those like her.

“We have to put old disagreements behind us and look to the future,” said Hayley. “Let all our difficulties be in the past.”

“But they’re not,” he said. “What happened to the Daunds proves that.”

“You’re making assumptions that their deaths are linked to their recent efforts on our behalf.”

“You told me yourself that they worked only for the town. There can be no other reason why they were targeted.”

She dismissed what he said with a wave of her hand.

“They could have been tempted to take on other tasks without our knowledge. Even if they didn’t, and they were somehow tracked down because of the detective, they wouldn’t betray us.”

“They might, to save their child.”

But Hayley Conyer had no children, had apparently never shown any desire to be a mother, and to possess such feelings for a child was beyond her imaginative and emotional reach.

“Hayley,” said Morland, with some force, “they will come here next. I’m certain of it.”

And it’s your fault, he wanted to tell her. I warned you. I told you not to take this course of action. I love this town as much as you. I’ve even killed for it. But you believe that whatever decision you take, whatever is right for you, is also right for Prosperous, and in that you are mistaken. You’re like that French king who declared that he was the state, before the people ultimately proved him wrong by cutting off his descendant’s head.

Morland wasn’t the only one who felt this way. There were others too. The time of the current board of selectmen was drawing to a close.

“If they do come, we’ll deal with them,” said Conyer. “We’ll . . .”

But Morland was no longer even listening. He drifted. He wasn’t sleeping well, and when he did manage to doze off his dreams—he
had begun to dream in earnest—were haunted by visions of wolves. He stood and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. Hayley Conyer was still talking, lecturing him on the town’s history, his obligations to it, the wisdom of the board. It sounded to him like the cawings of an old crow. She mentioned something about his position, about how nobody was irreplaceable. She talked of the possibility of Morland’s taking a period of extended leave.

Morland stood. It took a huge effort. His body felt impossibly heavy. He looked at the handkerchief. Why had he taken it from his pocket? Ah, he remembered now. He walked behind Hayley Conyer, clasped the handkerchief over her nose and mouth, and squeezed. He wrapped his left arm around her as he did so, holding her down in the chair, her sticklike arms pressed to her sides. She struggled against him, but he was a big man, and she was an elderly woman at the end of her days. Morland didn’t look into her eyes as he killed her. Instead, he stared out the window at the trees in the yard. He could see the dark winter buds on the nearest maple. Soon they would give way to the red and yellow flowers of early spring.

Hayley Conyer jerked hard in her chair. He felt her spirit depart, and smelled the dying of her. He released his grip on her face and examined her nose and mouth. There were no obvious signs of injury: a little redness where he had held her nostrils closed, but no more than that. He let her fall forward on the table and made a call to Frank Robinson, who operated the town’s only medical practice and who, like Morland, felt that the time for a change was fast approaching. Robinson would make a fine selectman.

“Frank,” he said, once the receptionist put him through. “I’ve got some bad news. I came over to talk to Hayley Conyer and found her collapsed on her dining table. Yeah, she’s gone. I guess her old heart gave out on her at last. Must have been the stress of all that’s happened.”

It was unlikely that the state’s chief medical examiner would insist
on an autopsy, and even if one was ordered, Doc Robinson had the designated authority to perform it. Meanwhile, Morland would take photographs of the scene to include in his report.

He listened as Robinson spoke.

“Yeah,” said Morland. “It’s the town’s loss. But we go on.”

Two down, thought Morland. Three, and he could take over the board. The one to watch would be Thomas Souleby, who had always wanted to be chief selectman. Warraner too might be a problem, but it was traditional that the pastor did not serve on the board, just as Morland himself, as chief of police, was prevented from serving by the rules of the town. But Warraner didn’t have many friends in the town, while Morland did. And perhaps, if Morland were finally to put an end to this madness, he would have to take care of Warraner as well. Without a shepherd, there was no flock. Without a pastor, there was no church.

He stared down at his hands. He had never even fired his gun in anger until the evening he killed Erin Dixon and her relatives, and now he had more deaths on his conscience than he could count on one hand. He had even fired the bullet that killed Harry Dixon. Bryan Joblin had offered to do it, but Morland wasn’t sure that Joblin could do something that was at once so simple, yet so dangerous, without botching it. He’d let Bryan watch, though. It was the least he could do.

He should have been more troubled than he was, but, Kayley Madsen’s final moments apart, he felt comparatively free of any psychological burden, for he could justify each killing to himself. By fleeing, Harry Dixon had given Morland no choice but to move against him. Eventually, he would have told someone about Annie Broyer and how she had come to die in the town of Prosperous. The town’s hold on its citizens grew looser the farther from it they moved. This was true of any belief system. It was sustained by the proximity of other believers.

A car pulled up outside, and he watched Frank Robinson emerge from it. Morland wished that he could get into his own car and drive
away, but he had come too far now. A line from a play came to him, or the vaguest memory of it. It had to be from high school, because Morland hadn’t been to a play in twenty years. Shakespeare, he guessed, something about how, if it were to be done, then it was best to do it quickly.

If Morland could get rid of Souleby, the board would be his.

The board, and the town.

THE NEWS OF HAYLEY
Conyer’s passing made the papers, as anything involving Prosperous now tended to do. The general consensus was that the old woman’s heart had been broken by the troubles visited on her town, although this view was not shared by everyone.

“Jesus!” said Angel to Louis. “If it goes on like this there’ll be nobody left for us to kill.”

He remained surprised by Louis’s patience. They were still in Portland, and no move had yet been made on Prosperous.

“You think it was natural causes, like they’re saying?” said Angel.

“Death is always by natural causes, if you look hard enough.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’d be surprised if she didn’t die kicking at something,” said Louis. “Zilla Daund told us that the order to hit Parker came from the board of selectmen, and this Conyer woman in particular. Now she’s dead. If I was on that board, I’d start locking my door at night. It’s like that Sherlock Holmes thing. You know, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable it seems, is the truth.”

“I don’t get it,” said Angel.

“Once everyone else in the room is dead, the person left standing, no matter how respectable, is the killer.”

“Right. You have anyone in mind?”

Louis walked over to the dining room table. An array of photographs lay on it, including images of the town, its buildings, and a
number of its citizens. Some of the pictures had been provided by the Japanese “tourists.” Others had been copied from Web sites. Louis separated pictures of five men from the rest.

“Souleby, Joblin, Ayton, Warraner, and Morland,” he said.

He pushed the photographs of Joblin and Ayton to one side.

“Not these,” he said.

“Why?” said Angel.

“Just a feeling. Souleby might have it in him, I admit, but not the other two. One’s too old; the second’s not the type.”

Louis then separated Warraner.

“Again, why?”

“Makes no sense. If this is all connected to something in their old church, then Conyer and the board acted to protect it. The church is Warraner’s baby. He has no reason to hurt anyone who took measures for its benefit.”

Louis touched his fingers to Souleby’s picture. A file had been compiled on each of the selectmen, as well as on Warraner and Morland. Souleby was an interesting man—ruthless in business, with connections in Boston. But . . .

“Lot of killing for an old man,” said Louis. “Too much.” And he put Souleby’s photograph with the rest.

“Which leaves Morland,” said Angel.

Louis stared at Morland’s photograph. It had been taken from the town’s Web site. Morland was smiling.

“Yes,” said Louis. “Which leaves Morland.”

CHAPTER

LIV

Thomas Souleby tried to pack a bag as his wife looked on. Constance was growing increasingly disturbed at the casual way in which her husband was tossing his clothing into the big leather duffel. He never could pack for shit, she thought. She didn’t say this aloud, though. Even after forty years of marriage, her husband still professed to be shocked by what he termed her “salty tongue.”

“Here, let me do that,” said Constance. She gently elbowed Thomas aside, removed the shirts and pants, and began folding them again before restoring them to the bag. “You go and get your shaving kit.”

Thomas did as he was told. He didn’t opine that there might not be time for the proper folding and placement of his clothing. She was working faster and yet more efficiently than he could have done anyway—he was all haste without speed—and there was little point in arguing with his wife, not when it came to the organizational details of his life. Without her involvement, they would never have achieved the degree of financial security and comfort they now enjoyed. Thomas had never been a details man. He worked in concepts. His wife was the meticulous one.

When he returned to the bed, she had half filled the bag with shirts, a sweater, two pairs of pants, and a second pair of shoes with his socks and underwear neatly fitted inside. To these he added his shaving kit
and a Colt 1911 pistol that had belonged to his father. The Colt was unlicensed. Long ago, his father had advised him of the importance of keeping certain things secret, especially in a place like Prosperous. As Souleby had watched the slow, steady ascent of Lucas Morland, he came to be grateful for the bequest. Thomas Souleby considered himself a good judge of character—he couldn’t have succeeded in business if he weren’t—and had never liked or trusted Lucas Morland. The man thought he knew better than his elders, and that wasn’t the way Prosperous worked. Souleby had also noticed a change in Morland in recent weeks. He could almost smell it on him, an alteration in his secretions. Conyer had sensed it too. That was why, before her death, she had been planning to remove Morland from his post and replace him with one of his more malleable deputies. Souleby could still feel the old woman’s hand on his arm, the strength of her grip, as she had spoken to him for the last time the day before.

“You listen, Thomas Souleby, and you listen good,” she said. “I’m as healthy as any woman in this town. My mother lived to be ninety-eight, and I plan on exceeding that age with room to spare. But if anything happens to me you’ll know. It’ll be Morland’s doing, and he won’t stop with me. You’re no friend to him, and he sure as hell doesn’t care much for you. He doesn’t understand the town the way we do. He doesn’t care for it the way we care. He has no
faith
.”

And then the call came from Calder Ayton: Calder, who was everyone’s friend, but hadn’t been the same since the death of Ben Pearson. Souleby figured that Calder had loved Ben, and had Ben not been resolutely heterosexual, and Calder not a product of a less enlightened, more cloistered time, the two of them could have lived together in domestic bliss, protected by the amused tolerance of the town. Instead, Calder had settled for a sexless relationship of a sort, aided by Ben’s status as a widower and Calder’s share in the store, the two of them clucking and fussing over each other, snipping and sniping and making up like the old married couple that they
secretly were. Calder wouldn’t last long now, thought Souleby. Morland wouldn’t have to kill him, even if Calder had the backbone to stand up to him, which Souleby doubted. Calder had been widowed, and without Ben to keep him company he would fade away and die quickly enough.

It was Calder who got in touch to tell Souleby of Hayley Conyer’s passing. That didn’t surprise Souleby. They were two of the last three selectmen, and he had always been closer to Calder than to Luke Joblin, who was too flash for Souleby’s liking. What did surprise Souleby was Calder’s tone. He knew. He
knew
.

“Who found her?” Souleby asked.

“Chief Morland,” Calder told him, and it was there, in the way that he said “Chief.” “He thinks she might have had a heart attack.”

“And I’ll bet Frank Robinson is signing off on it as we speak.”

“That’s what I hear.” A pause. “Morland will be coming for you, Thomas.”

The phone felt slick in Souleby’s hand. His palms were sweating.

“I know,” he said. “What about you?”

“He’s not afraid of me.”

“Maybe he’s underestimated you.”

Souleby heard Calder chuckle sadly.

“No, he knows me inside and out. This is my little act of defiance, my last one. I’ll be resigning from the board.”

“Nobody resigns from the board.”

Only death brought an end to a selectman’s tenure. The elections were just for show. Everyone knew that.

Calder was sitting in the back of Ben Pearson’s store. In reality it was as much his as it had been Ben’s, but Calder didn’t regard it as anything other than Ben’s store, even with Ben no longer around. He looked at the bottles of pills that he had been accumulating since Ben’s death.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

“There are ways, Thomas,” he said. “You step lively.”

Now, with his bag packed, Thomas kissed his wife and prepared to leave.

“Where will you go?” asked Constance.

“I don’t know. Not far, but far enough to be safe from him.”

Calls had to be made. Souleby still had plenty of allies in the town, although he couldn’t see many of them standing up to Morland. They weren’t killers, but Morland was.

“What will I tell him when he comes?” asked Constance.

“Nothing, because you know nothing.”

He kissed her on the mouth.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She watched him drive away.

He had been gone less than an hour before Lucas Morland arrived at her door.

SOULEBY DROVE AS FAR
as Portland and parked in the long-term garage at the Portland Jetport. He then took a bus to Boston, paying cash for the ticket. He didn’t know how far Morland would go to track him, and he was no spy, but he hoped that, if Morland did somehow discover the whereabouts of the car, it would throw him a little. He asked his son-in-law to book a room for him under the name Ryan at a club off Massachusetts Avenue that advertised through Expedia. Souleby knew that the club didn’t ask for ID, but simply held a key for the name listed on the reservation. He then walked over to Back Bay, sat in a coffee shop across from Pryor Investments, and waited. When Garrison Pryor eventually appeared, cell phone to his ear, Souleby left the coffee shop and followed him. Souleby caught up with Pryor when he stopped at a pedestrian signal.

“Hello, Garrison,” he said.

Pryor turned.

“I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up the phone. “What are you doing here, Thomas?”

“I need help.”

The light changed. Pryor started walking, but Souleby easily kept up with him. He was considerably taller than Pryor, and fitter too, despite his age.

“I’m not in the helping business,” said Pryor. “Not for you or your board.”

“We’ve exchanged information in the past.”

“That was before tridents began appearing in the woodwork of houses in Scarborough, Maine. Have you any idea of the trouble you’ve caused me?”

“I counseled against that.”

“Not hard enough.”

“We’re having difficulties in Prosperous. Serious difficulties.”

“I noticed.”

“Our chief of police is out of control. He has to be . . .
retired
before we can restore stability. Recompense can be made to you and your colleagues.”

“It’s gone too far.”

“Garrison.” Souleby put a hand out to stop Pryor, forcing the shorter man to look up at him. “Morland is going to kill me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Thomas,” said Pryor. “Truly, I am. But we’re not going to intervene. If it’s any consolation to you, whatever happens, Prosperous’s days are drawing to a close. In the end, it doesn’t matter who’s left standing—you, Morland, the board. There are men coming to wipe you from the map.”

Souleby’s hand dropped. “And you’ll let this happen?”

Pryor took out his cell phone and redialed a number. He watched it connect, raised the phone to his ear, and patted Souleby on the shoulder in farewell.

“Thomas,” said Pryor, as he walked away, “we’re going to watch you all burn.”

MORLAND SAT IN HIS
office. He was frustrated, but no more than that. Souleby would have to return. His life was here. In Souleby’s absence, Luke Joblin and Calder Ayton had agreed that elections to the board should be held just as soon as Hayley Conyer was safely interred. Neither had objected to Morland’s list of nominees for the three vacant positions.

Morland had a fourth name ready too. He had a feeling that another vacancy would soon arise.