The Wrath of Angels (55 page)

‘Watched, investigated.’

‘Killed?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Before or after those people named upon it could act?’

He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes, preventive actions are necessary.’

‘
That’s
why I destroyed it,’ I said.

‘In the right hands, it could have proved most useful.’

‘In the right hands,’ I echoed.

‘From what I hear, Liat was at risk of death because of what you did. The Collector threatened her life unless the list was given to him.’

‘He wasn’t going to kill her.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’

‘He has a code. It’s a twisted, blasted thing, but it’s a code nonetheless. He wouldn’t have killed her because of something that I did: he would only have killed her for something that she herself had done. I didn’t believe that she was guilty of something that would have brought the Collector down upon her.’

‘I will try to explain that distinction to her. I fear that, if you were to attempt to do so, she might try to shoot you.’

We reached the end of the beach, and turned back. The sun had begun to set as we turned to the north, the wind breathing winter on our faces.

‘What do you think Malphas was doing out there?’ said Epstein. ‘Liat spoke of an altar, a kind of shrine.’

‘Malphas had a dent in his head big enough to hold a book,’ I said. ‘He was brain-damaged. You think even he knew for sure what he was doing?’

‘He certainly had a purpose. Liat said that the altar faced north. A north-facing altar, in a northern state. How far north can one go, do you think, before there is nothing left, nothing to worship, only snow and ice?’

We walked on in silence until we were back at the parking lot.

‘This is north,’ said Epstein, as his young man started the car, Liat standing by an open rear door, their departure now imminent. ‘This place. Planes crash here, and are slowly sucked into the ground. Killers come here, and meet their end. Dark angels spread their wings above its ground, and are brought down by their enemies. And you, you are here. I used to believe that it was you to whom they were drawn in this place, but now I think that I may have been wrong. There is something else here. It called to Malphas, and it tried to hide that plane. It calls to them all, even if they’re unaware of its voice. That is what Liat believes, and now that is what I believe.’

We shook hands.

‘It is a shame about that list,’ said Epstein, and while his right hand clasped mine tightly, he rested his left hand upon both, and his eyes searched my face for any hint that what he suspected might well be true: whatever was in the bag at the bottom of that dark pond, it was not the list. ‘You know, I sent some of my people into the interior to search for it, but to no avail. It seems that body of water is very deep. Let’s just hope that the list rests in a safe place.’

‘I can think we can be sure of that,’ I replied.

They left me then. I faced the north, as though, from where I stood, I might see far, far beyond, deep into the darkness of the Great North Woods.

The woods, and whatever lay buried deep beneath them.

Buried, and waiting.

As always, I am indebted to a number of individuals who helped to make this book better than it might otherwise have been. I would like to thank my fellow author, Paul Doiron (
www.pauldoiron.com
), who, in addition to being a very fine writer, is also the editor of
Down East
magazine (
www.downeast.com
), to which I am a proud subscriber. It was Paul who gave up his time to help me understand the ways of hunters in Maine, and for both his knowledge and the pleasure of his company I am deeply grateful. Meanwhile, Drs Robert and Rosey Drummond kindly advised on medical matters, for which I owe them a good Indian meal, and Rachel Unterman and her sister helped me to swear in Hebrew. Thanks, too, to my good friend Joe Long in New York for introducing me to all at Nicola’s fine Italian specialty store in New York. To Nick and Freddy Santilli, my gratitude for letting me hold meetings in your office; and to Dutch, thanks for the books. You should visit them. They’re on First Avenue, between 54th and 55th Street. Tell them we sent you.

I am very fortunate to be surrounded by people, most of them women, who are much smarter than I am, and who have taken it upon themselves to look after my odd little books and, by extension, me. I would be very lost without my editors, Sue Fletcher at Hodder & Stoughton and Emily Bestler at Atria, and all who work alongside them: Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Auriol Bishop, Jamie Hodder-Williams and the fine sales reps at Hodder; and Judith Curr, Louise Burke, Carolyn Reidy, Caroline Porter, David Brown, and the sales teams at Atria and Pocket. My friend Clair Lamb has made my life immeasurably easier by taking on the thankless role of publicist, assistant, and general organizer of all things book-related, assisted by the patently gifted Madeira James, who looks after my website, and, until recently, Jayne Doherty, who has since moved on to sunnier marital climes. My thanks, too, as always, to my agent, Darley Anderson, without whom I would not be in the fortunate position of being published, and his team: Clare Wallace, Mary Darby, Sophie Gordon, Vicki Le Feuvre, Andrea Messent, Camilla Wray, Rosanna Bellingham, Peter Colegrove and, in Los Angeles, my film agent, Steve Fisher.

Finally, the people at home have to put up with a lot. To my lovely Jennie, to Cameron and Alistair, and to the two dogs, Sasha and Coco, who keep me company in my office, my love and thanks.