‘Which one of you hit me?’ I asked.
‘We all did,’ he said.
‘You worked Lonny Midas over pretty good as well.’
‘I did what I had to do. And I thought his name was Randall Haight.’
‘Randall Haight’s dead. A man named Lonny Midas killed him and took his place.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he didn’t want to be who he was anymore. Because he didn’t
know
who he was anymore.’
‘They’ll find him,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘We’ll find him.’
‘Assuming he lives long enough after that beating.’
‘I did what I had to do,’ Martin repeated.
‘For what? Because you thought he had the girl, or just because Tommy Morris told you to do it?’
He thought about the question. His eyes were dull. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is Martin even your real name?’
‘Does it matter?’
I watched him take a cell phone from his pocket and start to dial.
‘I’m going to look for Lonny,’ I said.
‘No, you stay here.’
‘Go to hell,’ I said, and started to walk away.
‘I told you to stay here,’ said Martin, and his tone made me turn back. The cell phone was now in his left hand, held awkwardly because of the pain, and a gun had taken its place in his right.
‘You’ve spent too long in the darkness, Martin,’ I said.
The gun wavered, then fell.
‘My name’s not Martin,’ he said.
‘I don’t care,’ I replied, and I left him to the shadows.
I found Lonny Midas lying in a ditch by the side of the road. His was the second body that I found. The first was that of the hunter who had run. He lay only a few feet from Midas, just beyond the tree line. Lonny had been shot through the heart at close range, the hunter in the chest and head. Not far from the hunter’s body lay a cheap, matte-finish, carbon-steel Colt Commander. The hunter’s own pistol was still in his hand.
I sat down with my back against rough bark and waited with them until the lights came from the south.
V
In the worst of all men there is a little bit of good that can destroy them.
36
I
spent a long night at the Pastor’s Bay Police Department. The local doctor, an elderly gentleman who looked as if he’d graduated from medical school with Hippocrates himself, took a quick look at me and decided that I was suffering from a burst eardrum and a mild concussion. I might have disputed the use of the word ‘mild,’ but it didn’t seem worth the effort. I was advised not to sleep for a while, but as there were lots of questions being asked, and only a limited number of living people available to answer them, sleep wasn’t really an option. So night became morning, and still the questions came. To some I had answers, and to others I had none.
Sometimes I just lied.
At first light, the New Hampshire state police started digging in the garden of Randall Haight’s former residence, alerted by a call from Carroll, the details of which were confirmed by me while I tried to deal with inquiries about an entirely different set of corpses. It didn’t take them long to reach the blocks. Beneath them were Randall Haight and his mother. Decomposition of the bodies in the cool, damp soil had been slowed by saponification. When they were revealed, the Haights’ remains were coated in a waxy adipocere formed from the bodies’ proteins and fats. They resembled insects frozen in their pupal stage.
Then the records arrived from North Dakota, and it was remarked how alike William Lagenheimer and Lonnie Midas had been, even as boys.
I never learned the real name of the FBI man who had been known as Martin Dempsey to Tommy Morris and his associates. Within hours, he was gone from Pastor’s Bay, and in the reports that followed he would be referred to only as an ‘undercover operative.’ He left me with more lies to tell. I told Walsh that I did not know the identities of the two men who had intervened to save Dempsey from Oweny Farrell’s men. In the confusion of all that had occurred, and all that was still happening, I don’t think he cared. It might also have been the case that Engel, who drifted in to listen for a time then drifted out again, knew or suspected the answer to the question already, and took the view that the truth would only complicate an already troublesome situation. Dempsey was alive only because of Louis’s and Angel’s intervention, and the one thing that could have made Engel’s life worse at that moment was the presence of a dead FBI man in Pastor’s Bay.
Finally, a temporary halt was called to the questions. The doctor came back and examined me again. He gave me some more painkillers and told me that it was probably okay for me to sleep now. I told him that I was going to sleep anyway, whether he thought it was advisable or not, because I couldn’t stay awake any longer, and if I never woke up again I wouldn’t be sorry. If Engel hadn’t followed him into the room, I’d have curled up on the floor right there and then with my jacket for a pillow. Instead, I drew on the last of my energy to keep my head clear.
Engel bore the weary expression of a man who had held on to his stocks for a little too long, and had watched them plummet just as he had hoped to cash them in. All that he had left was junk. Tommy Morris was dead, and all his knowledge had died with him. Engel’s undercover man was out of the game, and was a prime candidate for an extended period of therapy. If my head hadn’t been aching so badly I might almost have felt sorry for Engel, but, as it was, his undercover agent was one of the reasons that my head was aching to begin with. Since he was no longer around to blame, I was happy to let Engel carry the can.
‘Hell of a mess to clean up,’ I said.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he replied, then added, ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice too.’
Engel took a notebook from his pocket and opened it to a blank page. He laid a gold fountain pen beside it.
‘I’ve finished the initial debriefing of Martin Dempsey,’ he said.
‘I hope you took his gun away. I don’t think he’s too sure about where it should be pointed.’
‘He’s been deep for a long time. To be good at it, you have to subsume your old self in a new identity. It can be hard to restore it again, but I’m confident that he will.’
‘Is that part of your speech for the press conference? It sounds trite enough.’
‘You could always sue the federal government for the injuries you’ve received.’
‘I’ll add them to the list,’ I said. ‘The FBI already owes me a family.’
In what probably passed for a gesture of contrition, Engel closed his notebook without having written a word.
‘Six men died in that initial confrontation: five at the scene, and one more on his way to the hospital. Francis Ryan was killed by Dempsey before the real shooting began, and Dempsey says that he also fatally wounded one of his attackers. You didn’t have a weapon. Tommy Morris died at the hands of Farrell’s killers. That leaves three men unaccounted for. Dempsey says that he didn’t see anyone else clearly, but he was aware of figures in the forest who might have taken down the remaining shooters. You have anything to add to that?’
‘Nothing except my grateful thanks to those involved.’
‘I figured you’d say that. You tell your hired gunmen to stay out of the state for a time. I’d also advise them against visiting bars in Dorchester, Somerville, and Charlestown. You never know how word spreads in these cases.’
‘Which raises an interesting question,’ I said. ‘How did Tommy Morris find out about Randall Haight, or Lonny Midas as we now know him? Somebody leaked the substance of the interview with him, otherwise Morris and your confused operative wouldn’t have ended up pummeling him in a chair. Were you responsible? Was it a calculated gamble to make Tommy trust Dempsey more?’
‘It wasn’t us,’ said Engel.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I have no reason to lie to you. The operation is ended.’
‘That’s not good enough. Somebody in that room told. Either deliberately or inadvertently, the information about Randall Haight’s confession was leaked to Morris. I didn’t do it. Aimee didn’t do it. That makes it someone on your side: one of the cops or agents in that room, or someone else who was subsequently made aware of what had been said.’
‘Well, the answer to that question may emerge in the next stage of the investigation, namely: Who killed Midas and the last gunman? They were both shot with the same weapon, left at the scene. It was an unregistered firearm, but we’re going to run ballistics matches on it. I have to ask: Were your dubious angels responsible?’
‘No.’
‘They wouldn’t lie to you?’
‘No, they wouldn’t. They also prefer not to leave guns lying around. They’re evidence, whatever way you look at it.’
‘Maybe Farrell sent a backup, just to be sure,’ said Engel. ‘We’ll ask around. For now, an operation that started half a decade ago is nothing but dust: years of effort for no result. Maybe if you weren’t such a lone wolf we could have got to Lonny Midas in time to use him as bait. We could have been waiting for Morris when he came.’
‘You’re forgetting that you had an agent in place all the time. It seems kind of harsh to put the blame on my shoulders when all Dempsey had to do was pick up a phone.’
‘Morris kept him out of the loop on this, right until the end.’
‘Maybe he didn’t trust him so much after all.’
‘We’ll never know.’
‘Right. And Anna Kore is still missing. You forgot to mention her, but then she was never a major concern of yours, was she?’
‘We’re going to search Randall Haight’s property – my mistake,
Lonnie Midas’s
property, given what we’ve now learned about him. It’s possible that he might have had an accomplice. Right now, it’s the best lead we have.’
‘Allan gave him an alibi,’ I said.
‘I know that. Do you have any reason to doubt it?’
I took out my cell phone, opened the message folder, and showed him the anonymous missives about Chief Allan. He read through them, then handed the phone back to me.
‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘I tend to be careful about potential slanders. I prefer to look into the possible truth of them before I go disseminating their substance.’
‘And what did you discover?’
‘Chief Allan has a girlfriend in Lincolnville. She’s young, and she has a child. If Allan is the father, then she was either barely legal when she became pregnant, or not legal at all if he was having sex with her for any length of time before she conceived.’
‘When did you discover this?’
‘Just yesterday, but then it was a day of discoveries for all of us.’
‘You have a name for the girl?’
I gave it to him, along with the address of the apartment building and the number of her car’s license plate.
‘And your thinking is that Chief Allan is a man with a taste for young women, in a town where another young woman has gone missing?’
‘That’s the thinking of whoever has been sending these messages.’
‘You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? We’ll talk with Allan. We’ll get a warrant to search his house as well.’
‘She’s not at his house,’ I said.
Engel raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Dubious angels,’ I explained. ‘If Allan does have her, then she’s someplace else.’
Engel thought for a moment.
‘All right. Anything else, while you’re unburdening yourself of secrets?’
‘One more thing: Allan made a call from a pay phone at the gas station on Main in Lincolnville at 8:34 p.m. yesterday.’
‘Just before a lot of men with guns descended on Pastor’s Bay,’ said Engel.
‘It would be interesting to know who he called.’
‘Wouldn’t it? You know, you might have made a good cop if you’d stuck with it, if you’d had the self-discipline and the ability to tame your ego. Instead you’re a mercenary who withholds information and makes bad judgment calls.’
A horse-faced woman wearing a blue FBI windbreaker entered the room, a younger, preppy-looking guy hovering behind her with a gun at his waist. Engel nodded at them and stood. His mouth formed a moue as he looked down on me.
‘You should leave while you still can, Mr. Parker, before somebody takes it into his mind to put you under arrest. You didn’t behave well here. None of us did, but you in particular have done nothing to enhance your reputation.’
I didn’t argue with him.
37
C
hief Allan couldn’t be found. His cell phone rang out, and there was nobody home when Engel, accompanied by Gordon Walsh and two state troopers, paid a call to his house. His truck wasn’t in the drive either, so his license-plate details and a description of his vehicle were passed to both local and state forces, as well as to police in the contiguous states, the border patrol, and Canadian law enforcement. Walsh visited the apartment building in Lincolnville with a female state trooper named Abelena Forbes, and Mary Ellen Schrock admitted that she had been seeing Allan, but told Walsh and Forbes first that she was eighteen then, on reflection, seventeen when their sexual relationship began. Forbes asked her if she was sure of this, and she said that she was, but both Forbes and Walsh believed that she still was lying. But the girl stuck to her story: Allan had pulled over a car in which she was a passenger, and the driver, a twenty-two-year-old friend of Schrock’s, was found to be marginally over the limit. He was let off with a warning by Allan, who offered to drive Schrock home, although she could not recall the date of the alleged incident. Their relationship had begun a week later. When they asked her if she was aware of any similar relationships in which Allan might have been involved, either now or in the past, she grew agitated and said that she was not. This they also believed to be a lie. When they asked her if Allan had ever mentioned Anna Kore to her, she told them to leave.