The Wolf in Winter (13 page)

CHAPTER

XX

A pall hung over the house of Harry and Erin Dixon after the departure of Chief Morland and Hayley Conyer. A visit from either of them would have been enough to unnerve the Dixons at the best of times, for they were the two most powerful citizens in Prosperous, even allowing for the fact that Morland didn’t sit on the board. But a visit from both of them, especially under the circumstances, was sufficient to push Harry and Erin to breaking point.

They had let the girl go because they wanted to be free of this ­madness—and perhaps because she reminded them of the daughter they had never had, but for whom they had always wished—and now they were being drawn deeper into the town’s insanity just because they had tried to do the right thing. In a way, Erin thought, it might be the shock to the system that they needed. Something of their torpor, their acquiescence to the town’s edicts, had already been challenged, or they could not have acted as they had in freeing the girl. Now, faced with the prospect of kidnapping a replacement, any remaining illusions they had were being profoundly dissipated.

As their vision grew clearer, so too did their desperation to get away from Prosperous increase, but neither had yet spoken about what was being asked of them. To a greater (in the case of Harry) or lesser extent (in the case of his wife), they were like children, hoping
that by ignoring the problem it might go away, or that some other solution might present itself. Harry, in particular, had sunk into denial. He found himself almost wishing that some stray girl—a waif, a ­runaway—might pass through Prosperous, or be picked up at the side of the road by one of the selectmen: a safe, older man like Thomas Souleby or Calder Ayton, who would offer her a ride into town and buy her soup and a sandwich at Gertrude’s. He would excuse himself to go to the men’s room, and a conversation would ensue behind closed doors. A woman would approach the girl, a mother figure. Concern would be expressed for her. A place to stay would be offered, if only for a night or two until she had a chance to clean herself up. There might even be work for her at Gertrude’s, if she wanted it. Gertrude’s was always shorthanded. Yes, that would work; that would do it. That would take the pressure off Harry and Erin, and they could continue to plan for their eventual escape. Yes, yes . . .

A day went by. Harry avoided speaking with his wife, finding excuses to be away from her. That was not how their marriage had survived for so long. True, Harry might sometimes be a reluctant participant in conversations about feelings, hurt or otherwise, but he had come to accept their value. While Erin could not know the direction of his thoughts, she understood him well enough to guess them.

Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me . . .

He sometimes quoted that particular piece of Scripture—Luke 22:42, if she remembered correctly—in times of mild difficulty, like when she asked him to take out the trash if it was raining or, occasionally (and annoyingly) when they were about to make love. Her husband had his weaknesses. She had no illusions about them, just as, she assumed, he was aware of hers in turn, although she liked to think that hers were venal, and of less consequence. Harry disliked confrontation, and was poor at making serious decisions. He preferred to have responsibility for the latter taken from him by circumstance, for then he would not be blamed if the consequences were negative. Erin had
never said so aloud, but, had her husband demonstrated a little more backbone, a pinch more ruthlessness, some of their financial problems might have been avoided.

But would she have loved him as much if he had? Ah, there was the rub.

Like her husband, she attended church every Sunday. Most of the people of Prosperous did. They were Baptists, and Methodists, and Catholics. Some had even embraced roadside churches whose denominations were unclear even to their adherents. They believed, and yet did not believe. They understood the difference between the distant and the immanent, between the creator and what was created. But Erin derived more consolation from the rituals than her husband did. She could feel him zoning out during services, for he had little or no interest in organized religion. Sunday worship was a form of escape for him, though only in the sense that it gave him some peace and quiet in which to think, daydream or, occasionally, nap. But Erin listened. She didn’t agree with all that she heard, but so much of it was unarguable. Live decently, or what was the point in living at all?

And the people of Prosperous did live decently, and in most matters they behaved well. They gave to charity. They cherished the environment. They tolerated—no, embraced—gays and lesbians. Entrenched conservatives and radical liberals all found their place in Prosperous. In return, the town was blessed with good fortune.

It was just that, sometimes, the town needed to give fortune a push.

But had her husband listened a little more attentively to what was being said at services, and perhaps read the Bible instead of just picking up random quotations from it, he might have recalled the second part of that verse he so loved to throw her way as she began to nuzzle his neck late at night.

. . . nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.

It was the town’s will that had to be done.

“We need to talk about it,” said Erin as they sat at the table to eat an
early dinner. She had made a pot roast, but so far neither of them had done more than pick at it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Harry.

“What?” She stared at her husband with absolute incredulity. “Are you out of your mind? They want us to abduct a girl. If we don’t, they’ll kill us.”

“Something will turn up,” said Harry. He forced himself to eat some of the pot roast. It was strange—or maybe it wasn’t strange at all—but ever since he and Chief Morland had buried the girl, Harry had experienced something of a turn against meat. He’d started consuming a lot of cheese, and bread smeared with peanut butter. The pot roast tasted so strong that he had to force himself not to spit it back onto the plate. Somehow he managed to chew it long enough to enable him to swallow. He separated the meat from the vegetables and the potatoes, and proceeded to eat them instead.

“They won’t kill us,” he said. “They can’t. The town has survived by not hurting its own. The board knows that. If they kill us, others will start to fear that it might be their turn next. The board will lose control.”

Or they’ll tighten it, thought Erin. Sometimes it was necessary to make an example, just to keep the rest in line, and most of those in town—the ones who knew, the ones who participated—would have little time for anyone who placed the present and the future of Prosperous at risk. Any townsfolk who might have some sympathy for the Dixons’ predicament were those most like themselves, the ones who were secretly struggling. But there was no chance of them turning against Prosperous once the Dixons were gone, not as long as Chief Morland and Hayley Conyer didn’t show up at
their
door and demand that they go hunting for a young woman. Young men didn’t work as well. Prosperous had learned that a long time ago.

“You’re wrong,” said Erin. “You know you are.”

He wouldn’t look up at her. He speared half a potato with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth.

“What would you have me do?” he asked.

“We have to tell someone.”

“No.”

“Listen to—”

“No!”

She shrank back from him. Harry rarely raised his voice—not in joy, and certainly not in anger. That was one of the reasons she had been so attracted to him. Harry was like a strong tree; he could be buffeted by storms, but he always remained rooted. The downside of his disposition was that tendency not to act but to react, and then only when no other option presented itself. Now he found himself in a situation that he had always hoped to avoid, and since he did not know how to extricate himself from it he had responded with inertia, coupled with a peculiar misplaced faith in a combination of good luck and the possibility of a change of mind on the part of the board.

“I’m dealing with it,” he said.

His voice had returned to its usual volume. That brief flash of anger, of energy, was gone, and Erin regretted its passing. Anything was better than this lassitude.

Before she could continue, their doorbell ring. They had heard no car approaching, and had seen no lights.

Harry got up and went to the door. He tried not to think of who might be out there: Morland, asking to look at their basement again, querying further the manner of the girl’s escape; or Hayley Conyer, come to check on their progress, to see if they’d started trawling the streets yet.

But it was neither of them. On the step stood Luke Joblin’s son, Bryan. He had a bag at his feet. Bryan was twenty-six or twenty-seven, if Harry remembered correctly. He did some lifting work for his father, and was good with his hands. Harry had seen some furniture that Bryan had made, and was impressed by it. The boy had no real discipline, though. He didn’t work at developing his gifts. He didn’t
want to be a joiner or a carpenter or a furniture maker. Mostly, he just liked hunting, in season and out; anything from a crow to a moose, Bryan Joblin was happy to try and kill it.

“Bryan?” said Harry. “What are you doing out here?”

“My dad heard that you might need some help,” said Bryan, and Harry didn’t like the gleam in his eye. He didn’t like it one little bit. “He suggested I ought to stay with you for a week or two. You know, just until you get back on top of things again.”

It was only then that Harry spotted the rifle case. A Remington 700 in .30-06. He’d seen Bryan with it often enough.

Harry didn’t move. He felt Erin’s presence behind him, and it was only when she put her hand on his shoulder that he realized he was trembling.

“There’s no problem, is there, Mr. Dixon?” said Bryan, and his tone made it clear that there was only one right answer to the question.

“No, there’s no problem at all,” said Harry.

He stepped back to admit Bryan. The boy picked up his bag and gun and stepped inside. He greeted Erin with a nod—“Mrs. Dixon”—and the food on the table caught his attention.

“Pot roast,” he said. “Smells good.”

Erin had not taken her eyes off Harry. Now they looked at each other across the Joblin boy, and they knew.

“I’ll show you to your room, Bryan,” said Erin, “and then you can join us for a bite to eat. There’s plenty to go round.”

Harry watched her lead the boy down the hall to the spare room. When they were both out of sight, Harry put his face in his hands and leaned against the wall. He was still standing in that position when Erin returned. She kissed his neck and buried herself in the scent of him.

“You were right,” he whispered. “They’re turning on us.”

“What will we do?”

He answered without hesitation.

“We’ll run.”

CHAPTER

XXI

The wolf was in agony. His injury was worsening. In his earlier pain and fear, he had traveled far from the place of his pack’s destruction, but now he was having trouble walking even a short distance. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness the wolf recognized the fact of his own dying. It manifested as a gradual encroachment of darkness upon light, a persistent dimming at the edges of his vision.

The wolf feared men, dreading the sound and scent of them, remembering still the carnage they had wrought by the banks of the river. But where men gathered, so too was there food. The wolf had been reduced to scavenging among trash cans and garbage bags, but in doing so he was eating better than he had in weeks. He had even managed to take a small mongrel dog that had ventured too far into the woods. The wolf could hear the noise of men calling and whistling as he tore the dog’s throat apart, but the prey’s body was light enough to clamp in his jaws and carry away. He took it far from the sounds of pursuit, and consumed it until just fur and small bones remained.

But the wolf remained hungry.

Now it was night, and his nose was twitching. He smelled decaying meat. He came to the place where the scent was strongest, and found that the ground was soft and broken.

Ignoring the ache in his wounded leg, he started to dig.

“We! Lord,” quoth the gentyle knyght,

“Whether this be the Grene Chapelle?

Here myght aboute mydnyght

The Dele his matynnes telle!”

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

CHAPTER

XXII

Prosperous looked like a lot of Maine towns, except that those towns lay mostly Down East and were kept wealthy by tourists who didn’t balk at spending fifty dollars on decorative lobster buoys. But Prosperous was well off the tourist trail, and its stores and businesses relied on local trade to remain solvent. Driving down Main Street, I took in the antique streetlamps, and the carefully maintained storefronts, and the absence of anything resembling a chain outlet. Both coffee shops were small and independent, and the pharmacy looked old enough to be able to fill prescriptions for leeches. The Prosperous Tap reminded me of Jacob Wirth, in Boston, even down to the old clock hanging above the sign, and the general store at the edge of town could have been dropped into the nineteenth century without attracting a single sidelong glance.

That morning I had done a little reading up on Prosperous in the library of the Maine Historical Society, in Portland, before making the journey northwest. Prosperous’s home-ownership rate was as close to a hundred percent as made no difference, and the median value of property inside the town limits was at least fifty percent higher than the state average. So too was median household income, and the number of residents who held a bachelor’s degree or higher. Meanwhile, if Prosperous had any black residents they were keeping them
selves well hidden, and it was the same for Asians, Latinos, and Native Americans. In fact, if the census figures were correct, Prosperous had no foreign-born residents at all. Curiously, the number of residents per household was much higher than the state average as well: nearly four, while the average was 2.34. It seemed that kids in Prosperous liked to stay home with mom and dad.

There was one other strange fact that I discovered about Prosperous. Although its percentage of military veterans was roughly proportional to its size, none of the townsfolk had ever been fatally wounded while serving their country. Not one. All had returned home safely. This extraordinary feat had been the subject of an article in the
Maine Sunday Telegram
following the return of Prosperous’s last serving soldier from Vietnam in 1975. The town’s good fortune had been ascribed to the “power of prayer” by its pastor, a Reverend Watkyn Warraner. His son, Michael Warraner, was the current pastor. While there were various Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, and Presbyterian houses of worship in the surrounding area, the only church within the town limits was the tiny, and peculiarly named, Congregation of Adam Before Eve & Eve Before Adam, and it was of this flock that Michael Warraner was apparently shepherd.

Which was where things got really interesting: Prosperous’s church, which was stone-built and barely large enough to hold more than twenty people, had been transported to Maine in its entirety from the county of Northumberland, in England, at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Each stone of the church had been carefully marked and its position in the structure recorded, then all were carried as ­ballast on the ships that brought the original congregation to Bridgeport, Connecticut, in 1703. From there, these pilgrims journeyed north to Maine and, over a period of decades, eventually founded the town of Prosperous and rebuilt their church, which had been placed in storage for the duration.

The reason they left England, and took their church building
with them, came down to religious persecution. The Congregation, as it became known, was an offshoot of the Family of Love, or the Familists, a religious sect that emerged in sixteenth-century Europe. The Family of Love was secretive, and reputedly hostile to outsiders to the point of homicide, although that may just have been anti-Familist propaganda. Marriage and remarriage were kept within the sect, as was the precise nature of its followers’ beliefs. As far as I could make out, the Familists believed that hell and heaven existed on earth, and that there was a time preceding Adam and Eve. In the seventeenth century, the majority of Familists became part of the Quaker movement, with the exception of a small group of Northumbrian members who rejected a formal rapport with the Quakers or anyone else, and continued to worship in their own way, despite efforts by King Charles II to crack down on nonconformist churches in England. All officials in towns were required to be members of the Church of England, all clergy had to use the Book of Common Prayer, and unauthorized religious gatherings of more than five people were forbidden unless all were members of the same family. The Familists were among those persecuted in this way.

But the sect proved hard to suppress. The Familists learned to hide themselves by joining established churches while continuing to conduct their own services in secret, and they maintained that charade during the worst years of the crackdown on nonconformism. Also, as intermarriage between families was common, they could easily circumvent the rule about religious gatherings.

In 1689, Parliament passed the Toleration Act, which gave nonconformists the right to their own teachers, preachers, and places of worship, but it seemed that some Familists had already made the decision to abandon the shores of England entirely. They may simply have grown weary of hiding, and had lost faith in their government. The only hint of a deeper discontent lay in the footnotes of an essay that I found titled “The Flight West: Nonconformist Churches and the
Goodness of God in Early New England Settlements,” in which the author suggested that the Familists who formed the Congregation had been forced out of England because they were so nonconformist as to be almost pagan.

This corresponded to a couple of paragraphs in Jude’s book on church architecture, which stated that the Congregation’s church was notable for its carved figurines, including numerous “foliate heads,” part of a tradition of carving ancient fertility symbols and nature spirits on Christian buildings. Such decorations were routinely tolerated, even encouraged, on older houses of worship. They were a kind of tacit ­recognition by the early church fathers of the link between the people and the land in agrarian communities. In the case of the building that eventually found its way to Maine, though, the general consensus among the sect’s opponents was that the heads were more than merely decorative: they were the object of Familist worship, and it was the Christian symbols that were incidental. As I parked just off Main Street, it struck me as odd that a congregation with a history of concealment should have placed enough value on an old church building to transport it across the Atlantic Ocean. This might be a church worth seeing.

The interior of the Town Office, housed in a nineteenth-century brownstone with a modern extension to the rear, was bright and clean. When I asked to see the chief of police, I was directed to a comfortable chair and offered coffee while a call was put through to his office. The coffee came with a cookie on a napkin. If I stayed long enough, someone would probably have offered me a pillow and a blanket. Instead, I passed the minutes looking at the images of Prosperous through the years that decorated the walls. It hadn’t changed much over the centuries. The names on the storefronts remained mostly the same, and only the cars on the streets, and the fashions of the men and women in the photographs, gave any clues to the passage of time.

A door opened to my right, and a man in uniform appeared. He was taller than me and broader in the back and shoulders, and his
neatly pressed dark-blue shirt was open at the neck to reveal a startlingly white T-shirt beneath. His hair was dark brown. He wore rimless bifocal spectacles, and a SIG as a sidearm. All things considered, he looked like an accountant who worked out most evenings. Only his eyes spoiled the effect. They were a pale gray, the color of a winter sky presaging snow.

“Lucas Morland,” he said, as he shook my hand. “I’m chief of police here.”

“Charlie Parker.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Parker,” he said, and he appeared to mean it. “I’ve read a lot about you. I see you’ve already been given coffee. You need a top-off?”

I told him I was fine with what I had, and he invited me to step into his office. It was hard to tell what color the walls might be, as they were covered with enough certificates and awards to render paint pretty much superfluous. On his desk were various photographs of a dark-haired woman and two dark-haired boys. Chief Morland wasn’t in any of them. I wondered if he was separated. Then again, he may just have been the one taking the photographs. I was in danger of ­becoming a “glass half empty” kind of guy. Or a “glass emptier” guy.

Or maybe a “What glass?” guy.

“You have a nice town,” I said.

“It’s not mine. I just look out for it. We all do, in our way. You considering moving here?”

“I don’t think I could afford the taxes.”

“Try doing it on a cop’s salary.”

“That’s probably how Communism started. You’d better keep your voice down, or they’ll start looking for another chief.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. I noticed that he had a small belly. That was the problem with quiet towns: there wasn’t much that one could do in them to burn calories.

“Oh, we have all kinds here,” said Morland. “Did you notice the motto on the sign as you came into town?”

“I can’t say that I did.”

“It’s easy to miss, I guess. It’s just one word: ‘tolerance.’”

“Pithy.”

He looked out the window and watched a stream of elementary school kids waddle by, each with one hand clinging tightly to a pink rope. It was a clear day, but cold, and they were wrapped in so many layers that it was impossible to see their faces. Once the kids had disappeared from view, and he was content that nothing had befallen them, or was likely to, he returned his attention to me.

“So how can I help you, Mr. Parker?”

I handed him a copy of a photograph of Jude that I’d found at the Portland Help Center. It had been taken at a Christmas lunch the previous year, and Jude, wearing a tan suit and a white shirt accessorized with a piece of tinsel in place of a tie, was smiling. A pedant would have pointed out that the suit was too close to cream for the time of year, but Jude wouldn’t have cared.

“I was wondering if you’d seen this man around Prosperous recently, or if he’d had any contact with your department,” I said.

Morland wrinkled his nose and peered at the photograph through the lower part of his bifocals.

“Yes, I recall him. He came in here asking about his daughter. His name was . . .”

Morland tapped his fingers on his desk as he sought the name.

“Jude,” he said finally. “That was it: Jude. When I asked him if that was his first or last name, he told me it was both. Is he in trouble, or did he hire you? To be honest, he didn’t seem like the kind of fella who had money to be hiring private detectives.”

“No, he didn’t hire me, and his troubles, whatever they were, are over now.”

“He’s dead?”

“He was found hanged in a basement in Portland about a week ago.”

Morland nodded.

“I think I recall reading something about that now.”

The discovery of Jude had merited a paragraph in the
Press Herald
, followed by a slightly longer feature in the
Maine Sunday Telegram
about the pressures faced by the city’s homeless.

“You say that he was asking about his daughter?”

“That’s right,” said Morland. “Annie Broyer. He claimed that someone at a women’s shelter in Bangor told him that she was headed up this way. Apparently she’d been offered a job here by an older couple, or that was the story he’d heard. He wanted to know if we’d seen her. He had a photograph of her, but it was old. He described her well, though, or well enough for me to be able to tell him that no young woman of that description had found her way into this town—or none that I knew of, and I know them all.”

“And was he happy with that?”

Morland’s face bore an expression I’d seen a thousand times. I’d probably worn it myself, on occasion. It was the face of a public servant who just wasn’t paid enough to deal with the unhappiness of those for whom the reality of a situation wasn’t satisfactory.

“No, Mr. Parker, he was not. He wanted me to take him to every house in Prosperous that might be occupied by an older couple and have me show them the photograph of his daughter. In fact, he went so far as to suggest that we ought to
search
the houses of everyone over sixty, just in case they had her locked up in their home.”

“I take it that wasn’t an option.”

Morland spread his hands helplessly.

“He hadn’t reported his daughter missing. He didn’t even know if she
was
missing. He just had a feeling in his bones that something was wrong. But the more we got into it the more apparent it became that he didn’t really know his daughter at all. That was when I discovered
that she’d been living in a women’s shelter, and he was homeless, and they were estranged. It all got messy from there.”

“What did you do in the end?”

“I made a copy of the photograph, put together a description of his daughter to go with it, and told him I’d ask around. But I also tried to explain to him that this wasn’t the kind of town where people took in street women they didn’t know and offered them beds in their homes. To be honest, I don’t know a whole lot of towns where anyone would behave in that way. The story just didn’t ring true. He gave me a couple of numbers for shelters and soup kitchens where a message could be left for him, and then I gave him a ride to Medway so he could catch the bus back to Bangor.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The offer of a ride to Medway wasn’t one that he could refuse.”

Morland gave me the long-suffering public servant expression again.

“Look, it was a last resort. He said he was going to get a cup of coffee, and next thing I knew he was stopping folks on the streets to show them the picture of his daughter, and taping crappy photocopies to streetlights. I’d told him that I’d do what I could to help him, and I meant it, but I wasn’t going to have a bum—even a well-dressed bum—harassing citizens and defacing public property. I like my job, Mr. Parker, and I want to keep it. Most of the time it’s easy, and even when it’s hard it’s still kind of easy. I like this town too. I grew up here. My father was chief of police before me, and his father before him. It’s our family business, and we do it well.”