The Wolf in Winter (30 page)

CHAPTER

L

I sat at the edge of a lake, on a wooden bench painted white. I was cold, even with a jacket on, and I kept my hands in my pockets to hold the worst of the chill at bay. To my left, at the top of a small hill, was the rehabilitation center, an old nineteenth-century sea captain’s house surrounded by a series of more recently built single-story redbrick buildings. Evergreen trees bounded the lake, and most of the snow had been cleared from the grass. The grounds were quiet.

All was quiet.

A small black stone lay by my feet. It looked incredibly smooth. I wanted to hold it in my hand. I reached down to pick it up, and found that it was flawed beneath. A shard of it had fallen away, leaving the underside jagged and uneven. I stared out at the still expanse of the lake and threw the stone. It hit the water and the surface cracked like ice, even though it wasn’t frozen. The cracks extended away from me and across the lake, then fractured the woods and mountains beyond, until finally the sky itself was shattered by black lightning.

I heard footsteps behind me, and a hand lit upon my shoulder. I saw the wedding ring that it wore. I remembered the ring. I recalled putting it on that finger before a priest. Now one of the nails was broken.

Susan.

“I knew that it wasn’t real,” I said.

“How?” said my dead wife.

I did not turn to look at her. I was afraid.

“Because I could not remember how I got here. Because there was no pain.”

And I was speaking of the wounds left by the bullets, and the wounds left by loss.

“There doesn’t have to be any more pain,” she said.

“It’s cold.”

“It will be, for a time.”

I turned now. I wanted to see her. She was as she had been before the Traveling Man took his knife to her. And yet she was not. She was both more and less than she once was.

She wore a summer dress, for she always wore a summer dress in this place. In every glimpse of her that I had caught since losing her, she had been wearing the same dress, although at those times I never saw her face. When I did, it was under other circumstances. The dress would be stained with blood, and her features a ruin of red. I had never been able to reconcile the two versions of her.

Now she was beautiful once again, but her eyes were distant, focused elsewhere, as though my presence here had called her from more pleasant business and she wished to return to it as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“For leaving you. For not being there when he came for you.”

“You would have died with us.”

“I might have stopped him.”

“No. You weren’t as strong then, and he had so much rage. So much rage . . .”

Her nails dug into my shoulder, and I was transported with her, back to our home, and together we watched as the Traveling Man had his way with her and our daughter. As he worked, another version
of my wife stood behind him, her face a scarlet blur as her head and body shook. This was the one whom I had seen before. This was the wife who walked through my world.

“Who is she?” I asked. “What is she?”

“She is what remains. She is my anger. She is all my hatred and my sorrow, my hurt and my pain. She is the thing that haunts you.”

Her hand stroked my cheek. Her touch burned.

“I had a lot of anger,” she said.

“So I see. And when I die?”

“Then she dies too.”

The remains of our daughter were stretched across her mother’s lap. Jennifer was already dead when he began cutting. It was, I supposed, a mercy.

“And Jennifer?”

I felt her hesitate.

“She is different.”

“How?”

“She moves between worlds. She holds the other in check. She would not desert you, even in death.”

“She whispers to me.”

“Yes.”

“She writes upon the dust of windowpanes.”

“Yes.”

“Where is she now?”

“Close.”

I looked, but I could not find her.

“I saw her here, in this house, once before.”

I had been stalked through these rooms years after their lives were ended, hunted through my former home by a pair of lovers. But my daughter had been waiting for them—my daughter, and the creature of rage she tried to control, but which on that occasion she was content to unleash.

“I’d like to see her.”

“She’ll come, when she’s ready.”

I watched the Traveling Man continue his cutting. There was no pain.

Not for me.

WE WERE BACK AT
the lake. The cracks and fissures were repaired. The fragile world was undisturbed. I stood by the shore. The water did not lap. There were no waves.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“I think I want to die.”

“Then die.”

I could not see my reflection, but I could see Susan’s. In this world, it was she who had substance and I who had none.

“What will happen?”

“The world will go on. Did you think that it revolved around you?”

“I didn’t realize the afterlife had so much sarcasm in it.”

“I haven’t had cause to use it in a while. You haven’t been around.”

“I loved you, you know.”

“I know. I loved you too.”

She stumbled over the words, unfamiliar in her mouth, but I sensed that speaking them aloud caused something deep inside her to thaw. It was as though my proximity reminded her of what it had once been like to be human.

“If you stay here,” she said, “events will play out without you. The world will be different. You will not be there for those whom you might have protected. Others may take your place, but who can say?”

“And if I go back?”

“Pain. Loss. Life. Another death.”

“To what end?”

“Are you asking me your purpose?”

“Perhaps.”

“You know what they seek. The One Who Waits Behind the Glass. The God of Wasps. The Buried God.”

“Am I supposed to stop them?”

“I doubt that you can.”

“So why should I go back?”

“There is no ‘should.’ If you go back, you do so because you choose it, and you will protect those who might not otherwise be protected.”

She moved closer to me. I felt the warmth of her breath against my face. It bore a trace of incense.

“You wonder why they come to you, why they’re drawn to you, these fallen ones.” She whispered the words, as though fearful of being overheard. “When you spend time close to a fire, you smell of smoke. These things seek not only their Buried God. They are looking for a fire that they wish to extinguish, but they cannot find it. You have been near it. You have been in its presence. You carry its smoke upon you, and so they come for you.”

She stepped away from me. Her reflection receded, then disappeared. I was alone. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, my daughter was beside me. She put her hand in mine.

“You’re cold,” said Jennifer.

“Yes.” My voice broke on the word.

“Would you like to go for a walk, Daddy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”

CHAPTER

LI

The Battery Park Book Exchange stood in the center of Asheville, North Carolina. It sold rare and used books, to which Louis had no objection, and wine and champagne, to which, if possible, he had even fewer objections.

The woman named Zilla Daund was taking part in a book club in the store. She and four other women were discussing Stacy Schiff’s biography of Cleopatra over sparkling wine and the kind of single-mouthful treats that passed for food where thin, attractive women were concerned. Louis sat with a glass of Pinot Noir by his right hand and a copy of
Max Perkins: Editor of Genius
, by A. Scott Berg, on his lap. He had picked up the Berg book because Perkins had edited Thomas Wolfe, probably Asheville’s most famous son, and Louis, who couldn’t stand Wolfe’s writings, was trying to understand why Perkins had bothered. As far as he could tell from reading the relevant sections in Berg’s biography, the only reason that Wolfe’s début,
Look Homeward, Angel,
was even marginally tolerable was that Perkins had forced Wolfe to remove more than sixty thousand words from it. At Louis’s rough estimate, that still left
Look Homeward, Angel
—which, in the store’s Scribner edition, ran to about 500 pages—at least 499 pages too long.

Zilla Daund looked like the kind of woman who took reading
books very seriously without actually understanding how the act could be enjoyable as well. Her copy of
Cleopatra
was marked with narrow Post-it notes of different colors, and Louis felt certain that the interior was dotted with words such as “Interesting!” “Agree strongly!” and “VIP!” like a high schooler in freshman year working her way through
The Catcher in the Rye
for the first time. She was slim and blond, with the build of a long-distance runner. She might even have been considered good-looking had she not prematurely aged herself through a probable combination of excessive exposure to the elements and a steely determination that had left her brow permanently furrowed and her jaw set in a thin rictus, like a serpent about to strike.

Louis had been watching Daund for the past thirty-six hours, but this was as close as he had yet come to her. It was his way: begin at a distance, then slowly move in. So far, from his brief exposure to her routine, she seemed an ordinary suburban housewife living a moderately comfortable existence. She’d gone to her local gym that morning, training for an hour before returning home to shower and change, then leaving shortly after lunch to come to her book club. The day before, she’d eaten a late breakfast with some friends, shopped at the Asheville Mall, browsed the aisles at Mr. K’s Used Books at River Ridge, and had dinner at home with her husband and their younger son—their older son, a sophomore at George Washington University, being currently absent. The younger son was just sixteen, but he wouldn’t be coming home for dinner anytime soon. At that precise moment, he was in the back of a van being driven deep into the Pisgah National Forest by two men whose faces he had not even glimpsed before he was snatched. He was probably terrified, but the boy’s terror didn’t concern Louis. He wanted something to use against the Daunds if they proved unwilling to talk.

Meanwhile, Angel was staying close to William Daund, who was on the faculty of the Department of Literature and Language at the Uni
versity of North Carolina at Asheville. Louis would have bet a dollar that William Daund had read
Look Homeward, Angel
so often he could recite passages of it by heart. He probably even liked the book. Louis was looking forward to killing him.

Zilla Daund finished giving her opinion on Cleopatra’s ruthlessness, which apparently extended to slaughtering her own relatives when the situation required it. “She lived in an age of murder and betrayal,” Daund told her friends. “I don’t believe that she killed because she liked it. She killed because it was the most effective solution to the problems that she faced.”

The other women laughed—that was their funny old Zilla, always following the shortest route between two points, no matter who or what happened to be in the way—and Louis watched as Daund laughed along with them. The group broke up. Louis returned his attention to Maxwell Perkins. In a letter dated November 17, 1936, ­Perkins was trying to come to terms with the fact that Wolfe was severing ties with him. “I know you would not ever do an insincere thing, or anything you did not think was right,” wrote Perkins to Wolfe.

Louis had to admire Perkins’s faith, even if he adjudged it ultimately to have been misplaced.

“He ruined Thomas Wolfe, you know.”

Louis looked up. Zilla Daund was standing before him, her copy of
Cleopatra
cradled beneath her left arm, her right hidden in a pocket of her coat.

“He did good by Hemingway and Fitzgerald,” said Louis. “Can’t win ’em all.”

He didn’t allow his eyes to drift to her right hand. He held her gaze.

“No,” she said. “Maybe you can’t. Enjoy your wine—and your book.”

She walked away, and Louis thought: She’s made me, or thinks she has. It didn’t matter. If she and her husband were as smart as Cambion and the Collector seemed to think, they must have learned quickly that the private detective they’d tried to kill was different, and that the
perpetrators of the attack on him were being hunted not only by the police but by men who weren’t unlike themselves. Perhaps they had simply not expected to be found so quickly, if they were found at all. Louis wondered if Cambion had already warned them.

He called Angel as he watched her walk across the street to the parking garage.

“Where is he?”

“In his office,” said Angel. “He’s been in tutorials since this morning, and he’s about to give a class until four.”

“If he cancels, call me.”

“Why?”

“I think the woman is spooked. If I’m right, she’ll contact him. You know where he’s parked?”

“Yes.”

“Watch the car.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll take the house. Stay with the husband. And, hey?”

“What?”

“You ever read
Look Homeward, Angel
?”

“Fuck, no. It must be a thousand pages long. Why would I want to do that?”

“I knew there was a reason why I liked you,” said Louis.

“Yeah?” said Angel. “Well, if I think of one in return I’ll let you know.”

LOUIS WAS AHEAD OF
the woman all the way. He had parked at a meter just outside the store, so as soon as she was out of sight he left cash for his wine and returned to his car. Angel had already taken care of the house alarm earlier in the day, once he was certain that William Daund was committed to his tutorials. It meant that when Zilla Daund entered the house Louis was waiting for her. She said only one
word as she set her bag down, Louis’s suppressed .22 inches from her head.

“Fuck.”

“I prefer ‘fucked,’” said Louis. “And, just for the record, you’re wrong about Maxwell Perkins.”

He closed the front door with his foot and took a step back from her.

“You know what this is about?” he asked.

“The hit in Maine.”

“Someone told you to expect trouble?”

“We knew from the aftershock, but we got a call.”

“Cambion?”

She didn’t respond.

“Not that it’s any consolation, but he told us about you as well,” said Louis. “Not everything, but a start.”

“Like you say, we got fucked.”

“Yes, you did. Drop the bag.”

A big purse hung from her left shoulder. He’d watched her as she drank her wine earlier, so he knew that she was right-handed, even before she’d spoken to him with that hand concealed, probably holding a weapon aimed at him. He figured she had at least one gun on her person, and maybe another in the purse.

“If you’re armed, you better tell me now.”

“In my purse.”

“But not your right coat pocket?”

“Oops.”

Louis stepped back and told her to let the coat fall from her body. It landed on the wood floor with a heavy thud.

“You got anything else?”

“You’re welcome to frisk me.”

“We’re below the Mason-Dixon Line. Us colored folks got to be careful with the white women down here. I’d prefer it if you just told me.”

“Left side, on the belt.”

“You expecting war to break out?”

“We live in a dangerous world.”

She was wearing a loose-fitting cardigan under a light suit jacket, the kind that would easily cover a gun.

“Use your left hand,” Louis said. “Thumb and index finger only. Slowly.”

Zilla Daund lowered her left hand, pushed aside her jacket with her forearm, and used the palm of her hand to raise the cardigan, exposing the gun. It looked like a little hammerless S&W 642 in a .38 Special.

“This is awkward,” she said. “The holster’s tight.”

He saw her tense, and was a second ahead of her. She was fast, twisting her body at the same time that she raised her right hand to lash out at him, but by then Louis was already bringing the butt of his gun down on her right temple. He followed her to the floor, wrenching the .38 from its holster and tossing it aside. She was stunned but conscious. He kept the gun at the base of her neck while he pulled her jacket and cardigan to her elbows, trapping her arms, then patted her down. Her jeans were skintight, but he still checked them for a blade. He released her when he was done, and watched as she rearranged her clothing. He found her phone and handed it to her.

“Call your husband,” he said.

“Why?”

She looked dazed, but he thought that she might have been exaggerating for his benefit. He allowed her to sit up with her back against the wall, although he insisted that she keep her legs outstretched and her hands away from her body. This would make it harder for her to raise herself up if she tried to attack him again. Louis was under no illusions about how dangerous this woman was.

“Because I know that you called your husband after you spoke to me at the bookstore. My guess is that he’s expecting the all clear.”

Angel had called Louis when he was within sight of the house to tell him that William Daund was on the move. “Let him come” had been Louis’s instruction.

Louis waited while she went to her recent calls and found “Bill.” He let the gun touch her left temple as her finger hovered above the call button.

“If I was aware that your husband was coming, then you understand I’m not working alone. Your husband is being followed. If you say anything to alert him, we’ll know. This doesn’t have to end badly for you.”

She stared at him. Any aftereffects, real or feigned, of the blow to her head were now almost entirely gone.

“We both know that’s not true,” she said. “I’ve seen your face.”

“Ma’am,” said Louis, “right now you have no idea just how much worse this could get for you and your family.”

It was the mention of her family that did it. This wasn’t just about her and her husband.

“Fuck,” she said again, softly.

“You were that concerned about the safety of your boys, maybe you should have picked another line of work,” said Louis. “Make the call. Raise the volume, but don’t put it on speaker.”

She did as she was told. Louis listened.

“Zill?” said her husband.

“I’m home,” she said. “But we still need to talk.”

“I’m on my way. No more over the phone.”

“Okay. Just be quick.”

The call ended.

“Zill and Bill,” said Louis. “Cute.”

She didn’t reply. He could see her calculating, trying to figure out what moves were open to her. Seconds later, Louis’s phone buzzed.

“Angel.”

“He’s about five minutes from you.”

“Stay as close as you can.”

“Got it.”

Louis continued to point the gun at Zilla Daund.

“Crawl into the kitchen on your belly,” he said. “Do it.”

“What?”

“If you try to get to your feet, I’ll kill you.”

“You’re an animal.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful,” said Louis. “Kitchen.”

He stayed behind her as she crawled, keeping the gun on her all the way. The kitchen was mostly walnut, with a matching table and four chairs at the center. When Zilla Daund reached the table, Louis told her to get up slowly and take a seat facing the door. He removed a cup from a shelf and placed it in front of her. The kitchen extended the width of the house, with a connecting door leading to a big living room with a dining area at one end. Between the table and the connecting door was a refrigerator and a glass-fronted cabinet filled with canned goods. It was there that Louis took up position. He couldn’t see the front door, but he could see the woman.

The sound of a car pulling up came from the front of the house. About a minute later, there was the rattle of a key in the door. This was the moment. This was when Zilla Daund would warn her husband.

The door opened. Three things happened almost simultaneously.

Zilla Daund screamed her husband’s name and threw herself to the kitchen floor.

William Daund raised the gun that was already in his hand and prepared to fire.

And Angel appeared behind William Daund and killed him with a single suppressed shot to the back of the head. Angel then proceeded into the house and closed the door behind him. He didn’t look at Daund’s body as he stepped over it. It wasn’t callousness. He just didn’t want to see what he had done. He checked the street from the living-
room window, but there was no indication that anyone had witnessed what had occurred. Then again, they wouldn’t know for sure unless the cops arrived on the doorstep. This had to be quick.

When he joined Louis in the kitchen, Zilla Daund was standing by the utility room. She was under Louis’s gun, but she had a big kitchen knife in her hand. On whom she intended to try to use it wasn’t clear, but turning it on anyone in that room, including herself, wouldn’t have a good result.

“You were only ever going to let one of us live,” she said.

“No,” said Louis. “Neither of you was ever going to live. The first one into the house was just going to live longer.”

Zilla Daund turned the knife in her hand and placed the tip of it against her throat.