The Wolf in Winter (34 page)

CHAPTER

LVII

Main Street was gone, reduced to brick shells and vacant, charred lots. At least one of the ruined buildings had dated back to the eighteenth century, and others were only marginally younger. Historians and architecture experts described it as a tragedy.

The Chapel of the Congregation of Adam Before Eve & Eve Before Adam was scattered over woods, roads, and what was left of the cemetery, which wasn’t much at all. Charred human remains, most of them long interred, would be discovered for years after. Incredibly, the total number of fatalities amounted to just three: Pastor Michael Warraner, who had been inside his church when it was blown sky high; Bryan Joblin, killed in cold blood at Warraner’s house; and Thomas Souleby, the senior selectman of the town, who was said to have accompanied Chief Morland to the cemetery when the original call was received about a homeless trespasser, and who had not been able to get clear of the cemetery before the explosion occurred. Frank Robinson conducted the autopsy on Souleby, just so that there could be no confusion about the matter. Unlike Pastor Warraner, Souleby’s body remained undamaged enough to allow for a proper burial. Morland had suffocated Souleby, just as he had done with Hayley Conyer. If nothing else, the chaos at the church had given him a way of avoiding
another cold night of burying a body.

It was not much, but it was enough.

The newspapers and TV cameras were back. It would be a long time before they left. When asked about plans to rebuild, Morland told them that work would begin on Main Street almost immediately, but he was unsure about plans for the church. The damage caused by the high explosives used meant that rebuilding the original structure would be ruinously expensive if it was possible at all, which was doubtful. Perhaps a monument might be erected in its place, he suggested. Discussions on the issue would begin, said Morland, once the new board of selectmen was elected.

It remained unclear who might have been responsible for what was described, almost immediately and inevitably, as an “act of terrorism.” Attention was focused variously on Muslims, fascists, secessionists, opponents of the federal government, radical socialists, and extreme religious organizations, but Morland knew that none of those avenues of inquiry would ever yield any results.

The truth was that they should never have gone after the detective.

The Town Office had suffered significant damage, mostly in a successful effort to destroy the engines in the fire department. Officer Connie Dackson had watched it burn. Her captors had removed her from her cell and left her tied up at a safe distance from the conflagration. She thought that they might have been Asian, judging by their accents and their unusual politeness, but she couldn’t be certain. The Prosperous Police Department had immediately moved to temporary lodgings at the local Veterans of Foreign Wars meeting hall.

On the third day after the attack on his town—for that was what it now was, “his” town—Lucas Morland watched the thawing snow from his window in the local hall. Meltwater ran down what remained of Main Street, starting clear at the top and ending up black as oil by the time it reached the bottom. More snow might come, but it wouldn’t
last long. They were done with winter, and winter was done with them. They had survived—
he
had survived—and the town would be better and stronger for this purging. He felt a deep and abiding sense of admiration for its people. No sooner were the fires extinguished than the cleanup operation had begun. Buildings were being assessed for demolition or restoration, according to the damage they had sustained. Pledges of aid numbering into six figures had already been received. Calls had been made to the heads of the insurance companies involved, warning them that any weaseling out of their commitments would not be tolerated, those calls having significant impact, since they came from members of their own boards who had ties to Prosperous.

Morland was under no illusions that the town’s troubles—or, more particularly, his troubles—were at an end. Those responsible for the partial destruction of his town might well decide to return. He recalled the words of the man at the cemetery:
“
The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.
”
Even in his final moments, Warraner had found a way to screw him over. At least Bryan Joblin was dead too. He was one loose end about whom Morland no longer needed to worry.

Let them come, Morland thought. Let them come, and I will face them down. Next time I’ll be ready, and I will kill them where they stand.

Morland didn’t hear the woman approach. He no longer had his own office. His desk was just one part of the jumble of town services in the old hall. People were constantly arriving and departing, and there was a steady hum of noise.

“Lucas.”

He turned from the window. Constance Souleby was standing before him. She held a gun in her hand: an old Colt. It did not shake, for the woman holding it was a picture of calm.

“You could have spared him,” she said.

He was aware of movement behind her, of someone approaching fast. He heard cries of shock. The gun had been noticed.

“I am—” Morland said.

The gun spoke in denial, and he ceased to be.

The forenoon is burn-faced and wandering

And I am the death of the moon.

Below my countenance the bell of the night has broken

And I am the new divine wolf.

Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said Esber), “The Divine Wolf”

CHAPTER

LVIII

Ronald Straydeer was standing in his yard when the car arrived. Winter was departing, and he was piling the snow behind the woodshed, where it could melt away and be damned without him having to see it.

He rested his hands on his shovel as the car drew to a halt, and felt a small ache of fear when the two men emerged from it. He hadn’t seen or spoken to them since that night in Prosperous, but they weren’t men who liked to leave loose ends. They had no cause for concern on his part, nor on the part of those whom he had brought with him to put Prosperous to the torch. Some had already left the state. Those who remained would keep silent.

The two men leaned on their car doors and regarded him.

“Beautiful day,” said Angel.

“Yes, it is.”

“Looks like winter may be ending.”

“Yes.”

Angel looked at Louis. Louis shrugged.

“We came to thank you,” said Angel. “We’re going to see Parker, then we’re heading home. It’s time for us to get back to civilization.”

“I’ve called the hospital,” said Ronald. “They tell me there’s no change.”

“There’s always hope,” said Angel.

“Yes,” said Ronald. “I believe that’s true.”

“Anyway,” said Angel, “we have a gift for you, I guess, if you want it.”

He opened the rear door of the car and reached inside. When he emerged again, he held a female German shepherd puppy in his arms. He walked up to Ronald, placed the dog at his feet, and held out the leash. Ronald didn’t take it. He looked at the dog. The dog sat for a moment, scratched itself, then stood and placed its front paws against Ronald’s right leg.

“Parker talked about you,” said Angel. “He used to tell us it was time you got another dog. He thought you might be starting to feel the same way too.”

Ronald put the shovel aside. He leaned down and scratched the puppy’s head. It wriggled with joy and continued trying to climb his leg.

Ronald took the leash from Angel and unclipped it from the dog’s collar.

“You want to come with me?” he said to the dog.

He began walking toward his home. Without looking back at Angel, the dog followed, leaping to keep up with the long strides of its master.

“Thank you,” said Ronald Straydeer.

Louis got back into the car. Angel joined him.

“Told you he’d keep the dog,” said Louis.

“Yeah. I think you’re getting soft in your old age.”

“That may be.”

He reversed out of Ronald’s drive.

“How come we never got a dog?” said Angel.

“I don’t need a dog,” said Louis. “I got you.”

“Right,” said Angel.

He thought about it for a moment.

“Hey . . .”

CHAPTER

LIX

I sat on the bench by the lake, my daughter by my side. We did not speak.

On an outcrop of land to the east stood a wolf. He watched us as we watched him.

A shadow fell across the bench, and I saw my dead wife reflected in the water. She touched my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of her.

“It’s time,” she said. “You must decide.”

I heard the sound of a car approaching. I glanced over my shoulder. Parked on the road was a white 1960 Ford Falcon. I had seen pictures of it. It was the first car that my father and mother ever owned outright. A man sat in the driver’s seat, a woman beside him. I could not see their faces, but I knew who they were. I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to tell them that I was sorry. I wanted to say what every child wishes to say to his parents when they’re gone and it’s too late to say anything at all: that I loved them, and had always loved them.

“Can I talk to them?” I asked.

“Only if you go with them,” said my dead wife. “Only if you choose to take the Long Ride.”

I saw the heads of the people in the car turn toward me. I still could not see their faces.

No more pain, I thought. No more pain.

From the hills beyond the lake arose a great howling. I saw the wolf raise his muzzle to the clear blue sky in response to the summoning, and the clamor from the hills grew louder and more joyous, but still the wolf did not move. His eyes were fixed on me.

No more pain. Let it end.

My daughter reached out and took my hand. She pressed something cold into it. I opened my fingers and saw a dark stone on my palm, smooth on one side, damaged on the other.

My daughter.

But I had another.

“If you take the Long Ride, I’ll go with you,” she said. “But if you stay, then I’ll stay with you too.”

I stared at the car, trying to see the faces behind the glass. I slowly shook my head. The heads turned from me, and the car pulled away. I watched it until it was gone. When I looked back at the lake, the wolf was still there. He gazed at me for a moment longer, then slipped into the trees, yipping and howling as he went, and the pack called out its welcome.

The stone felt heavy in my hand. It wanted to be thrown. When it was, this world would shatter, and another would take its place. Already I could feel a series of burnings as my wounds began to sing. My dead wife’s hand remained on my shoulder, but its touch was growing colder. She whispered something in my ear—a name, a ­warning—but I was already struggling to remember it once the final word was spoken. Her reflection in the water began to dim as mine started to come into focus beside it. I tried to hold on tighter to my daughter’s hand.

“Just a little while longer,” I said. “Just—”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First of all, the Family of Love did exist, and much of their history as
recounted in this book is true. Whether they ever made it to the New World, I cannot
say, but I am grateful to Joseph W. Martin’s
Relgious
Radicals in Tudor England
(Hambledon Continuum, 1989) for increasing my
small store of knowledge of them. The history of the foliate heads on churches is
also true, and the following books proved highly illuminating, and slightly
disturbing:
The Green Man in Britain,
by Fran and
Geoff Doel (The History Press, 2010);
The Green Man,
by Kathleen Basford (D. S. Brewer, 1998); and
A Little Book
of the Green Man,
by Mike Harding (Aurum Press, 1998).

The Oxford Street Shelter, the Portland Help Center, Skip Murphy’s Sober
House, and Amistad are all real agencies that provide critically important services
to the homeless and the mentally ill in the Portland area. Thanks very much to Karen
Murphy and Peter Driscoll of Amistad, Sonia Garcia of Spurwick, and Joe Riley of
Skip Murphy’s for permission to mention these organizations by name. If you would
like to donate to any of these organizations, or get more information about their
services, you may do so here:

Amistad Inc.

www.amistadinc.com

PO Box 992

Portand, ME 04101

207-773-1956

Oxford Street Shelter

203 Oxford Street

Portland, ME 04101

207-761-2072

The Portland Help Center (Spurwink Services)

www.spurwink.org

899 Riverside Street

Portland, ME 04013

888-889-3903

Skip Murphy’s Sober Living

www.skipmurphys.com/soberhouse

P.O. Box 8117

Portland, ME 04104

774-269-4700

My thanks, as always, go to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy
Hale, Auriol Bishop, and all at Hodder & Stoughton; Breda Purdue, Jim Binchy,
Ruth Shern, Siobhan Tierney, Frank Cronin, and all at Hachette Ireland; Emily
Bestler, Judith Curr, Megan Reid, David Brown, Louise Burke, and the staff at
Atria/Emily Bestler Books and Pocket Books; and my agent Darley Anderson and his
wonderful team. Clair Lamb and Madeira James do sterling work, looking after Web
sites and much, much more. Jennie Ridyard has now become my fellow author as well as
my other half in life, but continues to show remarkable forbearance with me, as do
our sons, Cameron and Alistair. To you, the reader, thank you for continuing to read
these odd little books. Without you, there really wouldn’t be much point to all
this.

And hello to Jason Isaacs.