The Unquiet

Or did Clay even have to be blackmailed? Did they share the evidence of their abuse with him? Was that how he fed his own hunger in those years after he ceased to torment his own daughter as she grew older, before the reemergence of those old urges that Rebecca saw in his face as her own child began to bloom?

I turned back to Harmon. His expression had changed. It was the face of a man who was calculating the odds, assessing his degree of risk and exposure.

“Mr. Parker,” he said, “I asked you a question.”

I ignored him. “How did you do it?” I continued. “What brought you together, you and Lang, and Caswell and Legere? Bad luck? Mutual admiration? What was it? Then, after Clay disappeared, your supply dried up, didn’t it? That was when you had to look elsewhere, and that brought you into contact with Demarcian and his friends in Boston, and maybe Mason Dubus too, or had you paid him a visit long before then, you and Clay both. Did you worship at his feet? Did you tell him about your ‘Project’: the systematic abuse of the most vulnerable children, the ones who were troubled, or whose stories were less likely to be believed, all targeted through Clay’s inside knowledge?”

“You be careful, now,” said Harmon. “You be real careful.”

“I saw a photograph,” I said. “It was in Lang’s trailer. It was a picture of a man abusing a little girl. I know who that girl was. The photo’s not much to go on, but it will be a start. I’ll bet the cops have all sorts of ways to compare a picture of a tattoo with an actual mark on skin.”

Harmon smiled. It was an ugly, malicious thing, like the opening of a wound upon his face.

“You ever find out what happened to Daniel Clay, Mr. Parker?” he said. “I always had my suspicions about his disappearance, but I never spoke them aloud out of respect for his daughter. Who knows what might turn up if I started poking around in corners? I might find pictures, too, and maybe I might recognize the little girl in them as well. If I looked hard enough, I might even recognize one of her abusers. Her father was a distinctive-looking man, all skin and bone. I discover something like that, and I might have to turn it in to the proper authorities. After all, that little girl would be a woman by now, a woman with troubles and torments of her own. She might need help, or counseling. All kinds of things might come out, all kinds. You start digging, Mr. Parker, and there’s no telling what skeletons could be exposed.”

I heard footsteps behind me, and a young man’s voice said: “Everything okay here, Dad?”

“Everything’s fine, son,” said Harmon. “Mr. Parker’s about to leave. I’d ask him to stay for lunch, but I know he has things to do. He’s a busy man. He has a lot to think about.”

I didn’t say anything more. I walked away, leaving Harmon and his son behind. His daughter was gone, but a figure stood at one of the upper windows, staring down at us all. It was Mrs. Harmon. She was wearing a green dress, and her nails were red against the white of the drape she held back from the glass. Todd followed me through the house to make sure that I left. I was almost at the front door when Mrs. Harmon appeared on the landing above my head. She smiled emptily at me, seemingly lost in a pharmaceutical haze, but the smile didn’t extend farther than her lips and her eyes were full of unspeakable things.

Seven

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy

Mister Death

– e e cummings,

“Buffalo Bill’s/defunct”

Epilogue

For a few days, nothing more happened. Life went back to much the way it had been. Angel and Louis returned to New York. I walked Walter, and took calls from people who wanted to hire my services. I turned them down. I was tired, and there was a bad taste in my mouth of which I could not rid myself. Even the house was still and quiet, as though watchful presences were waiting to see what would transpire.

The initial letter was not entirely unexpected. It informed me that my gun was being held as evidence in the commission of a crime and might possibly be returned to me at a later date. I didn’t care. I didn’t want it back, not now.

The next two letters arrived almost simultaneously by special delivery. The first, from the office of the chief of the state police, informed me that an application had been made to the District Court for the suspension of my private investigator’s license with immediate effect on the grounds of fraud and deceit in co

The second letter was also from the office of the chief of the state police, notifying me that my concealed weapons permit was being revoked pending the outcome of the hearing, and that I should return it, along with any other relevant documentation, to his office. After all that had happened, and after all that I had done, things had fallen apart in the aftermath of a case in which I had not even fired a weapon.

I spent the days that followed the receipt of the letters away from my house. I traveled to Vermont with Walter and passed two days with Rachel and Sam, staying at a motel a few miles from the house. The visit passed without incident and without a harsh word spoken between us. It was as if Rachel’s comments when last we met had cleared the air somewhat. I told her of what had happened, about the loss of my license and my permit. She asked me what I was going to do, and I told her that I did not know. Money was not a huge problem, not yet. The mortgage on the house was small, as most of the cost of its purchase had been covered by the cash the U.S. Postal Service had paid for my grandfather’s land and the old house upon it. There would be bills to pay, though, and I wanted to continue to help Rachel with Sam. She told me not to worry too much about it, although she understood why it was important to me. When I was about to leave, Rachel held me close and kissed me softly on the mouth, and I tasted her, and she tasted me.

The following evening, there was a di

A harsh wind was blowing in off the sea. It stung my cheeks and made my eyes water as I headed for my car. I had parked on Middle Street, not far from City Hall. There were plenty of empty spaces, and I passed few people on the streets as I walked.

Ahead of me, a man stood outside an apartment block not far from the headquarters of the Portland P.D. He was smoking a cigarette. I could see the end glow in shadows cast by the awning above the doorway. As I drew closer, he stepped into my path.

“I came to say good-bye,” he said. “For now.”

The Collector was dressed as he was always dressed, in a dark coat that had seen better days, beneath which was a navy jacket and an old-fashioned, wide-collared shirt buttoned up to the neck. He took a long, final drag on his cigarette, then cast it away. “I hear things have gotten bad for you.”

I didn’t want to talk to this man, whoever he truly was, but it didn’t seem like I had much choice. Anyway, I doubted that he was here just to wish me farewell. He didn’t seem like the sentimental type.