The Killing Kind

I dropped Louis off at the Upper West Side, while I continued down to the Village to collect my overnight bag. When I was done, I dropped into the Strand Book Store on Broadway and found a companion volume for the Cloisters exhibition. Then I sat in a coffee shop on Sixth Avenue, leafing through the illustrations and watching the people go by. Whatever Mickey Shine had guessed or suspected had died with him, but at least I now knew what Grace Peltier had taken from the Fellowship: a book, a record of some kind, which Mr. Pudd acknowledged to be an Apocalypse. But why should a biblical text be so important that Pudd was willing to kill to get it back?

Rachel was still in Boston, and would join me in Scarborough the following day. She had refused an offer of protection from Angel and an offer of a Colt Pony Pocketlite from Louis. Unbeknownst to her, she was being discreetly watched by a gentleman named Gordon Buntz and one of his associates, Amy Bre

Outside Balducci's, a black Lexus SC400 pulled up to the curb. Louis was sitting in the driver's seat. When I opened the door, Joh

“Nice car,” I said. “Your bank manager recommend it?”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “Man, I tell you, you need class like a junkie need a hit.”

I dumped my bag on the leather backseat. It made a satisfyingly dirty sound, although it was nothing compared to the sound Louis made when he saw the mark it left on his upholstery. As we pulled away from the curb, Louis took a huge contraband Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and proceeded to light up. Thick blue smoke immediately filled the car.

“Hey!” I said.

“Fuck you mean, ‘Hey’?”

“Don't smoke in the car.”

“It's my car.”

“Your secondary fumes are a danger to my health.”

Louis choked on a mouthful of smoke before raising one carefully plucked eyebrow in my direction. “You been beaten up, shot twice, drowned, electrocuted, frozen, injected with poisons, three of your damn teeth been kicked out of your head by an old man everybody thought was dead, and you worried about secondary smoke? Secondary smoke ain't no danger to your health. You a danger to your health.”

With that, he returned his attention to his driving.

I let him smoke the cigar in peace.

After all, he had a point.

THE SEARCH FOR SANCTUARY

Extract from the postgraduate thesis of Grace Peltier…

Faulkner's main claim to fame, apart from his association with Eagle Lake, was as a bookbinder, and particularly as a maker of Apocalypses, ornately illustrated versions of the book of Revelation, the last book of the New Testament, detailing St. John's vision of the end of the world and the final judgment. In creating these works, Faulkner was part of a tradition dating back to the Carolingian period of the ninth and tenth centuries, when the earliest surviving illustrated Apocalypse manuscripts were created on the European continent. In the early thirteenth century richly illuminated Apocalypses, with texts and commentaries in Latin and French vernacular, were made in Europe for the powerful and wealthy, including high churchmen and magnates. They continued to be created even after the invention of printing, indicating a continued resonance to the imagery and message of the book itself.

There are twelve “Faulkner Apocalypses” extant and, according to the records of Faulkner's supplier of gold leaf, it is unlikely that Faulkner made more than this number. Each book was bound in hand-tooled leather, inlaid with gold, and illustrated by hand by Faulkner, with a distinctive marking on the spine: six horizontal gold lines, set in three sets of two, and the final letter of the Greek alphabet: Ω for omega.

The paper was made not from wood but from linen and cotton rags beaten in water into a smooth pulp. Faulkner would dip a rectangular tray into the pulp and take up about one inch of the substance, draining it through a wire mesh in the base of the tray. Gently shaking the tray caused the matted fibers in the liquid to interlock. The sheet of partially solidified pulp was then squeezed in a press before being dipped in animal gelatin to size it, thereby enabling it to hold ink. The paper was bound in folios of six to minimize the buildup of thread on the book's spine.

The illustrations in Faulkner's Apocalypses were drawn largely from earlier artists, and remain consistent throughout. (All twelve are in the private ownership of one individual, and I was permitted to examine them at length.) Thus, the earliest of the Apocalypses is inspired by Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528), the second by medieval manuscripts, the third by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553) and so on, with the final extant book featuring six illustrations based on the work of Frans Masereel (1889-1972), whose Apocalypse cycle drew on images from World War II. According to those who had dealings with him, it appears that Faulkner was attracted to apocalyptic imagery because of its co

Faulkner's Apocalypses were created strictly for wealthy collectors, and the sale of them is believed to have provided much of the seed funding for Faulkner's community. No further versions made by Faulkner's hand have appeared since the date of the foundation of the Eagle Lake community.

16

LOUIS DROPPED ME AT MY HOUSE before heading for the Black Point I

I had been checking my messages pretty regularly while in Boston and New York, but there were two new ones since that morning. The first was from Arthur Franklin, asking if the information his pornographer client, Harvey Ragle, had proffered was proving useful. In the background, I could hear Ragle's whining voice: “I'm a dead man. You tell him that. I'm a dead man.” I didn't bother to return the call.

The second message came from ATF agent Norman Boone. Ellis Howard, the deputy chief over in the Portland PD, once told me that Boone ruled the ATF like a king, but with none of the associated charm. He had left his home and cell-phone numbers. I got him at home.

“It's Charlie Parker. How can I help you, Agent Boone?”

“Why, thank you for returning my call, Mr. Parker. It's only been…” At the other end of the line, I could imagine him ostentatiously checking his watch. “Four hours.”

“I was out of town.”

“You mind telling me where?”

“Why, did we have a date?”

Boone sighed dramatically. “Talk to me now, Mr. Parker, or talk to me tomorrow at One City Center. I should warn you that I'm a busy man, and my patience is likely to be more strained by tomorrow morning.”