The Killing Kind

Faulkner had the talent of a medieval illuminator, using decorated letters interweaved with fantastic animals to begin each chapter. The ink was iron gall, the same mix of ta

“This was the first Apocalypse, inspired by Cranach, and the illustrations and calligraphy are consistent throughout,” explained Mercier. “Other Faulkner Apocalypses are influenced by later illustrators, such as Meidner and Grosz, and the script is correspondingly more modern, although in some ways equally beautiful.”

But the thirteenth Apocalypse acquired by Mercier was different. An adhesive had been used on the pages before stitching because the weight of the paper was lighter than before and the binder appeared to have experienced some difficulty in applying the stitches. Mercier, a bibliophile, had spotted traces of the adhesive shortly after his purchase and had sent the book to be examined by a specialist. The calligraphy and brush strokes on the illustrations were authentic-Faulkner had created the Apocalypse, without doubt-but the adhesive was of a type that had been in production for less than a decade and had been used in the original construction of the book and not during any later repairs.

Faulkner, it seemed, was alive, or at least he had been until comparatively recently, and if he could be found then an answer to the riddle of the disappearance of the Aroostook Baptists might at last be within reach.

“To be honest, my interest was in the books, not the people,” said Mercier, an admission that hardened my growing dislike for him. “My familial co

It was the source of the thirteenth Apocalypse that led Mercier to the Fellowship; it emerged, after investigation, that it had been sold through a firm of third-rate Waterville lawyers by Carter Paragon, to cover his gambling debts. But rather than pounce on Paragon, Mercier decided to wait and put pressure on his organization by other means. He found Epstein, who had already suspected that the Fellowship was far more dangerous than it appeared and was willing to be the nominal challenger of its tax-exempt status. He found Alison Beck, who had witnessed the killing of her husband years before and who was now pressing for the case to be reopened and a full investigation made into a possible link to the Fellowship, based on threats received from its minions in the months before David Beck's death. If Mercier could tear apart the front that was the Fellowship, then what was behind it might at last be revealed.

Meanwhile, Grace's work on the Aroostook Baptists had continued. Mercier had largely forgotten about it, until her life was ended in the sound of a gunshot that sent owls shooting from the trees and small animals scurrying into the undergrowth. Then Peltier had come to him, and the bond that linked them both to Grace had drawn them uneasily together.

“She went after the Fellowship, Mr. Mercier, and she died for it.”

He looked at me, and I saw his eyes desperately try to veil themselves in ignorance. “I don't know why she went after them,” he continued, a denial of an accusation that had not yet been made. Something bubbled in his voice, as if he was struggling to keep his bile down.

“I think you do,” I said. “I think that's why you hired me-to confirm what you already suspected.”

And at last I saw the veil tear and fall from his eyes in flames. He seemed about to utter some further denial, until a female voice was heard outside the door and the words melted like snowflakes on his tongue.

Deborah Mercier burst into the room. She looked at me in shock, then at her husband.

“He followed me here, Jack,” she said. “He broke into our house and assaulted our staff. Why are you sitting there drinking with him?”

“Deborah,…” Mercier began, in what might, in other circumstances, have been soothing tones but now sounded like the whispered assurances of an executioner to a condemned man.

“Don't!” she screamed. “Just don't. Have him arrested. Have him thrown out of the house. I don't care if you have him killed, but get him out of our lives!”

Jack Mercier stood and walked over to his wife. He held her firmly by the shoulders and looked down, and for the first time she seemed smaller and less powerful than he.

“Deborah,” he repeated, and drew her to him. Initially it seemed like a gesture of love, but as she struggled in his grip it became the opposite. “Deborah, what have you done?”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“Please, Deborah,” he said. “Don't lie. Please don't lie, not now.”

Instantly, her struggles ceased and she began to cry.

“We have no further need of your services, Mr. Parker,” said Mercier, as her body shook. His back was to me as he spoke, and he made no effort to turn. “Thank you for your help.”

“They'll come after you,” I said.

“We'll deal with them. I intend to hand the Faulkner Apocalypse over to the police after my daughter's wedding. That will be an end to it. Now, please, leave my house.”

As I walked from the room, I heard Deborah Mercier whisper, over and over again, “I'm sorry, Jack, I'm sorry.” Something in her voice made me look back, and the glare from a single cold eye impaled me like a butterfly on a pin.

The porn star wasn't anywhere to be found as I left, so I couldn't reset his finger. I was about to get in my car when Warren Ober walked down the steps behind me and stood in the shell of light from the open door.

“Mr. Parker,” he called.

I paused and watched as his features tried to compose themselves into a smile. They gave up the struggle at the halfway point, making him look like a man who has just tasted a bad piece of fish.

“We'll forget about that little incident in the study, so long as you understand that you are to take no further part in investigating Grace Peltier's death or any events co

I shook my head. “It doesn't work that way. As I already explained to Mrs. Mercier, her husband just bought my time and whatever expertise I could bring to the case. He didn't buy my obedience, he didn't buy my conscience, and he didn't buy me. I don't like walking away from unsolved cases, Mr. Ober. It raises moral difficulties.”

Ober's face fell, his carefully ordered features crumbling under the weight of his disappointment. “Then you'd better find yourself a good lawyer, Mr. Parker.”

I didn't reply. I just drove away, leaving Ober standing in the light like a solitary angel waiting to be consumed by the darkness.

Jack Mercier hadn't hired me to find out who had killed Grace, or that was not his primary reason for hiring me. He wanted to find out why she had been looking into the Fellowship to begin with, and I think he had suspected the answer all along, that he had seen it in his wife's eyes every time Grace was mentioned. Deborah Mercier wanted Grace to go away, to disappear. She and Jack already had a daughter together; he didn't need another. Through her husband, she knew just how dangerous those involved in the Fellowship could be, and she fed Grace to them.

I parked in the guest lot of the Black Point I