A Time of Torment (15 page)

And although it was never spoken aloud, it was understood that this was the work of the Cut.

As will sometimes happen when a potential source of harm cannot be eradicated, and instead a way found to coexist with it, the four main communities in Plassey County grew adept at stepping carefully around the Cut and, for the most part, simply ceased openly to acknowledge its existence. There were even some advantages to doing so, for the Cut, in order to ensure its seclusion and discourage the attentions of law enforcement, took it upon itself to deal with those whose criminality threatened to undermine the peace of Plassey County. No biker gangs made inroads, and no meth labs flourished: meth producers, even the low-level shakers and bakers, were quickly put out of business under threat of going into the ground, and a brief attempt by The Pagans to establish a foothold had ended with one of their leaders being drowned in a quarry, anchored to the bottom by his Harley. Even crimes against property were the lowest in the state. If one didn’t look too hard, one might almost have been able to convince oneself that the Cut was a peculiar force for good, enforcing order in return for solitude.

But the people of Plassey County knew better.

Oberon moved through the Cut’s central plaza in the early-morning light. His last name was Olhouser, although it was so rarely used that he had almost ceased to connect it to himself. It was also probably not the name that his ancestors had brought to the New World, which was now lost to all: Olhouser – meaning ‘the dweller by the old house’ – was derived from the Cut. It had originally referred to the foundations of a ruined cabin discovered by Oberon’s forefathers on this land, one that the natives claimed had been built centuries before by a man with pale skin who carried a longsword. What happened to him, they could not say. Tribal lore claimed that he had simply vanished one day, leaving his dwelling to fall into ruin.

But the Olhouser name remained apt, because Oberon was the guardian of the blockhouse.

He was a huge man, just over six-six in his bare feet, with long gray hair that hung past his shoulders. He was almost sixty, but his hair had been that color since his late twenties, premature graying being a trait on his father’s side. He was heavily bearded, and wore jeans and work boots, with a blue padded vest over his shirt to keep out the morning cold. His hands were scarred, and the left was missing the upper halves of the little and ring fingers, lost to carelessness with a buzz saw as a boy. His eyes were bright green and gave him an otherworldly aspect, which was why his father had endowed him with the name of a fairy king. But it was the way of the Cut to give notable names to its children, and the community was filled with those whose nomenclature paid homage to gods and rulers from the ancient world, and figures from the Bible.

To Oberon’s left lay his home, sheltered by a glade of firs. The house was a two-story construction of wood and stone, and dated back to the early nineteenth century in this form, although his ancestors had occupied dwellings on that plot since the start of the eighteenth century. His wife, Sherah, was still sleeping when he left, as was his daughter.

Directly across the plaza stood the home of Cassander Hobb, Oberon’s lieutenant. Cassander was outside now, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. His sons were still in Maine. When they returned, Oberon would send them to range, hunting for vacant properties to strip of valuables, easy targets to terrorize and rob. Winter was coming, and the Cut would cease its ranging when the first snows started to fall. Until then, they would continue to find ways to supplement their wealth.

Cassander raised his cup in greeting, but did not make any move to join Oberon. Cassander knew where he was going, and what he would do once he got there. It was better to leave him in peace, Cassander thought. Oberon would share whatever conclusions he had come to in his own time.

But it was also true that a distance had grown between the two men in recent months. Cassander was younger than Oberon by a decade, and even resembled the older man, although Cassander’s hair was shorter and darker, and his eyes were brown, not blue. He had two sons while Oberon had none, and Sherah showed no signs of producing a male heir. That in itself was not enough to force Oberon to step aside in favor of Cassander, but there was also the matter of Oberon’s caution to consider. He was less prepared to take risks than before, and it was costing the Cut money. Cassander believed that Oberon was frightened by the modern world, and fear was like a crack in stone, a weakness in the edifice destined to grow more dangerous with the passing of time. Only in the matter of Jerome Burnel had he exhibited signs of his old self, and that was because of the personal nature of the hurt inflicted by Burnel on Oberon’s line. But it was not enough for a leader to act solely in his own interests: he had to consider the needs of the whole.

And then there was Sherah …

All of this in the raising of a cup, and an exchange of nods on a crisp fall morning.

From the south of the Square ran one of the main routes through the Cut, passing by six more houses on its way to the county road, the first point of contact with the outside world. Similar roads ran to the east and west, forking after a mile in each direction to send a pair of narrower avenues north, the two joining just short of the Cut’s northern border. From these main arteries emerged smaller trails and lanes, some big enough to take a vehicle, most barely large enough to accommodate a man. The principal ways in and out of the Cut were electronically monitored, so that any vehicle that cut a signal without deactivating the system immediately drew a response from the nearest family. Smaller trails used more primitive methods of surveillance and deterrence, including wires attached to bells, heavy-duty snares, and, in places, steel animal traps. It was many years since the last breach of the Cut, but Oberon had not permitted the relaxation of its guard.

To the north of the Square, half a mile into the oldest forest of the Cut, stood an extraordinary structure: a squat, two-story blockhouse that had once been part of the original fortifications, when the main families had lived largely within the confines of the Square and its environs, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened logs. Those barriers were now largely gone, although parts remained visible in the forest and around the Square; Cassander used one such section as a tomato wall, just like his father and grandfather had before him. The blockhouse still stood, but nature had been permitted to have its way with it, to a degree, and for more than a century a great oak tree – now dying – had grown up and through it. But instead of allowing the blockhouse to fall into ruin, the people of the Cut had repaired and moved boards and roof slats where necessary, enabling the blockhouse and the tree to become a kind of single entity, a blend of the natural and the man-made. A door stood in its southern face, and a series of small glass windows, covered by bars, admitted light on every side.

To the left of the blockhouse was a former stable. Inside Oberon had two bitches that were about to whelp, so he went to check on them first. All was well, or appeared to be so: his wife was better with the bitches than he was, but they all shared responsibility for them, the same as they did with the cattle, pigs, and chickens, the fruit trees and the vegetable gardens.

Oberon secured the door after him and took the path over to the blockhouse. He felt his breath shorten and his heart begin to race as it always did at such moments. Even after all these years, his sense of awe had not lessened in any way.

The key to the blockhouse was the only one attached to the piece of bone that served as the fob. The bone had been carefully carved into the semblance of a crown. It looked like it might have come from some animal, although one long dead, but Oberon knew that it was actually part of the thigh bone of a woman named Corrine Dotrice, who died back in 1952 after years of good service to the Cut, although she might not have described it in those terms herself.

Oberon paused before unlocking the door. The trees were losing their foliage, and through the gaps he could see the sunlight gleaming on the catenary wires above the Square, designed to prevent a helicopter from landing on the only central area of the Cut accessible from the air. The wires had been in place since 1993, when the Cut watched with interest, and alarm, as the FBI laid siege to the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. The wire ran to three layers and, seen from below, resembled an intricate spiderweb. It was a deterrent not only to choppers but also to any attempt at rappelling into the Square.

Oberon was wary of the FBI, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, despite the best efforts of the NRA to defang it. The Cut sourced its weapons carefully – and largely legally – and kept them well maintained to avoid unnecessary additional purchases. Its people held no more firearms than required, although ammunition was plentiful. The two words that Oberon always kept in mind were ‘probable cause’: the Cut gave the forces of law and order no reason to come poking around. Its needs were few. It did not even range as it once had, and its criminal activities were relatively low key, and limited to supplying its basic needs. Some of its children had even left its environs to go to college, or seek jobs in cities and towns far from West Virginia. But it was understood that, once they departed the Cut, their relationship with it could not be the same. When they returned for Christmas, Thanksgiving or, inevitably, funerals, their freedom of movement was restricted, and certain parts of the Cut were off-limits to them, including anywhere north of the Square. No one broke the rules, for fear of causing difficulties for those family members still remaining.

But the Cut was changing. Four of its houses now stood empty, and two of those were well on their way to becoming derelict. The Cut educated its own children, and educated them well, but it could not entirely shelter them from the attractions of the world beyond its borders. It could not, and would not, prevent from leaving those who wished to go, and so its population was gradually decreasing. Still, two children had been born in the past twelve months, and those to couples bearing the names of two of the original Cut families, the Haywards and the Molines. Another marriage was scheduled to take place before Christmas. There was hope for the Cut yet.

But Oberon could not shake off a mounting sense of unease. It had been growing in recent weeks, and he was not entirely sure why. A shadow was forming. He glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye, like a tumor encroaching upon his vision. Soon it would touch them. And so he had come to the blockhouse, there to commune with the Dead King.

P
arker offered Burnel a ride back to his apartment, but he declined and ordered a cab, which arrived within minutes. The three men watched him leave, the envelope of cash hidden beneath his jacket. Parker had decided not to take the money, not yet, although he told Burnel that this did not mean he was refusing to look into his case. He just wanted to make some calls before committing, a condition which Burnel accepted. He informed Parker that he would leave the money with his lawyer because he didn’t want to keep cash at his accommodation for any longer than was necessary.

‘“Dead King”,’ said Louis, once Burnel had gone. ‘You think this Harpur Griffin gave himself a nickname in prison?’

‘If he did, it would have come up again,’ said Parker. Before leaving, Burnel had confirmed that Griffin used the name only on that one occasion.

‘So who’s the Dead King?’

‘Maybe I’ll have to find Harpur Griffin and ask him.’

‘When you do, can we come too?’ said Angel. ‘He sounds like just the kind of offender who might benefit from a conversation about his attitude.’

‘And some therapy,’ added Louis. ‘Mostly physical.’

‘And definitely not state-approved,’ said Angel.

‘You’re assuming I’m going to take Burnel on as a client,’ said Parker.

‘You’ve already started ticking the boxes. I can see you doing it.’

Parker called for the check.

‘I have some work of my own to do first. Then we’ll see.’

Parker drove back to his house in Scarborough. Like him, it still bore scars both physical and psychic from the attack that had almost ended his life. Despite the best efforts of the Fulci brothers, he could see the differences in paint texture where the holes in the walls left by bullets and shotgun pellets had been filled in. His office door had been replaced, but the newness of it reminded him of what he had lost. He no longer turned his back to the night when entering through the kitchen at the rear of the house, and had trained himself to use his left hand to turn the key in the lock so that his right could be near his gun. And even after almost a year, he had not recovered his previous comfort with the nightly creaks and settling of the old structure.

He’d been thinking about putting it on the market. He loved the marshes, and the smell of the sea, but increasingly the city of Portland had come to seem more appealing. It would mean less driving, for a start. Sitting in an upright position for any length of time continued to cause him discomfort: it was why he liked the booths in the Great Lost Bear, because they allowed him to stretch out. If he found a place in the heart of Portland, he would be able to walk to restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and even the movies at the Nickelodeon. He hadn’t discussed a possible move with anyone, but it nagged at him. He had no reason to be rattling around alone in such a big space, and he was acutely aware of his own vulnerability. No one could have survived what he had with an undamaged sense of security.

Yet, curiously, he was not afraid. The reminders of what had happened irritated him more than anything, as did the precautions he felt he had to take to prevent any recurrence. Fear was not an issue: he knew that his dead child watched over him from the shadows, although he had received no visitations from her in weeks. He sometimes thought that he sensed her presence, usually when it was dark, and always when he was outside. She liked the marshes and the woods. She was a creature of the natural world. She was the movement among the leaves when there was no wind, and the footprints in damp grass where no one had walked. She guarded him, both for herself and, Parker believed, for her half-sister, Sam.