A Time of Torment (43 page)

‘I think the Cut murdered our missing boy, Perry Lutter,’ said Henkel, ‘and I’m pretty sure they killed Killian and Huff. I also believe they may be holding a woman in their compound against her will.’

‘A woman? Do you have proof?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Then let Parker look for it, but don’t get your hands dirty. If you find a reason to go in there, with or without a warrant, either through Parker or by your own initiative, and need support, then you call me, day or night.’

He gave Henkel his cell phone and home numbers, and the sheriff wrote them down on a pad of Post-it Notes from Kibble’s hardware store.

‘They’ll kill him if he gets in their face,’ said Henkel, once he’d finished writing.

‘They’ll try. Others have.’

‘He’s just one man.’

‘I don’t think he’ll come alone. From what I hear, he travels with an armed entourage.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I don’t think Jesus is part of it, but I’m open to correction. If you’re looking to tear down the Cut, then this is the guy. Basically, my advice is just to light the blue touchpaper and step away.’

Henkel glanced out his office window as though he could already see smoke rising over the Cut.

‘And remember,’ added Martin. ‘Sexism is the Enemy of Good Policing. I’ll be sending you a poster with that on it. Be sure to put it up somewhere it can be seen.’

Once he’d hung up on Henkel, Martin made a second call. In the aftermath of the hunt for the Traveling Man, the FBI had visited Haven County, specifically in the form of an agent named Ross. He told Martin that if Charlie Parker ever contacted him again, the FBI was to be informed. Ross had made it very clear that this wasn’t a request, and had no expiration date.

Martin made the call.

W
hen Parker did appear, he wasn’t what Henkel had been anticipating. Martin’s call had caused him to expect something approaching a one-man army, bristling with attitude and weaponry; a heavyweight. Instead he was confronted with an individual a couple of inches shorter than he was, with an air of what Henkel could only think of as haunted amusement, like someone trying to recall the substance of a joke that still made him smile. He didn’t look ill exactly, but he had wrinkles on his face that weren’t a product of age, and a scattering of white slashes and spots in his hair that reminded Henkel of the markings of a jungle animal.

He was shown into Henkel’s office by one of the secretaries that the sheriff’s department shared with the other county offices, including the circuit clerk, the surveyor of lands, and the prosecuting attorney, Adel Wickins. Although it appeared superficially hearty and civil, Wickins and Henkel had a poor relationship. Being the prosecuting attorney of Plassey County was an easy way to bank $60,000 a year, especially when, like Wickins, you chose to pretend that the Cut didn’t exist. Wickins wasn’t completely useless – he came down hard on child abuse and neglect, and had filed a number of civil suits for county agencies on environmental issues – but he preferred to let his assistant do most of the drudge work, including making the majority of court appearances, and the consultancy business Wickins ran on the side regularly threw up conflicts of interest that might have troubled someone with a more sensitive or developed conscience.

The unspoken agreement between Henkel and Wickins was that the latter would leave the sheriff to go about his business as long as it didn’t involve the Cut, which was why Wickins had done his best to tear Henkel a new one after he learned of his actions during the search for Perry Lutter. Henkel had been forced to point out that Wickins was participating in a golf tournament at Pikewood National while the search was being carried out, and therefore wasn’t really available to be consulted. It seemed likely that Wickins wouldn’t be voting for Henkel come election day, and he’d be doing his damnedest to make sure nobody else did either. But few people really listened to Adel Wickins anyhow – even most judges regarded him as inconsequential – so Henkel wasn’t overly concerned.

Nevertheless, he was glad that Wickins was in Charleston on business that day, and so was not present to witness the arrival of Charlie Parker. Rob Channer was, though, and the deputy gave the private investigator a curious look as he passed, causing Henkel to wonder if Channer somehow recognized Parker’s face.

Henkel and Parker shook hands.

‘I know who you are,’ said Henkel, as he closed his office door behind Parker, ‘and I know why you’re here.’

‘Alvin Martin?’

‘Helped by the Google machine.’

‘And?’

The sheriff’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, saw that it was Irene, and answered.

‘Can I call you back?’ he said. ‘That visitor I mentioned to you has just arrived.’

She’d come by earlier to say hi, and he’d told her about the call from Martin, and the man who was coming, perhaps to face down the Cut. It was the first time since she’d known him that Irene had seen hope in her lover’s face.

Henkel put away his phone and reached for his hat.

‘Why don’t you and I take a ride, Mr Parker?’

For the second time that day Henkel drove around the perimeter of Cut, but now with Parker in the passenger seat. He explained its history to the investigator, for he had delved long and hard into its origins, until he arrived at more recent times. He made a clear distinction between what he knew for sure, what he strongly suspected, and what was simply conjecture on his part. He told Parker of Killian and Huff, and Perry Lutter, and the building at the heart of the Cut that smelled faintly of a woman’s presence. It took an hour, and by the end of it Parker had heard a litany of threats, intimidation, disappearances, and killings spanning centuries.

‘How have they lasted so long?’ he asked.

‘They’re part of the fabric of the county,’ said Henkel, ‘and the county is part of the fabric of the state. And they don’t leave tracks, not usually. That’s the important thing about them. They’re careful, or they have been until recently.’

‘What’s caused the change?’

‘Young blood. It runs hotter than the old. Also, I think there’s some competition for the position of alpha male. Oberon, their leader, has no male heirs. He had at least one son, although I’ve heard tell that there might have been another born out of wedlock. This is all rumor, but they left the Cut a long time ago, and the best guess is that they’re both dead now.’

‘Oberon?’ said Parker. ‘For real?’

‘The Cut give weird names to their children. Always have. They take them from the Bible, history, mythology. It’s their way. Anyway, Cassander, Oberon’s lieutenant, has two sons, and Cassander himself is about ten years younger than Oberon. Again, it’s just gossip, but Cassander thinks it’s time that Oberon stepped aside in favor of his line.’

‘And Oberon isn’t moving.’

‘Not yet.’

They drove on to Shelby’s Diner, where Henkel took his usual seat.

‘I’d suggest keeping a low profile,’ said Henkel, ‘but my guess is, if you’d wanted to do that, you wouldn’t have wandered into my office and shown yourself like you did.’

‘They’ll find out I’m here soon enough. I noticed that you haven’t asked me the specifics.’

‘I figured you’d tell me in your own time.’

They ordered coffee and two slices of pie, and Parker told Henkel everything.

Oberon received the call as he was driving toward Turley. He pulled over to the side of the road, listened, and then killed the connection without saying anything at all. When the phone rang again, he ignored it. He climbed out of his truck, walked into the woods, and stared up at the sky. The trees were almost bare, making their branches appear as cracks in the cosmos. Oberon picked at a piece of bark and rolled it between his fingers. He felt like a condemned man who has just heard confirmation of the date and time of his execution, so that the world around him becomes more beautiful because of it, with every sight, sound, and smell seeming new to him. The chill from the north that had been cutting him to the bone had arrived at last, not in the form of winter but in the shape of a man. The Cut had been threatened before, but never like this. They had brought the investigator down upon them by their own actions, by the carelessness and savagery of young men.

He had thought the worst was past. They had overcome the discovery of two bodies, and the murder of a mentally challenged man who had never hurt a soul in his life. An incursion into the Cut by outsiders had been authorized, and the risk had paid off. Even Henkel could be contained, given time.

But this man, this Parker, was a born hunter, and more, much more.

In his head, Oberon heard the Dead King howl a warning.

Now, alone among the trees, Oberon wondered if the time had not come for him to leave the Cut. He could take Sherah and Tamara with him. They would start again somewhere else, far from Plassey County. He had some money hidden away, enough to buy them new identities and the foundations of a modest life. He was skilled with his hands. He could find work as a mechanic, even set up his own business. It wouldn’t be hard.

But he wanted a son to replace those he had lost, and so far Sherah had not given him that. The woman, Paige, seemed likely to give birth to a boy, and by Oberon’s seed. Hannah could tell these things; she had never yet failed to correctly predict the sex of a child. That boy, Oberon had decided, would not be sold. It didn’t matter that Cassander and many others wanted the infant to be exchanged for cash as planned. The Cut needed new blood more than money. Oberon’s intention was to raise the boy as his own, and eventually make a good match for him from within the Cut, assuring the continuation of his line. He had been forced to confirm this intention with Cassander, and the lawyer Starcher just that morning, in order to ensure that no further money changed hands in anticipation of an adoption. It was another nail in the coffin of his deteriorating relationship with Cassander, whom he had once regarded as his closest friend and confidant.

In response, Cassander warned that he was not alone among the Cut in believing that the child should be sold as planned. They had buyers waiting for the baby, and a sum of money agreed. Oberon did not have enough funds of his own to compensate them for the loss. But Oberon had reminded Cassander that he was under no obligation to compensate anyone. When the Cut needed to keep a child, it had always done so. Cassander, though, would not agree, and they had parted on bad terms. It was this final argument, more than any other, which had convinced Oberon he would have to kill Cassander, and probably his sons too.

Yet all that was before the coming of the hunter from the north.

So what now? The Cut was not as strong as it once was: the fear and respect that it evoked in the people of Plassey County were products of an accumulated store of dread, and powered by past actions. The Cut as it now existed was a shadow of what it once had been, and not even the Dead King could arrest its decline.

He and his family could leave the Cut behind, Oberon theorized, and bring Paige with them. It would be dangerous, but she only had a few months left. Sherah could take care of her, and when the baby was born, Oberon would deal with Paige. Her kidnapping had been a consequence of his fury at the loss of his sons, just like the tracking and snatching of Corrie Wyatt. He would have killed the old man, too, the gas station owner, had nature not taken care of him first. Oberon had been blinded by grief, but the decision was a good one in the end, as Paige had served them well. Corrie Wyatt had given them just one before she died, but she and Paige had still earned the Cut a significant amount of money.

He would like to have been able to let Paige go. He respected her more than Corrie or Gayle. She had real strength. If he could have trusted her to remain silent, then he would have released her, but he knew she would go to the police at the first opportunity. Her rage had kept her sane, and the fire of it would not be extinguished simply by offering the promise of freedom to her. Cassander wanted to kill her after the third child was born. In this, at least, Cassander was probably correct.

A soft rain began to fall. Oberon closed his eyes and allowed it to settle on his face. He felt it gather in the hollows of his eyes, and roll down his cheeks. It soaked his hair, and penetrated his skin, and slowly washed away all his dreams and fantasies. He sighed, and let them go. No, there would be no flight from this land. He was of the Cut, and the Cut was in him. It was their place, and if they had to make a stand, then so be it. It had served as a fortress once, and would do so again. They had watched generations of adversaries turn to dust and ash, and they had endured. Henkel would be dealt with, and Parker too. In the face of their enemies, they would hold the Cut.

And still the Dead King howled.

‘I’ve never heard that name,’ said Henkel.

‘You’re sure?’ asked Parker.

‘It’s not something I’d forget easily. If they have a king, it’s Oberon. He may be many things, but dead isn’t one of them.’

‘And yet Harpur Griffin claimed he was acting in the name of the Dead King.’

He watched Henkel molding his thoughts, choosing his next words carefully.

‘I was familiar with Griffin by reputation,’ he said. ‘He was real popular: good-looking, and kind of charming if you were easily sold. He wasn’t completely dumb, but he was conceited, which meant he didn’t use the intelligence that he had, and eventually it just withered away. But there was a time when he would have been considered a catch by a lot of the girls in this county – and not just the ones beyond the Cut.’

‘He had a girlfriend from the Cut?’

‘I never had it confirmed for me.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘If the story’s true, the girl’s name was Sherah. She was sister-in-law to Oberon, and now she’s his wife. It didn’t last long – the Cut doesn’t marry outside its borders, and definitely doesn’t approve of its women consorting with the likes of Harpur Griffin – but I think that when Griffin put his life on the line by assaulting Cassander’s son at Oakey’s, it might have been Sherah who interceded on his behalf.’