And then the detective returned, with his talk of blue cars, baiting Morland and Warraner just as Morland himself was now being baited. He’d spoken to Danes too, and Danes was much more than a simple nuisance. He had the ear of people in the state legislature, although he didn’t have much influence over the current governor, mainly because the current governor didn’t listen to anyone as far as Morland could tell. But Morland and the board knew that Danes had managed to scatter seeds of suspicion about Prosperous down in Augusta. True, most people still dismissed him as a fake, but he was a fake with money, and money bought influence.

Morland recalled again the late Ben Pearson’s rage at Danes’s intrusion on the public meeting. The old bastard had been practically frothing at the mouth, and Souleby and the others weren’t far behind him, howling for blood like the high priests before Pilate. On that occasion, it was Hayley who proved to be the voice of reason. They couldn’t kill Danes, because who knew what trouble his death might bring on them if there was even a hint of foul play about it? They’d just have to wait for him to die naturally, but so far Danes had proved to be as stubbornly healthy as Hayley herself. Sometimes, Morland even suspected that Hayley liked having Danes around. She seemed almost indulgent of his efforts to hamper the town’s expansion, as though their intensity were a reflection of Prosperous’s importance, and a vindication of her own stewardship.

Prosperous had influence in Augusta as well. It was natural in a town as wealthy as this one, and even though its citizens differed politically, they still recognized that contributions to politicians of all stripes served the common cause. But that influence had to be used subtly and carefully. Morland sensed that a time was coming when the town’s investment in state politics might finally be required to yield some significant profit. He would have been happier if it could be saved for another moment, but he was growing increasingly ill at ease at this meeting. It was like watching a snake preparing to strike, unaware of the shadow of the blade behind it.

The board had almost concluded its discussion of the recent fatalities. Hayley asked about the families, and how they were coping, and Warraner gave her chapter and verse about his pastoral role, and each vied with the other to appear the more sympathetic, the more understanding, the more pained by the sufferings of others. It was quickly decided that a fund should be established to aid the families in their time of need. The selectmen immediately offered generous contributions, and Hayley matched their combined total. Once they had tapped the rest of the town for sums both big and small, it would represent a significant source of financial consolation for the families.

Call it what it is, thought Morland. Call it a bribe, a way of buying time and loyalty. There were already whispers among the townsfolk (for Morland was listening and, where possible, stoking the fires of discontent with the board). Why had this happened? Where had their protection gone? What was the board going to do about it? If the board could do nothing, or not enough, then it might be that it was time for others to step up and take on the responsibility of running the town from these old men and this old woman who had served Prosperous so well for so long, but whose hour was now passed.

And if any of them objected – and by ‘any’ they could be referring only to one, Hayley Conyer – then, Morland thought, the town would understand if some bad luck were perforce to befall her, for old women had accidents, and Prosperous would accept her passing as a different kind of sacrifice. So this was an important meeting, perhaps the most important in nearly a century. The town’s survival might not have been at stake, not yet, but the survival of the current board certainly was.

‘Well, so that’s decided,’ said Hayley at last. She would write it all down the next day, creating inconsequential minutes for a meeting of great consequence. Let the town, and those whose eyes were on the town, see how it handled itself in times of strife. Meanwhile, the truth would be communicated in quiet words at gas stations, and on street corners, and in kitchens when the children were asleep. The whispers of doubt would be smothered. The board had acted. All would be well.

‘That brings us to the main business of the evening.’

There was shuffling around her. Heads turned toward Morland. He felt the wires tighten around him, and instinctively he breathed in, swelling his upper body, tensing his arms and hands against unseen bonds, making himself larger, gaining himself room to move.

Hayley sat back in her chair. It was a Carver, the only chair at the table with arms. She rested her right elbow on one chair arm, her thumb beneath her chin, her index finger to her right temple, and stared thoughtfully at Morland, like a queen waiting for the courtier who had disappointed her to explain his way out of an appointment with the executioner.

‘So, Chief Morland,’ she said. ‘Tell us about this detective …’

33

Ronald Straydeer came by my house while I was once again reading through the material about the Familists culled from the archives of the Maine Historical Society. Ronald was a Penobscot Indian out of Old Town, north of Bangor. He had served with the K-9 Corps in Vietnam, and like so many men who fought in that war, he came back with a fracture running through his soul. In Ronald’s case, that fracture was caused by the decision of the US military to classify its war dogs as ‘equipment’ and then leave them behind as ‘surplus to requirements’ when the US fed South Vietnam. Thousands of war dogs were either transferred to the South Vietnamese army or euthanized, and many of their handlers, like Ronald, never quite forgave their country for its treatment of the animals.

The Vietcong hated the K-9 teams because they made surprise attacks almost impossible to carry out, and both the dogs and their handlers were hunted by the enemy with extreme prejudice. The bond between the K-9 soldiers and their dogs was immensely strong, and the emotional and psychological damage caused by the attitude of the US Army toward the teams was impossible to quantify. A wiser military, one more attuned to the effects of combat on the psyche, would have allowed the men to adopt their dogs, but such legislation would not come into effect until 2000. Instead, the K-9 soldiers watched South Vietnam fall to the North Vietnamese, and they knew that their dogs would be slaughtered in revenge.

Now Ronald worked with veterans, but he did so entirely without the assistance of the US government or military. He wanted nothing to do with either. I think that was one of the reasons why he sold pot. It wasn’t so much that he cared one way or another about drugs: it was just a means of quietly socking it to Uncle Sam for sacrificing Elsa, Ronald’s German Shepherd, back in Vietnam. He was largely a recreational dealer, though: Ronald probably gave away more than he sold, and smoked the rest himself.

I hadn’t seen him in a while. Someone told me that he’d left town. His brother up in Old Town was ill, or so the story went, and Ronald was helping his family out. But as far as I knew, Ronald didn’t have a brother.

Tonight his eyes were brighter than usual, and he was wearing a blue sport jacket over jeans, a matching shirt and off-white sneakers.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘the denim shirt and jeans look only works if you’re a country singer, or you own a farm.’

Ronald gave me a hard look.

‘Should I tell you of how, long before the white man came, my people roamed these lands?’

‘In matching denim?’