Worse, when night came the Hollow Men gathered at his window. He had deprived them of life, and returned their souls to their maker. What was left of them lingered, drawn to him not only because they erroneously believed that it was he alone who had caused their suffering – the dead being as capable of self-delusion as the living – but because he could add to their number. That was their only comfort: that others might suffer as they did. But now they sensed his weakness, his vulnerability, and with it came a terrible, warped hope: that the Collector would be wiped from the Earth, and with his passing might come the oblivion they desired. At night they gathered among the trees, their skin wrinkled and mottled like old diseased fruit, waiting, willing the detective and his allies to descend upon the Collector.

I could kill them, thought the Collector. I could tear Parker apart, and the ones called Angel and Louis. There was enough evidence against them to justify it, enough sin to tip the scales.

Probably.

Possibly.

But what if he were wrong? What might the consequences be? He had killed their friend in a ft of rage, and as a result he was now little better than a marked animal, running from hole to hole, the ring of hunters tightening around him. If the Collector were to kill the detective, his friends would not rest until the Collector was himself buried. If the Collector were to kill Parker’s friends yet leave him alive, the detective would track him to the ends of the earth. And if, by some miracle, he were to kill all three of them? Then a line would have been crossed, and those who protected the detective from the shadows would finish what he had started and run the Collector down. Whatever choice the Collector made would end the same way: the hunt would continue until he was cornered, and his punishment meted out.

The Collector wanted a cigarette. The lawyer did not like him to smoke in the house. He said that it affected his breathing. The Collector could go outside, of course, but he realized that he had grown fearful of showing himself, as if even the slightest moment of carelessness might undo him. He had never yet been so frightened. The experience was proving unpleasantly enlightening.

The Collector concluded that he could not kill the detective. Even if he were to do so and somehow escape the consequences of his actions, he would ultimately be acting against the Divine. The detective was important. He had a role to play in what was to come. He was human, of that the Collector was now certain, but there was an aspect to him that was beyond understanding. Somehow, in some way, he had touched, or been touched by, the Divine. He had survived so much. Evil had been drawn to him, and he had destroyed it in every instance. There were entities that feared the Collector, and yet they feared the detective even more.

There was no solution. There was no escape.

He closed his eyes and felt the gloating triumph of the Hollow Men.

The lawyer Eldritch turned on his computer and returned to the task in hand: the reconstruction of his records. He was progressing alphabetically for the most part, but if a later name or detail came to him unexpectedly, he would open a separate file and input the new information. The physical records had been little more than aides-mémoires: everything that mattered was contained in his brain.

His ears ached. His hearing had been damaged in the explosion that killed the woman and destroyed his files, and now he had to endure a continuous high-pitched tinnitus. Some of the nerves in his hands and feet had been damaged as well, causing his legs to spasm as he tried to sleep, and his fingers to freeze into claws if he wrote or typed for too long. His condition was slowly improving, but he was forced to make do without proper physiotherapy or medical advice, for the Collector feared that if he showed himself it might draw the detective down upon them.

Let him come, thought Eldritch in his worst moments, as he lay awake in his bed, his legs jerking so violently that he could almost feel the muscles starting to tear, his fingers curling so agonizingly that he was certain that the bones must break through the skin. Let him come, and let us be done with all this. But somehow he would steal enough sleep to continue, and each day he tried to convince himself that he could discern a diminution in his sufferings: more time between the spasms in his legs, like a child counting the seconds between cracks of thunder to reassure himself that the storm was passing; a little more control over his fingers and toes, like a transplant patient learning to use a new limb; and a slight reduction in the intensity of the noise in his ears, in the hope that madness might be held at bay.

The Collector had set up a series of highly secure e-mail drop boxes for Eldritch, with five-step verification and a prohibition on any outside access. Telephone contact was forbidden – it was too easy to trace – but the lawyer still had his informants, and it was important that he remain in touch with them. Now Eldritch opened the first of the drop boxes. There was only one message inside. Its subject line was in case you did not see this, and it was only an hour old. The message contained a link to a news report.

Eldritch cut and pasted the link before opening it. It took him to that evening’s News Center on NBC’s Channel 6 out of Portland, Maine. He watched the report in silence, letting it play in its entirety before he called to the man in the next room.

‘Come here,’ said Eldritch. ‘You need to look at this.’

Moments later, the Collector appeared at his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ he said.

Eldritch let the news report play a second time.

‘The answer to our problems.’

39

Garrison Pryor was on his way to the chef’s table at L’Espalier on Boylston when the call came through to his personal cell phone, the one that was changed weekly, and for which only a handful of people had the number at any time. He was particularly surprised to see the identity of the caller. Pryor hit the green answer button immediately.

‘Yes?’ he said.

There would be no pleasantries. The Principal Backer didn’t like to linger on unsecured lines.

‘Have you seen the news?’

‘No, I’ve been in meetings all day, and I’m about to join some clients for a late dinner.’

‘Your phone has Internet access?’

‘Of course.’

‘Go to Channel Six in Portland. Call me when you’re done.’

Pryor didn’t argue or object. He was running late for dinner, but it didn’t matter now. The Principal Backer didn’t make such calls lightly.

Pryor hung up, and found a spot against the wall by the entrance to the Copley T station. It didn’t take him long to find the news report to which the Principal Backer had been referring. He went to the Portland Press Herald’s website, just in case it had further details, but there were none.

He waited a moment, gathered his thoughts, then called the Principal Backer.

‘Are you at home?’ asked Pryor.

‘Yes.’

‘But you can talk?’

‘For now. Was it one of ours?’

‘No.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Absolutely. Nobody would have made a move like this without consulting me first, and I would have given no such authorization. It was decided: we should wait.’

‘Make sure that we weren’t involved.’

‘I will, but there’s no doubt in my mind. The man was not short of enemies.’

‘Neither are we. There will be consequences for all of us if we’re found to be anywhere near this.’

‘I’ll send out word. There will be no further activity until you say otherwise.’

‘And get somebody to Scarborough. I want to know exactly what happened at that house.’