He called Eldritch from a pay phone. Over the old man’s objections, the Collector had secured the services of a nurse for the period of his enforced absence. The Collector trusted the nurse implicitly. She was a niece of the woman who had kept Epstein’s office in order, and put warmth in his bed, until her recent passing. She was discreet, and selectively deaf, mute and blind.

‘How are you feeling?’ said the Collector.

‘I’m well.’

‘The woman is taking good care of you?’

‘I can take care of myself. She just gets in the way.’

‘Consider it a favor to me. It puts my concerns at rest.’

‘I’m touched. Have you found them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you approached them?’

‘No, but soon I’ll have a message delivered to them. Tomorrow we will meet.’

‘They may not agree.’

‘One is a pragmatist, the other driven by principle. What I offer will appeal to both.’

‘And if it does not?’

‘Then this goes on, and inevitably blood will be spilled. They will not want that, I guarantee it. I believe that they are as weary of it as I am. The detective is their priority: the detective, and those who pulled the trigger on him. And, who knows, I may manage to negotiate a little extra for us, a prize that you’ve been seeking for many years.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘The location of a corrupted man,’ said the Collector. ‘The lair of a leper.’

47

Garrison Pryor’s tame cop had experienced difficulty in gaining access to the scene of the shooting. Not only was the Scarborough PD all over it, but so were the Maine State Police’s Major Crimes Unit and the FBI, which had immediately sent agents not just from its field office in Boston, but from New York too. The house and its environs had been locked down from the instant the first patrol car arrived, and the flow of information was being tightly controlled amid threats of suspension and possible imprisonment for any breaches by police or emergency personnel.

But despite all those precautions, Pryor’s guy was able to talk to one of the ambulance crew, and – cops being cops – managed to piece together small details just by keeping his mouth shut and listening. Nevertheless, days went by before Pryor learned of the symbol that had been carved into the wood of the detective’s kitchen door. The knowledge placed him in a difficult position: should he alert the Principal Backer immediately, or wait until he had clarified the situation? He decided to take the former course of action. He did not want to give the Principal Backer any cause to doubt him, and better to plead ignorance initially, and work to correct it, than be accused of withholding information, leaving himself open to suspicion.

As the morning sun tried to pierce the gray clouds over Boston, the Principal Backer listened in silence while Pryor communicated what he had learned. The Principal Backer was not the kind of man who interrupted, or who tolerated interruption in turn.

‘Well, was this the work of Believers?’ he said when Pryor had finished.

‘It’s possible,’ said Pryor, ‘but, if so, it’s not any of whom we have knowledge. There’s no connection to us.’

He didn’t need to mention that most of the Believers were dead. Only a handful had ever existed to begin with, and the detective and his allies had wiped most of those out. Although it had never been formally discussed, most of the Backers regarded the elimination of the Believers who were obsessed with finding an imprisoned angel one of the fallen as something of a blessing. Each group had its own priorities, and while their ultimate aims sometimes intersected or followed a similar path, neither party entirely trusted the other. But generations of Backers had been content to use the Believers when it suited them. Some had even allied themselves to the Believers’ cause. Connections existed.

‘If someone is scratching the Believers’ symbol into the woodwork of scenes of attempted murder, then there is potentially a connection to all of us,’ said the Principal Backer. ‘Any investigation could damage us.’

‘It may be the action of renegades,’ said Pryor. ‘If so, they could be difficult to find. We know the identities of the ones who have crossed Parker. Any others have kept themselves hidden, even from us. Ultimately, my instinct says that the symbol is a false trail. Whoever carried out the attack, or ordered it to be carried out, wants to divert attention from themselves.’

‘There are those who would willingly use even a suspicion of involvement to act against us. What of the detective?’

‘His condition remains critical. Privately, the doctors are suggesting that he won’t survive. Even if he does, he will not be the same man. Perhaps he has no part to play in what is to come after all.’

‘Perhaps not, or it could be that his role has simply changed.’

Laurie, Pryor’s PA, knocked at his office door. He waved her away in irritation. How urgent could it be? If there was a fire, he’d hear the alarm bells.

But she persisted, and her face contorted into a rictus of anxiety.

‘Sir, I may have to get back to you,’ said Pryor.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘I think so.’

He hung up the phone, and Laurie immediately entered.

‘I had asked—’ he began, but she cut him off.

‘Mr Pryor, there are agents from the Economic Crimes Unit downstairs. Security is trying to delay them, but they have warrants.’

The Economic Crimes Unit was the branch of the FBI’s Financial Crimes Section tasked with investigating securities and commodities fraud, among other areas. The Principal Backer’s fears were being realized. The attack on the detective had given their enemies an opening. This might just be a fishing expedition, but through it a message was being sent to them.

We know of you.

We know.

While Garrison Pryor prepared to confront the federal investigators, Angel called Rachel Wolfe. She had just returned to her home in Vermont, having spent a couple of nights in Portland to be close to the father of her child. Her daughter had not stayed with her. Rachel felt that it was important for Sam to continue her routines, and not be engaged in some ongoing deathwatch, but she had been permitted to see him briefly in the ICU. Rachel was worried about exposing Sam to the sight of her father lying broken and dying in a hospital bed, but the child had insisted. Jeff, Rachel’s partner, drove Sam over to Portland, then took her home again. He might not have been particularly enamored of Rachel’s former lover, but he had behaved sensitively since the attack, and she was grateful to him for it. Now Rachel spoke to Angel of tubes and needles, of wounds and dressings. One kidney gone. Shotgun pellets painstakingly removed from his skull and back, including a number perilously close to his spine. Potential nerve damage to one arm. Murmurs of possible brain injury. He remained in a coma. His body appeared to have shut down all but the most essential of systems in order to fight for survival.

‘How did Sam do?’ asked Angel.

‘She didn’t shed a tear,’ said Rachel. ‘Even Jeff looked broken up, and he doesn’t even like Charlie. But Sam, she just whispered something to her father, and wouldn’t tell me what it was. Apparently she was quiet on the ride home, though. She didn’t want to speak. Then, when Jeff looked back at her somewhere around Lebanon, she was fast asleep.’

‘You try talking to her about it since the visit?’

‘I’m a psychologist: all I ever do is talk about things. She seems … fine. You know what she told me? She said she thought her daddy was deciding.’

‘Deciding what?’

‘If he wanted to live or die.’

And Rachel’s voice broke on the last word.