The detective would have known what to do, but he was dying. He had friends, though: clever men, dangerous men. Right now, those men would be looking for the ones responsible for shooting him. Ronald didn’t find it hard to make a connection between the detective’s inquiries into the disappearance of Annie Broyer and the sight of an unknown girl being dragged beneath the ground while a group of men and women stood by and watched. It wasn’t much of a stretch from there to imagine a set of circumstances in which those same people might have seen ft to try and take the detective’s life.

And if he was wrong? Well, the men who stood by the detective were more like him than perhaps even they knew, and they had wrath to spare. Ronald would find a way to contact them, and together they would avenge those trapped in uneasy rest beneath the dirt of Prosperous.

As Ronald Straydeer sat in contemplation and mourning, the bodies of Magnus and Dianne Madsen, and Erin Dixon, were discovered by police after Magnus failed to appear as scheduled for his hospital duties. The Maine State Police informed Lucas Morland of the Prosperous Police Department once Erin’s identity was established. With both Kayley Madsen and Harry Dixon apparently missing, a patrol car was immediately dispatched to the Dixon house, but there was no sign of Harry or his niece. Their faces duly began showing up on news channels, and an auto dealer in Medway came forward to say that he’d taken a trade-in on a GMC Passenger van with Harry Dixon just a few days earlier. The van was soon found in a patch of woodland just outside of Bangor, with Harry seated at the wheel and a hole in the back of his head where the bullet from the gun in his hand had exited. On the seat beside him was a woman’s shirt, stained with blood at the collar. Its size matched clothing found in Kayley Madsen’s closet, and DNA tests would subsequently confirm that the blood was Kayley’s, although no other trace of her was ever found.

‘PROSPEROUS: MAINE’S CURSED TOWN‘ read one of the more lurid newspaper headlines in the aftermath. Prosperous crawled with MSP investigators, but Morland handled them all well. He was diligent, cooperative and unassuming. He knew his place. Only once did he experience a shred of alarm, and that was when an FBI agent named Ross visited from New York. Ross sat in Morland’s office, nibbled on a cookie, and asked about the detective, Parker. Why had he come to Prosperous? What did he want to know? And then he gave Morland a possible ‘out’: had Parker spoken to Harry Dixon or his wife at any point? Morland didn’t know, but he conceded that it might have been possible, although why Parker might have wanted to meet with the Dixons Morland couldn’t say. But anything that linked Parker to the Dixons was good for Morland, and good for Prosperous. That was a dead end, and the FBI and State Police could spend decades peering into it for all Morland cared.

‘Can I ask why the FBI is interested in the shooting of a private detective in Maine?’ said Morland.

‘Curiosity,’ said Ross. Then: ‘Your town seems to be having a bad time of it lately.’

‘Yeah,’ said Morland. ‘They say these things come in threes.’

‘Really?’ said Ross. ‘I count, uh—’ He worked it out on his fingers. ‘Six,’ he concluded. ‘Or nine, if you include the Madsens and their missing daughter. Or, wow, eleven allowing for that homeless guy in Portland, and his missing daughter. That’s a lot. More than three, anyway.’

It wasn’t the first time Morland had heard something of the kind. The MSP investigators had intimated as much, and now Morland replied to Ross just as he had responded to them.

‘Sir, my reckoning is two killings by religious terrorists thousands of miles from here; one accidental, self-inflicted gunshot wound on an elderly man; one automobile incident; and, to our shame and regret, an apparent murder-suicide involving two of our townsfolk. I can’t speak to suicides in Portland, or missing girls. I just know what this town has endured. I can’t say why Harry Dixon might have killed those people. I heard that he had money problems, but a lot of folk have money problems and don’t take a gun to their family as a consequence. It could be that the town’s troubles caused something in him to snap. I’m no psychiatrist. But if you can establish a connection between all those disparate events, then I’ll never again question the amount of taxes our government ploughs into the Bureau.’

Ross finished his cookie.

‘And the attempted murder of a private investigator,’ said Ross. ‘I almost forgot to add that.’

Morland didn’t respond. He was all done with the FBI for now.

‘Can I help you with anything else today, Agent Ross?’

‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I think that’ll be all. I appreciate your time. And the cookie was very good. My compliments to the baker.’

‘My wife,’ said Morland.

‘You’re a fortunate man,’ said Ross.

He stood and buttoned his coat before heading out. There was still a chill in the air.

‘And this is quite a town. Quite a town indeed.’

Thirty minutes later, Morland received a call from Pastor Warraner.

Ross had been out at the church.

49

At first Angel and Louis believed the missive from the Collector to be little more than a taunt. It was delivered by a bike messenger, and consisted of a padded envelope containing a single final bearclaw from the necklace that had once belonged to their friend, the late Jackie Garner, and a business card from the Lexington Candy Shop and Luncheonette on Lexington, the old Soda-Candy store that had been in operation at that location since 1925. It was only when Louis turned over the card and saw a date – that same day – and a time – 11 AM – written on the back that they understood this might be different, although whether it would prove to be an olive branch or a trap they were not certain.

Even the Collector’s choice of a location for the meeting was not without resonance: the Lexington Candy Shop was where Gabriel, Louis’s late master, would hold his meetings with clients, and sometimes with the operatives for whom he acted as a middleman, Louis among them. Perhaps, thought Louis, the distance between Cambion and Gabriel was not as great as Louis might have liked to believe. Gabriel was merely Cambion with a more highly developed moral sense, but that wasn’t saying a whole lot. There were things breeding in petri dishes with a more highly developed moral sense than Cambion. By extension, the distance between Louis and Cambion might well have been significantly less than it was comfortable to imagine. The difference was that Louis had changed while Cambion had not. Cambion did not have a man like Angel by his side, but then a man like Angel would never have allied himself to one such as Cambion to begin with. It made Louis wonder if Angel had seen the possibility of redemption in Louis long before Louis himself had recognized it. Louis found this simultaneously flattering and slightly worrying.

The Collector’s decision to nominate the Lexington Candy Shop as the venue for their meeting was his way of telling Louis that the Collector knew all he needed to know about Louis and his past. It added another layer of peculiarity to the Collector’s invitation. This was not the action of a man laying a trap, but of a man willingly walking into one.

The only other customers at the diner when Angel and Louis entered were two male Japanese tourists excitedly taking photographs of the interior, with its gas-fired coffee urns and ancient signage. The Collector sat at the back of the diner, near the door marked no admittance. staff only. His hands lay fat on the table before him, resting on either side of a coffee cup. He was dressed as he nearly always was, in a long dark coat worn over dark pants, a dark jacket and a tieless shirt that had once been white but now, like his nicotine-stained fingertips, had more than a hint of yellow about it. His hair was slicked back from his forehead and hung over the collar of his shirt, adding touches of grease to the yellow. He was, thought Angel, even more cadaverous than when last they’d met. Being hunted will do that to a man.