‘They might, to save their child.’

But Hayley Conyer had no children, had apparently never shown any desire to be a mother, and to possess such feelings for a child was beyond her imaginative and emotional reach.

‘Hayley,’ said Morland, with some force, ‘they will come here next. I’m certain of it.’

And it’s your fault, he wanted to tell her. I warned you. I told you not to take this course of action. I love this town as much as you. I’ve even killed for it. But you believe that whatever decision you take, whatever is right for you, is also right for Prosperous, and in that you are mistaken. You’re like that French king who declared that he was the state, before the people ultimately proved him wrong by cutting off the head of his descendant.

Morland was not the only one who felt this way. There were others too. The time of the current board of selectmen was drawing to a close.

‘If they do come, we’ll deal with them,’ said Hayley. ‘We’ll …’

But Morland was no longer even listening. He drifted. He was not sleeping well, and when he did doze off his dreams were haunted by visions of wolves. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket. Hayley Conyer was still talking, lecturing him on the town’s history, his obligations to it, the wisdom of the board. It sounded to him like the cawings of an old crow. She mentioned something about his position, about how nobody was irreplaceable. She talked of the possibility of Morland taking a period of extended leave.

Morland stood. It took a huge effort. His body felt impossibly heavy. He looked at the handkerchief. Why had he taken it from his pocket? Ah, he remembered now. He walked behind Hayley Conyer, clasped the handkerchief over her nose and mouth, and squeezed. He wrapped his left arm around her as he did so, holding her down in the chair, her sticklike arms pressed to her sides. She struggled against him but he was a big man, and she was an elderly woman at the end of her days. Morland did not look into her eyes as he killed her. Instead he stared out the window at the trees in the yard. He could see the dark winter buds on the nearest maple. Soon they would give way to the red and yellow flowers of early spring.

Hayley Conyer jerked hard in her chair. He felt her spirit depart, and smelled the dying of her. He released his grip on her face and examined her nose and mouth. There were no obvious signs of injury: a little redness where he had held her nostrils closed, but no more than that. He let her fall forward on the table and made a call to Frank Robinson, who operated the town’s only medical practice and who, like Morland, felt that the time for a change was fast approaching. Robinson would make a fine selectman.

‘Frank,’ he said, once the receptionist put him through. ‘I’ve got some bad news. I came over to talk to Hayley Conyer and found her collapsed on her dining table. Yeah, she’s gone. I guess her old heart gave out on her at last. Must have been the stress of all that’s happened.’

It was unlikely that the state’s Chief Medical Examiner would insist on an autopsy, and even if one was ordered, Doc Robinson had the designated authority to perform it. Meanwhile, Morland would take photographs of the scene to include in his report.

He listened as Robinson spoke.

‘Yeah,’ said Morland. ‘It’s the town’s loss. But we go on.’

Two down, thought Morland. Three, and he could take over the board. The one to watch would be Thomas Souleby, who had always wanted to be chief selectman. Warraner, too, might be a problem, but it was traditional that the pastor did not serve on the board, just as Morland himself, as chief of police, was prevented from serving by the rules of the town. But Warraner did not have many friends in the town while Morland did. And perhaps, if Morland were finally to put an end to this madness, he would have to take care of Warraner as well. Without a shepherd, there was no flock. Without a pastor, there was no church.

He stared down at his hands. He had never even fired his gun in anger until the evening when he killed Erin Dixon and her relatives, and now he had more deaths on his conscience than he could count on one hand. He had even fired the bullet that killed Harry Dixon. Bryan Joblin had offered to do it, but Morland wasn’t sure that Joblin could do something that was at once so simple yet so dangerous without botching it. He’d let Bryan watch, though. It was the least that Morland could do.

He should have been more troubled than he was but, Kayley Madsen’s final moments apart, he felt comparatively free of any psychological burden, for he could justify each killing to himself. By fleeing, Harry Dixon had given Morland no choice but to move against him. Eventually he would have told someone about Annie Broyer and how she had come to die in the town of Prosperous. The town’s hold on its citizens grew looser the further from it they moved. It was true of any belief system. It was sustained by the proximity of other believers.

A car pulled up outside and he watched Frank Robinson emerge from it. Morland wished that he could get in his own car and drive away, but he had come too far now. A line from a play came to him, or the vaguest memory of it. It had to be from high school, because Morland hadn’t been to a play in twenty years. Shakespeare, he guessed, something about how, if it were to be done, then it was best to do it quickly.

If Morland could get rid of Souleby, the board would be his.

The board, and the town.

The news of Hayley Conyer’s passing made the papers, as anything involving Prosperous now tended to do. The general consensus was that the old woman’s heart had been broken by the troubles visited on her town, although this view was not shared by everyone.

‘Jesus,’ said Angel to Louis, ‘if it goes on like this there’ll be nobody left for us to kill.’

He remained surprised by Louis’s patience. They were still in Portland, and no move had yet been made on Prosperous.

‘You think it was natural causes, like they’re saying?’ said Angel.

‘Death is always by natural causes, if you look hard enough.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I’d be surprised if she didn’t die kicking at something,’ said Louis. ‘Zilla Daund told us that the order to hit Parker came from the board of selectmen, and this Conyer woman in particular. Now she’s dead. If I was on that board, I’d start locking my door at night. It’s like that Sherlock Holmes thing. You know, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable it seems, is the truth.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Angel.

‘Once everyone else in the room is dead, the person left standing, no matter how respectable, is the killer.’

‘Right. You have anyone in mind?’

Louis walked to the dining room table. An array of photographs lay upon it, including images of the town, its buildings, and a number of its citizens. Some of the pictures been provided by the Japanese ‘tourists’. Others had been copied from websites. Louis separated pictures of five men from the rest.

‘Souleby, Joblin, Ayton, Warraner and Morland,’ he said.

He pushed the photographs of Joblin and Ayton to one side.

‘Not these,’ he said.

‘Why?’ said Angel.

‘Just a feeling. Souleby might have it in him, I admit, but not the other two. One’s too old, the second’s not the type.’

Louis then separated Warraner.

‘Again, why?’

‘Makes no sense. If this is all connected to something in their old church, then Conyer and the board acted to protect it. The church is Warraner’s baby. He has no reason to hurt anyone who took measures for its benefit.’

Louis touched his fingers to Souleby’s picture. A file had been compiled on each of the selectmen, as well as Warraner and Morland. Souleby was an interesting man, ruthless in business, with connections in Boston. But …