Morland couldn’t raise Connie Dackson on her cell phone as he drove. He wasn’t worried, though, not yet. She might have left it in her vehicle if she was patrolling, or simply be in the john. She might already even be with Warraner, trying to coax some bum out of the churchyard, a bum who was muttering about murder. That was when Morland knew that he was tired: Warraner wouldn’t be dumb enough to call Dackson if there was a chance that she might hear something she shouldn’t. This was up to him, and him alone.

The first thing that struck him as he reached the churchyard was the fact that the door of the church was open. The gate to the churchyard was unlocked, the chain lying on the ground. The chain had been cut, just like the one farther down the road.

The second was that he could find no trace of any bum.

He didn’t call out Warraner’s name. He didn’t have to. He could now see him kneeling in the doorway of the church. Behind him stood a tall man in a ski mask. He held a gun to the pastor’s head.

‘Chief Morland,’ said the man. ‘Glad you could make it.’

Morland thought that he sounded like a black man. Prosperous didn’t have any black residents. It wasn’t unusual in such a white state. Maine was one of the few places where nobody could try to blame blacks for crime. The white folks had that one all sewn up.

Morland raised his own gun.

‘Lower your weapon,’ he said.

‘Look around you, Chief,’ said the man.

Morland risked a glance. Three other figures, also masked, materialized from the gloom of the cemetery. Two were armed, their weapons pointing in his direction. The third held a coil of wire, and the sight of it caused Morland to notice for the first time the cables that crossed the cemetery and hung over some of the gravestones. He moved slightly to the right, and saw one of the holes that had so interested the state police investigators when they’d come looking for Kayley Madsen. A length of wire led into its depths.

‘What are you doing?’ said Morland.

‘Putting the finishing touches to thermite and Semtex devices,’ said the man. ‘We’re about to destroy your town, starting here. Now put down your gun. I want to talk. The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.’

But Morland wasn’t about to talk to anyone.

Instead, he simply started shooting.

Nobody lived on Prosperous’s Main Street. It was strictly businesses only. As midnight approached, the street and its surroundings stood empty.

Slowly, men began to emerge from the shadows, eight in all. Ronald Straydeer led them, his features, like those of the others with him, concealed. Beside him walked Shaky.

‘You sure you’re okay to do this?’ asked Ronald.

‘I’m sure,’ said Shaky.

He held an incendiary device in his good hand. A cold wind was blowing from the east. That was good. It would fan the flames.

There came the sound of breaking glass.

Minutes later, Prosperous started to burn.

Morland was running for his life. Shots struck the old gravestones, or whistled past his ear to vanish into the forest beyond. He stayed low, using the monuments for cover, firing, weaving and dodging, but never stopping. He was outnumbered, and these men could easily surround and kill him. Anyway, staying in the cemetery was not an option, for it was now one massive explosion waiting to occur.

He didn’t head for the gate. That would be too obvious. Instead he sprinted for the railings and scrambled over them. He took a shot to the upper arm but did not stop. The forest was ahead of him, and he lost himself in its darkness. He risked only one look back and saw that the church door was now closed. The shooting had stopped, and in the silence Morland heard Warraner’s voice raised in song from behind the old stone walls. Somehow, in the confusion, he had managed to lock himself inside.

‘When men begin to weed,‘ sang Warraner, ‘The thistle from the seed …’

The figures in the churchyard started to run. Morland reloaded his gun and drew a bead on the nearest man. Perhaps he could yet stop this. His finger tightened on the trigger.

But he did not fire. Was this not what he wanted, what he sought? Let this be an end to it. He lowered his gun and retreated deeper into the forest, faster now, putting as much distance between him and the church as he could. If he could get to his car and return to town, he and Dackson could hole up in the Town Office while they called for backup.

He reached the road and saw an orange glow rising from Prosperous. His town was already burning, but he barely had time to register that fact before a massive blast rent the night. The ground shook, and Morland was knocked from his feet by the force of it. Debris was hurled high into the air, and earth, stone and wood rained down on him where he lay. He could feel the heat of the detonation, even from the road.

He covered his head with his hands, and prayed to every god and none.

57

Main Street was gone, reduced to brick shells and vacant, charred lots. At least one of the ruined buildings had dated back to the eighteenth century, and others were only marginally younger. Historians and architecture experts described it as a tragedy.

The Church of the Congregation of Adam Before Eve & Eve Before Adam was scattered over woods, roads, and what was left of the cemetery, which wasn’t much at all. Charred human remains, most of them long interred, would be dis covered for years after. Incredibly, the total number of fatalities amounted to just three: Pastor Michael Warraner, who had been inside his church when it was blown sky high; Bryan Joblin, killed in cold blood at Warraner’s house; and Thomas Souleby, the senior selectman of the town, who was said to have accompanied Chief Morland to the cemetery when the original call was received about a homeless trespasser, and who had not been able to get clear of the cemetery before the explosion occurred. Frank Robinson conducted the autopsy on Souleby, just so there could be no confusion about the matter. Unlike Pastor Warraner, Souleby’s body remained undamaged enough to allow for a proper burial. Morland had suffocated him, just as he had done with Hayley Conyer.

The newspapers and TV cameras were back. It would be a long time before they left. When asked about plans to rebuild, the town’s chief of police, Lucas Morland, said that work would begin on Main Street almost immediately, but he was unsure about plans for the church. The damage caused by the high explosives used meant that rebuilding the original church would be ruinously expensive if it were possible at all, which was doubtful. Perhaps a monument might be erected in its place, he suggested. Discussions on the issue would begin, said Morland, once the new board of selectmen was elected.

It remained unclear who might be responsible for what was described, almost immediately and inevitably, as an ‘act of terrorism’. Attention was focused variously on Muslims, fascists, secessionists, opponents of the federal government, radical socialists and extreme religious organizations, but Morland knew that none of those avenues of inquiry would ever yield any results.

The truth was that they should never have gone after the detective.

The Town Office had suffered significant damage, mostly in a successful effort to destroy the engines in the fire department. Officer Connie Dackson had watched it burn. Her captors had removed her from her cell and left her tied up at a safe distance from the conflagration. She thought that they might have been Asian, judging by their accents and their unusual politeness, but she couldn’t be certain. The Prosperous Police Department had immediately moved to temporary lodgings at the VFW meeting hall.