THE SEARCH FOR SANCTUARY
Extract from the postgraduate thesis of Grace Peltier…
Faulkner's main claim to fame, apart from his association with Eagle Lake, was as a bookbinder, and particularly as a maker of Apocalypses, ornately illustrated versions of the book of Revelation, the last book of the New Testament, detailing St. John's vision of the end of the world and the final judgment. In creating these works, Faulkner was part of a tradition dating back to the Carolingian period of the ninth and tenth centuries, when the earliest surviving illustrated Apocalypse manuscripts were created on the European continent. In the early thirteenth century richly illuminated Apocalypses, with texts and commentaries in Latin and French vernacular, were made in Europe for the powerful and wealthy, including high churchmen and magnates. They continued to be created even after the invention of printing, indicating a continued resonance to the imagery and message of the book itself.
There are twelve “Faulkner Apocalypses” extant and, according to the records of Faulkner's supplier of gold leaf, it is unlikely that Faulkner made more than this number. Each book was bound in hand-tooled leather, inlaid with gold, and illustrated by hand by Faulkner, with a distinctive marking on the spine: six horizontal gold lines, set in three sets of two, and the final letter of the Greek alphabet: Ω for omega.
The paper was made not from wood but from linen and cotton rags beaten in water into a smooth pulp. Faulkner would dip a rectangular tray into the pulp and take up about one inch of the substance, draining it through a wire mesh in the base of the tray. Gently shaking the tray caused the matted fibers in the liquid to interlock. The sheet of partially solidified pulp was then squeezed in a press before being dipped in animal gelatin to size it, thereby enabling it to hold ink. The paper was bound in folios of six to minimize the buildup of thread on the book's spine.
The illustrations in Faulkner's Apocalypses were drawn largely from earlier artists, and remain consistent throughout. (All twelve are in the private ownership of one individual, and I was permitted to examine them at length.) Thus, the earliest of the Apocalypses is inspired by Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528), the second by medieval manuscripts, the third by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553) and so on, with the final extant book featuring six illustrations based on the work of Frans Masereel (1889-1972), whose Apocalypse cycle drew on images from World War II. According to those who had dealings with him, it appears that Faulkner was attracted to apocalyptic imagery because of its connotations of judgment, not because he believed it foretold a Second Coming or a final reckoning. For Faulkner, the reckoning had already begun; judgment and damnation were an ongoing process.
Faulkner's Apocalypses were created strictly for wealthy collectors, and the sale of them is believed to have provided much of the seed funding for Faulkner's community. No further versions made by Faulkner's hand have appeared since the date of the foundation of the Eagle Lake community.
16
LOUIS DROPPED ME AT MY HOUSE before heading for the Black Point Inn. I checked in with Gordon Buntz to make sure Rachel was okay, and a quick call to Angel confirmed that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at the Merciers', with the exception of the arrival of the lawyer Warren Ober and his wife. He had also spotted four different types of tern and two plovers. I arranged to meet up with both Angel and Louis later that night.
I had been checking my messages pretty regularly while in Boston and New York, but there were two new ones since that morning. The first was from Arthur Franklin, asking if the information his pornographer client, Harvey Ragle, had proffered was proving useful. In the background, I could hear Ragle's whining voice: “I'm a dead man. You tell him that. I'm a dead man.” I didn't bother to return the call.
The second message came from ATF agent Norman Boone. Ellis Howard, the deputy chief over in the Portland PD, once told me that Boone ruled the ATF like a king, but with none of the associated charm. He had left his home and cell-phone numbers. I got him at home.
“It's Charlie Parker. How can I help you, Agent Boone?”
“Why, thank you for returning my call, Mr. Parker. It's only been…” At the other end of the line, I could imagine him ostentatiously checking his watch. “Four hours.”
“I was out of town.”
“You mind telling me where?”
“Why, did we have a date?”
Boone sighed dramatically. “Talk to me now, Mr. Parker, or talk to me tomorrow at One City Center. I should warn you that I'm a busy man, and my patience is likely to be more strained by tomorrow morning.”
“I was in Boston, visiting an old friend.”
“An old friend, as I understand it, who ended up with a hole in his head halfway through a performance of Cleopatra.”
“I'm sure he knew how it ended. She dies, in case you hadn't heard.”
He ignored me. “Was your visit connected in any way to Lester Bargus?”
I didn't pause for a second, although the question had thrown me.
“Not directly.”
“But you visited Mr. Bargus shortly before you left town?”
Damn.
“Lester and I go way back.”
“Then you'll be heartbroken to hear that he is no longer with us.”
“ ‘Heartbroken’ maybe isn't the word. And the ATF's interest in all this is…?”
“Mr. Bargus made a little money selling spiders and giant roaches and a lot of money selling automatic weapons and other assorted firearms to the kind of people who have swastikas on their crockery. It was natural that he would come to our attention. My question is, Why did he come to your attention?”
“I was looking for somebody. I thought Lester might have known where he was. Is this an interrogation, Agent Boone?”
“It's a conversation, Mr. Parker. If we did it tomorrow, face-to-face, then it would be an interrogation.”
Even with a telephone line separating us, I had to admit that Boone was good. He was closing in on me, leaving me with almost no room to turn. I was not going to tell him about Grace Peltier, because Grace would bring me on to Jack Mercier, and possibly the Fellowship, and the last thing I wanted was the ATF going Waco on the Fellowship. Instead, I decided to give him Harvey Ragle.
“All I do know is that a lawyer named Arthur Franklin called me and asked me to speak to his client.”
“Who's his client?”
“Harvey Ragle. He makes porn movies, with bugs in them. Al Z's people used to distribute some of them.”
It was Boone's turn to be thrown. “Bugs? The hell are you talking-about?”
“Women in their underwear squashing bugs,” I explained, as if to a child. “He also does geriatric porn, obesity, and little people. He's an artist.”
“Nice types you meet in your line of work.”
“You make a pleasant change from the norm, Agent Boone. It seems that an individual with an affinity for bugs wants to kill Harvey Ragle for making his sicko porn movies. Lester Bargus had supplied the bugs and also seemed to know something about him, so I agreed to approach him on behalf of Ragle.”
The improbability of it was breathtaking. I could feel Boone wondering just how far he was being taken for a ride.
“And who is this mysterious herpetologist?”
Herpetologist. Agent Boone was obviously a Scrabble fan.
“He calls himself Mr. Pudd, and I think that strictly speaking he may be an arachnologist, not a herpetologist. He likes spiders. I think he's the man who killed Al Z.”
“And you approached Lester Bargus in the hope of finding this man?”