“Yes.”
“But you got nowhere.”
“Lester had a lot of anger in him.”
“Well, he's a lot calmer now.”
“If you had him under surveillance, then you already know what passed between us,” I said. “Which means there's something else that you want from me.”
After some hesitation, Boone went on to explain how a man traveling under the name of Clay Daemon had walked into Lester's store, demanded details of an individual in a photograph, and then shot Lester and his assistant dead.
“I'd like you to take a look at the photograph,” he said.
“He left it?”
“We figure he's got more than one copy. Hired killers tend to be pretty professional that way.”
“You want me to come in? It could be tomorrow.”
“How about now?”
“Look, Agent Boone, I need a shower, a shave, and sleep. I've told you all I can. I want to help, but give me a break.”
Boone relented slightly. “You got E-mail?”
“Yes, and a second line.”
“Then stay on this one. I'll be back.”
The line went quiet, so I turned on my desktop and waited for Boone's E-mail to arrive. When it did, it consisted of two pictures. One was the photograph of the abortion clinic shooting. I spotted Mr. Pudd immediately. The other was a still taken from the video camera in Lester Bargus's store, showing the killer Clay Daemon. Seconds later, Boone was back on the line.
“You recognize anyone in the first picture?”
“The guy on the far right is Pudd, first name Elias. He came out to my house, asking why I was nosing around in his business. I don't know the man in the video still.”
I could hear Boone clicking his tongue rhythmically at the other end of the line, even as I gave him the contact number I had for Ragle's lawyer. “I'll be talking to you again, Mr. Parker,” he said at last. “I have a feeling you know more than you're telling.”
“Everybody knows more than they're telling, Agent Boone,” I replied. “Even you. I have a question.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Who's the injured man in the first photograph?”
“His name was David Beck. He worked for an abortion clinic in Minnesota, and he's a dead man in that photograph. The killing forms part of the VAAPCON files.”
VAAPCON was the code name for the joint FBI-ATF investigation into abortion-related violence, the Violence Against Abortion Providers Conspiracy. The ATF and the FBI have a poor working relationship; for a long time the FBI had resisted involving itself in investigating attacks on doctors and abortion clinics, arguing that it didn't fall within their guidelines, which meant that the investigation of allegations of a conspiracy of violence was left in the hands of the ATF. That situation changed with the formation of VAAPCON and the enactment of new legislation empowering the FBI and the Justice Department to act against abortion-related violence. Yet tensions between the FBI and the ATF contributed to the comparative failure of VAAPCON; no evidence of a conspiracy was found, and agents took to dubbing the investigation CRAPCON, despite signs of growing links between right-wing militias and antiabortion extremists.
“Did they ever find his killer?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Like they haven't found his wife's killer.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I know she had spiders in her mouth when she was found.”
“And our friend Pudd is a spider lover.”
“The same Pudd whose head is circled in this photograph.”
“Do you know who he's working for?”
“Himself, I'd guess.” It wasn't quite a lie. Pudd didn't answer to Carter Paragon, and the Fellowship as the public knew it seemed too inconsequential to require his services.
Boone didn't speak for a time. His last words to me before he hung up were, “We'll be in touch.”
I didn't doubt it.
I sat in front of the computer screen, flicking between both images. I picked out a younger Alison Beck holding her dead husband, her face contorted with grief and his blood on her shirt, skirt, and hands. Then I looked into the small, hooded eyes of Mr. Pudd as he slipped away through the crowd. I wondered if he had fired the shots or merely orchestrated the killing. Either way, he was involved, and another small piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Somehow, Mercier had found Epstein and Beck, individuals who, for their own reasons, were prepared to assist him in his moves against the Fellowship. But why was Mercier so concerned about the Fellowship? Was it simply another example of his liberalism, or were there other, deeper motives?
As it turned out, a possible answer to the question pulled up outside my door in a black Mercedes convertible thirty minutes later. Deborah Mercier, wearing a long black coat, stepped alone and unaided from the driver's seat. Despite the encroaching darkness she wore shades. Her hair didn't move in the breeze. It could have been hair spray, or an act of will. It could also have been that even the wind wasn't going to screw around with Jack Mercier's wife. I wondered what excuse she had come up with for leaving her guests back at the house; maybe she told them they needed milk.
I opened the door as she reached the first step to the porch. “Take a wrong turn, Mrs. Mercier?” I asked.
“One of us has,” she replied, “and I think it might be you.”
“I never catch a break. I see those two roads diverging in a forest, and damn if I don't take the one that ends at a cliff edge.”
We stood about ten paces apart, eyeing each other up like a pair of mismatched gunfighters. Deborah Mercier couldn't have looked more like a WASP if her coat had been striped with yellow and her eyes had been on the sides of her head. She removed her glasses and those pale blue eyes held all the warmth of the Arctic Sea, the pupils tiny and receding like the bodies of drowned sailors sinking into their depths.
“Would you like to come inside?” I asked. I turned away and heard her footsteps on the wood behind me. They stopped before they reached the door. I looked back at her and saw her nostrils twitch a little in mild disgust as her gaze passed over the interior of my home.
“If you're waiting for me to carry you over the threshold, I ought to tell you that I have a bad back and we might not make it.”
Her nostrils twitched a little more and her eyes froze over entirely, trapping the pupils at the size of pinpoints. Then, carefully, the heels of her black pumps making a sound like the clicking of bones on the floorboards, she followed me into the house.
I led her to the kitchen and offered her coffee. She declined, but I went ahead and started making a pot anyway. I watched as she opened her coat and sat down, revealing a tight black formal dress that ended above her knees. Her legs, like the rest of her, looked good for forty-something. In fact, she would have looked good for forty, and not bad for thirty-five. She removed a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit up with a gold Dunhill lighter. She took a long drag on the cigarette, then blew a thin stream of smoke through her pursed lips.
“Feel free to smoke,” I said.
“If I was concerned, I'd have asked.”
“If I was concerned, I'd make you put it out.”
Her head turned a little to one side, and she smiled emptily. “So you think you can make people do what you want?”
“I believe we may have that in common, Mrs. Mercier.”
“It's probably the only thing we do have in common, Mr. Parker.”
“Here's hoping,” I replied. I brought the coffee pot to the table and poured myself a cup.
“On second thought, I will have some of that coffee,” she said.
“Smells good, doesn't it?”
“Or maybe everything else in here smells so bad. You live alone?”