My headlights caught bare branches and twisted trees, and every shadow concealed the face of the Green Man.
24
Morland drove to the outskirts of Prosperous and sat in his car, drinking coffee from his Thermos and watching the cars enter and leave the town. His Crown Vic rested on a small hill partially concealed by trees, a site that he often used as the location for a speed trap when the mood took him. His father had shown him this location, pointing out to him the sweet spot, the perfect position from which to watch without being seen while also giving an unrestricted view of the road. On this occasion Morland left the radar gun in its case. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He wanted to think.
Hayley Conyer would have to be informed of the detective’s visit, and it was better that Morland should be the one to do it rather than Pastor Warraner. Who knew what poisons Warraner would pour into Hayley’s ear? It was the pastor who had shouted loudest for the killing of the man named Jude, even as Morland tried to divert the board from a course of action that had now brought a dangerous man down upon them.
For the detective was dangerous, of that Morland had no doubt. The chief had not been busy when the detective arrived at the town office, and could have seen him immediately, but he had taken time to compose himself, to run through the possible reasons for the man’s visit. Morland had been surprised when the detective mentioned Jude’s name, but had hidden it well. He had struggled harder to retain his composure when the detective had wanted to visit the chapel, but he shouldn’t have: it was a perfectly understandable request to make given the unusual nature of the building, although Morland had offered the detective an opening by mentioning that Jude had been arrested on church grounds. As for Warraner, he regularly received letters and e-mails from interested parties asking for permission to visit, even if he was careful to limit such visits to those whose reasons were entirely without ulterior motive.
But Morland believed that the detective did nothing without an ulterior motive. He wasn’t the kind of man to go sightseeing at an old church simply because he had time on his hands. He was looking for connections. Morland could only hope that he had left Prosperous without making any. The chief ran over the details of their conversation again and again, adding what he’d heard of the detective’s discussion with Warraner. Morland tried to see the situation through the detective’s eyes, and by the time the Thermos was empty he had decided there was nothing about the day’s business that could have added to any half-formed suspicions the detective might have brought with him. It had been a fishing expedition, nothing more, and the hook had come back bare. Still, Morland hadn’t like the way the detective watched Warraner as the pastor departed, or his suggestion that the girl’s disappearance might not be the sole purpose of his visit. His first hook might not have caught on anything, but the detective had left others trailing.
Morland climbed from the car and went into the bushes to take a leak. It was dark now but the moon shone silver on the small body of water known as Lady’s Pond. This was where the women of Prosperous would go to congregate and bathe, undisturbed by their menfolk, in the early decades of the township. Morland wondered how many of them knew of the town’s true nature, even then. Probably only a handful, he thought. More of the townsfolk understood Prosperous now, but far from all. Some chose to be blind to it, and others were deliberately kept in the dark. It was strange, thought Morland, how generations of Prosperous families had never been entrusted with the truth yet still had reaped its benefits. It was stranger still that the town’s secret had remained undiscovered by outsiders over the centuries, even allowing for the killings that had occurred in order to silence those who were ready to betray it. Perhaps it was a circular argument: the town was always at risk because it required murder to survive, but by spilling blood it accrued the blessings that enabled it to keep that risk to a minimum, and assure the town’s continued prosperity. Put that way, it sounded simple, logical.
Morland wondered if, like his father and grandfather before him, he had become such a monster that he almost failed to notice his own moral and spiritual deformity any more.
The issue of betrayal brought him back to the Dixons. It had been Morland’s decision to place Luke Joblin’s son with them. He hoped that Bryan Joblin’s presence would keep the Dixons in line and force them to act according to the board’s wishes, but he had his doubts. If the Dixons actually managed to produce a girl to replace Annie Broyer, Morland would give up coffee for a year.
But there was a part of the chief that hoped Harry Dixon was right – that the fact of the girl’s killing and the soaking of her blood into the soil of Prosperous might be enough. The town was hurting, but not as much as the rest of the state. People were getting by. Morland imagined a situation where Pastor Warraner informed the board that all was now well and the chapel remained quiet, so no further action was required. But Warraner was both fanatical and weak, and Morland had not yet decided if the latter quality was useful or dangerous. It depended upon the circumstances, he supposed, but it meant that Warraner had a habit of attacking from behind when it came to disputes. He was no honest broker. Morland wished that Warraner’s father were still alive and in charge of the chapel. Old Watkyn Warraner had been a cautious man by all accounts, and he steered the congregation through more than half a century without blood being spilt more than once. It was the longest such period of contentment that the town had known.
Well, we’re paying for it now, thought Morland. Two bodies – one here and one in Portland – and it appeared that they were not enough. Now a detective was asking questions, a strange man with a reputation for excavating long-buried secrets and annihilating his enemies. Under the circumstances, Warraner could argue that the spilling of blood was more necessary than ever, for only by blood would the town be saved, and the selectmen might well be inclined to agree. They were all old and fearful – even Hayley Conyer, except that she just hid her fear better than most. Younger people were needed on the board, but most of the town’s youth weren’t ready to take on the burden of protecting Prosperous. It took decades for the town to seep into one’s soul, for the recognition of one’s obligations to it to form. It was a kind of corruption, a pollution passed down through generations, and only the oldest were corrupt and polluted enough to be able to make the tough decisions required to keep the town alive.
Morland used a bottle of water to wash his hands clean before drying them on the legs of his trousers. It was time to talk with Hayley Conyer. He called his wife and told her that he would be home late. No, he wasn’t sure when. He knew only that a long evening stretched ahead.
Morland drove to the Conyer house and parked outside. The drapes were drawn on all the windows, but a sliver of light was visible from her mausoleum of a living room. He wasn’t surprised to find her home. Unless she was out on board business, Hayley was always home. Morland couldn’t remember the last time she’d left town for more than a couple of hours. She was afraid the place would collapse into the ground without her. That was part of the problem, of course.
‘Bitch,’ he said, softly, as he stepped from the car. The wind whipped the word away, and he found his right hand twitching involuntarily, as if hoping to catch the insult before it reached the ear of Hayley Conyer.