The soldiers, along with Valerie Gillson and Ben Pearson, were all buried in the new cemetery to the south. Nobody had been interred in the grounds of the old church since the end of the last century, not even deceased members of the senior families whose surnames already adorned so many stones in the churchyard. It was Warraner’s father who had decreed that the cemetery was now closed to interments, and nobody had questioned his decision. The only reason he had given was this:
Why risk disturbing what is at rest?
In recent days his son had issued an even more restrictive edict. The cemetery and church were out of bounds to all. Nobody was to trespass there, and while the media was in town Morland and his deputies, aided by the most trustworthy of the younger citizens, had maintained a twenty-four-hour vigil to ensure that visitors and reporters were kept away. Had Warraner been asked for a reason, he would have given this one:
Why risk disturbing further what is no longer at rest?
Now here was his youngest daughter telling him that a man was walking among the stones, and taking photographs of the church with his phone. Warraner was so incensed that he did not even go to the house to get a coat but ran in his shirtsleeves through the woods, ignoring the cold, ignoring too the branches that pulled at him even as he recalled the final photograph on Valerie Gillson’s cell phone, the image of a deer with its legs bound by briars, a deer that had been crippled and laid out as bait …
He burst from the woods and saw the intruder.
‘Hey!’ he cried. ‘That’s private property and sacred ground. You’ve no right to be in there.’
The stranger turned, and at the sight of him Pastor Warraner immediately understood that the town’s troubles had just increased considerably.
I watched Warraner as he came to a halt at the iron railing that surrounded the cemetery. He was breathing heavily, and a scratch to his neck was bleeding into his shirt collar.
‘What are you doing in the cemetery?’ he asked.
I walked toward him. He watched my progress carefully.
‘Same as last time,’ I said. ‘Trying to find a missing girl.’
‘She’s not here, and you’re disturbing the peace of the dead.’
I sidestepped a tilting stone cross. The names and dates on it were so old and faded as to be entirely illegible.
‘Really? I’ve found that it takes a lot to wake the dead, unless some were never quite asleep to begin with.’
‘This is neither the time nor the place for mockery, Mr Parker. Our town has been through a difficult period.’
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Warraner,’ I said. ‘And I’m entirely serious.’
I was facing him now. His hands gripped the railing so tightly that his knuckles showed white against his skin. I turned to the right and continued walking, forcing him to keep pace with me.
‘The gate is to your left,’ he said.
‘I know. That’s how I got in.’
‘It’s locked.’
‘It was locked. I found it open.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I suppose you could call Chief Morland and ask him to dust it for fingerprints. Or you could just buy a better lock.’
‘I fully intend to call Chief Morland,’ said Warraner. ‘I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.’
His hands searched his pockets for his cell phone but came up empty. I offered him mine instead.
‘Feel free to call, but I was planning to pay him another visit anyway, just as soon as I’ve finished here.’
I saw that Warraner was tempted to take my phone, but even he could appreciate the absurdity of doing so. The threat of police involvement was of limited effectiveness if the person being threatened was only a middleman away from calling the cops on himself.
‘What do you want, Mr Parker?’ he said.
I paused beside a hole in the ground. It was similar to the one that Euclid Danes had pointed out to me close to the edge of his own land.
‘I was wondering what this might be?’
I had stumbled across the hole by accident – literally: I had almost broken my ankle in it.
‘It’s a fox den,’ he said.
‘Really?’
I knelt and examined it. An active den usually retained signs of the animal’s comings and goings, but this had none. The ground around it was undisturbed.
‘It’s big for a fox hole,’ I said, ‘and I don’t see any sign of foxes.’
‘It’s an old den,’ said Warraner. Hostility flowed from him in waves.
‘Do you have many old dens around here?’
‘Possibly. I’ve never taken the time to count them. For the last time, I want you to leave this place. Now.’
If we’d both been nine years old and in a schoolyard I could have asked him to make me, or inquired about what he might do if I refused, but it didn’t seem appropriate in a cemetery, and I’d annoyed him enough for now. He tracked me back to the gate, and examined the lock once I was back on the right side of the fence. I hadn’t been forced to break it: two decades of friendship with Angel had taught me the rudiments of picking. Warraner wrapped the chain from gate to fence and secured it.
‘Do you want to follow me to the police department?’ I said.
‘No,’ said Warraner. ‘I know you’ll go there. You have more questions to ask, don’t you? Why can’t you just leave us in peace?’
‘Questions always remain, even when things work out. It comes with the territory.’
‘With being a self-righteous prick who can’t allow a town to mourn its dead?’
He savored the word ‘prick’. I’d been called worse, but not by anyone with a degree in divinity.
‘No, with being human. You should try it, Mr Warraner, or Pastor Warraner, or whatever title you’ve chosen to give yourself. Your dead are past caring, and your mourning will do them no good. I’m searching for a missing girl. If she’s alive, she’s in trouble. If she’s dead, someone else is. As an individual who professes to be a man of God, I’d suggest that your compassion is currently misdirected.’
Warraner plunged his hands into the pockets of his jeans as though fearing the damage he might otherwise inflict upon me. He was a big man, and strong as well. If he got his hands on me he’d do some harm. Of course, I’d shatter one of his knees before he got that close, but it wouldn’t look good on my résumé. Still, all of his weight was on his left leg, which was ramrod straight. If he moved, I’d take him.
Warraner breathed deeply to calm himself and recover his dignity. The moment passed.
‘You know nothing of my god, Mr Parker,’ he said solemnly.
I looked past him and took in the ancient stones of his church, and the leering faces visible in the fading afternoon light.
‘You may be wrong about that, Pastor.’
He stayed at the gate as I drove away, his hands deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed upon me, standing in the shadow of his church.
In the shadow of his god.
30
Chief Morland was looking out the window of his office as I pulled up outside his department. If he was pleased to see me, he was trying manfully to hide it. His arms were folded, and he stared at me without expression as I walked up the path. Inside there was a strained silence among the staff, and I guessed that not long before Chief Morland had been shouting into a telephone receiver at Pastor Warraner. Nobody offered me coffee and a cookie. Nobody even wanted to catch my eye.
Morland’s door was open. I stood on the threshold.
‘Mind if I come in?’
He unfolded his arms. ‘Would it matter if I did?’
‘I can talk to you from here, but it seems kind of childish.’
Morland gestured me inside and told me to close the door. He waited for me to sit before doing the same himself.
‘You’ve been keeping my phone busy,’ he said.
‘Warraner?’
‘The pastor was just the most recent caller. We’ve had reports of a man in a car like yours casing properties, and I already sent a deputy out to take a look. If you’d been driving your fancy Mustang I’d have known it was you, but you seem to have left your toy automobile back in Portland today.’