Authors: John Connolly
He no longer feared her. He understood something of what she was, and knew that she loved him enough to move between worlds in order to be closer to him. He thought of what Werner had said to him: that he did not wish to know the truth about life after death, that he did not want proof of another existence. He recalled the conviction of the woman who wore the mask of Isha Winter: that law and justice could not get to her in time in this world, and the rest was sleep.
But Parker knew the truth, and it was not so terrible, not for him. The difficulty for some might lie in remaining engaged with this world after such a revelation, but it presented no obstacle to Parker. There was work to be done here.
‘Hello, Jennifer,’ he said.
hello
The voice less like a whisper than the memory of one, the sound of it coming from so close by that he could almost feel the words as a coldness against his skin, even though the dead daughter remained behind the tree.
‘How long have you been there?’
a little while
‘Are you alone?’
yes
The other was not with her now, the entity composed of residues of hurt and anger that took the shape of his dead wife.
will you be staying here?
‘For a while.’
good
‘Do you like it here?’
you like it here
‘Yes.’ He smiled at her, and tried to hold it for as long as he could before he let it fade. ‘Jennifer, what can you tell me about Sam?’
nothing
‘She’s special. I know that now.’
i can’t say
‘Why?’
i’m not supposed to
‘Who told you not to?’
sam did
‘Do you have to do what Sam tells you?’
yes
‘Are you frightened of Sam?’
A pause.
yes
‘Jennifer, is Sam—?’
please daddy stop you have to stop
And he did, because he could hear the terror in her voice, but also a kind of awe, the wonder that one might feel at being forced to confront a force of nature capable of immense destruction: a storm, a tornado, a tsunami. He took a deep breath.
‘There’s something I want you to do for me, Jennifer.’
what is it?
He told her, and she understood. He bent down to collect the glass, and when he looked up again she was gone. He placed the glass in the kitchen sink, then went to the storage shed at the back of the house and unlocked it. He took a spade from inside, walked to a patch of ground not far from where his dead daughter had been standing, and started to dig. The ground was hard, and the effort pained him, but what he wanted was not buried deep. The spade struck something solid after he’d dug about eighteen inches down, and shortly after he had uncovered the waterproof Lexan box.
Inside was a rectangular package secured in a sealed pouch. He refilled the hole and took the box back to the house. He opened it next to the sink so as not to spread dirt, then brought the pouch into his office and set it on his desk. He made a cup of coffee, unzipped the pouch, and removed the sheaf of papers that it contained.
In the glow of his computer screen, he began to read the list of names.
73
I
sha Winter had not eaten since her conversation with the private detective. Neither could she sleep. She was not afraid of him, nor of the bitch Demers, but she burned with fury at both of them. If only Werner had managed to kill Parker. If only her
blöde Fotze
daughter had kept her distance from him …
Now she was entirely alone, and there was no one to help her. Even the vile Riese was gone, although she had no concern that he might imitate Engel and try to buy his own freedom by selling out others. Riese would endure his sufferings in silence. Contact between them had always been limited, but from Baulman she knew that Riese had few regrets. If he could, he would have worn his full SS regalia for Bangor’s Veterans Day Parade, and cursed anyone who objected.
The letter from the Justice Department had arrived and soon Demers would come. There would be more questions. Isha would deny everything. The search for evidence would begin. She wondered how long it would be before someone leaked information to the newspapers or the TV people. She liked being able to go out. She liked being greeted in the stores and going to the senior center to play bridge and bingo. She did not wish to become an outcast in her own community. But if that was the worst they could do, then let them persecute her. She had enough unread books to last a decade at least, and she would be long dead before then.
Fick euch!
Isha. Isha, Isha, Isha …
In a sense, she had possessed Isha Górski by inhabiting her form and appropriating her past. She had every right to all of it now. It was hers, decade upon decade of it. Most of the time, she was no longer even conscious of herself as the hidden other. She had married her husband David as Isha Górski, but made love as Isha Winter, and became a mother as Isha Winter. She had believed herself unable to conceive – had not even wanted a child – and then, in her mid-forties, she had given birth to Ruth. It wasn’t quite as miraculous as Sarah bearing Abraham a son in her twilight years, but it was close.
And she had cared for Ruth, in her way, although it was always David who truly loved her. Perhaps if she had felt more strongly about her daughter, things might have been different. How strange, too, that Ruth should only have given birth in her late thirties, and that Isha should have loved her granddaughter more than her daughter. Maybe it was because David had not lived long enough to become a part of Amanda’s life, and so she became her grandmother’s child, like a figure from a folk tale. Everybody said so.
But she had loved David, too. The detective was right: even in her old life, she had borne the Jews no particular hatred, and had married one because that was what the real Isha would have done, but she had surprised herself by her affection – and desire – for David Winter. She knew that Riese in particular had despised her for it, and considered her imposture the deepest form of degradation for an Aryan woman, but he kept his own counsel because the embezzled Lubsko wealth, carefully secured by her in the aftermath of the war, had paid for his passage from Europe to South America, and on to the US, and had protected him as well as the others. When the Jews came sniffing after Riese in the early 1960s, seeking files related to Mittelbau-Dora and Anselm Trommler, it was her bribes that ensured the relevant paperwork went missing from the
Bundesarchiv
.
Kraus, by contrast, had taken a more pragmatic, even romantic view, regarding her as essentially sacrificing herself for the sake of her comrades. ‘What man offers in heroism on the field of battle, woman equals with unending perseverance and sacrifice,’ he had once told her, quoting one of Hitler’s maxims, and conveniently forgetting that Isha had bloodied herself in Lubsko, leading children by the hand to the surgery before aiding Kraus with the final injections. Of course, she’d had to do it discreetly: killing was men’s work, and although she had euthanized physical and mental defectives as a nurse at Grafeneck, it was still deemed inappropriate for a woman to engage openly in acts of murder, even against Jews and other enemies of the state.
And Werner? Werner had adored her.
She was suddenly aware of a chill in the room, as though the temperature had plummeted in a matter of seconds. She drew the blankets around her, but it did no good. Damn it, she would have to turn on the heater again, and to do that she’d have to get out of bed, as the control unit was on her dressing table. She grabbed her robe from a chair and put it on before she left her bed. The cold hurt her feet as she walked past the window. The drapes were open. She rarely closed them. She never slept much beyond six a.m. anyway. She liked having the morning sunlight streaming into her room, and looking out upon the beach and the sea. It was coming on for high tide, and she could see the waves peaking and disintegrating.
It was only now that she noticed her bedroom door was slightly ajar. She always closed it before she went to bed because it creaked if there was a breeze, and she was a light sleeper. She was still considering the peculiarity of the situation when she heard footsteps in the hall outside. They were not heavy, and reminded her of the sound of Amanda running around the house in her stockinged feet when she was younger.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted. ‘I have a gun.’
Isha heard the footsteps descending the stairs, but they paused about halfway, inviting her to follow. She knew that she should lock the door and call the police. She also had a personal alarm hanging around her neck in case she should fall or be taken ill. If she activated it, an ambulance would come, and maybe the police too.
But she did not use the phone and she did not activate the alarm. The child laughed, and it sounded so like Amanda’s laugh that Isha left the bedroom and stepped into the hall. Could Amanda have come? Maybe there had been some problem with the Frobergs and she had fled to her grandmother’s house.
‘Amanda?’ she asked the darkness. She advanced down the hall until she could see the stairs, and was just in time to catch sight of a girl skipping off the last step and disappearing through the open front door.
‘Amanda?’ said Isha again. ‘Is that you?’
She found herself descending the stairs, heedless of the chill air, moving less of her own volition than impelled by an unseen force that had taken control of her limbs and was urging her on, sending her out to find the child. She saw the girl at the gate, her long blond hair trailing behind her, like a figure glimpsed floating beneath the sea, and then the girl was crossing the road and heading toward the beach, and Isha was following her, the gravel drive cutting at the soles of her feet, the night air pricking her flesh. There were no cars on the road, and the moon was a pale smudged fingerprint behind the clouds, like the mark upon creation of a god in whom she did not believe.
Blacktop became stone, and stone became sand. Isha was on the beach. The girl had stopped walking, and was facing the sea. Isha looked down at her own faint shadow, and realized that the girl cast none. Isha wanted to turn back now, but she was frozen in place. And though the girl still had no umbra, other shadows were moving around her, cast on the beach by unseen figures that emerged from the sea, spreading like ink from the dark ocean, moving closer and closer to Isha, reaching out to her, touching her: tens, then hundreds of them – men, women, and children who had conspired to make their absence palpable, like silhouettes cut from card. They surrounded her as the sands released her, and she fell to her knees. They called her by her true name, over and over – chiding, regretful – until their voices became one with the sound of the sea, and the cold water touched her knees, then her toes, soaking her nightgown and her robe.
And the girl joined them, and Isha was permitted to look upon her face at last.
Isha Winter was found hours later when a milk truck driver caught her hunched figure in his headlights. She was soaking wet and barely conscious, and could not stop shivering. He wrapped her in his coat, then carried her to the cab of his truck and kept her warm while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. She lapsed into unconsciousness on the journey to hospital, and woke only once more in the days thereafter, when she asked to see not a rabbi but a Lutheran pastor, and make her final confession. She was, said a nurse who was present, weeping with fear.
By the time the minister arrived, she was dead.
74
R
oss, special agent in charge at the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Manhattan, arrived at Maxwell’s on Reade Street, his usual Friday lunchtime haunt, to be told that his guest was already waiting for him. This was unwelcome news, since Ross always enjoyed reading the
New York Times
with his Friday lunch, and also something of a surprise because he wasn’t expecting a guest. Nevertheless, if he was going to be killed it probably wasn’t going to be over the spinach dip at Maxwell’s, so he thanked the host and followed him to the table. Wine was waiting, along with his guest.
‘I ordered you a glass of white,’ said Parker, ‘seeing as how it’s Friday and all, and the waiter tells me that you usually order the fish.’
Ross took a seat across from the detective. They hadn’t seen each other in some time, although Parker was rarely far from Ross’s mind. They were not close, and they were not friends, but Ross thought that he knew more about Parker than just about any man on earth.
‘You’re looking better than I expected,’ said Ross.
‘I’m recovering well.’
‘And keeping yourself busy, I see. Buried anyone else in sand lately?’
‘It was an act of God.’
‘I’ll bet his insurance company will be pleased to hear it.’
Ross picked up a menu, but only for form’s sake. The waiter was right: he always had fish on Fridays. It was a hangover from his Catholic upbringing, but he also just liked the fish at Maxwell’s.
‘You eating?’ he asked Parker.
‘No, I’m not staying.’
‘Then what can I do for you?’
Parker handed over a sheaf of papers, held together with a black clip. Ross read the first page and looked bemused. After reading the second, third, and fourth, the expression on his face suggested that he might need something stronger than wine.
‘What the fuck is this?’
‘It’s an agreement,’ said Parker. ‘The Federal Bureau of Investigation is going to hire me as a freelance contractor and advisor on cases linked to your office. Basically, you’re going to put me on retainer. You can feel free to play with the language a little, but I’d appreciate if you’d run the final version by my lawyer, Aimee Price, before signing it. I don’t want you stiffing me in the small print.’
‘And why would I want to hire you?’
‘A number of reasons: because I’ve decided to take a more proactive role in certain matters, and I can work more easily by flying your flag when convenient; because the income will be useful, as I’m tired of asking my friends to help me in return for beer money; because I realized how easily I took on the role of the sacrificial lamb up in Boreas, mainly as I’ve been playing the same role for you, and you may as well pay me for the risk involved. Oh, and finally, because of this.’