Billy could smell gas on his hands as they drove toward South Portland. It was making his head spin. He wanted nothing more than to shower and change his clothes, not only to rid himself of the taint of the fuel but also as a prelude to removing the images of burning from his mind. When he closed his eyes, it was not Parker’s Mustang he saw in flames, but his own form.
He and Mors had been able to glimpse something of the conflagration in the rearview mirror before the trees finally concealed it. Billy noticed that the wind had picked up, and was blowing west. He wished the evening was still; it was one thing to set fire to a man’s car, another to burn his house down. He didn’t hate Parker that much. In fact, Billy realized, he didn’t hate Parker at all. He simply wanted to understand why Parker had seen fit to aid in the torching of Billy’s truck. Billy could just have asked him. They might even have come to some kind of understanding.
Billy was really sorry for burning the Mustang.
“Maybe we should call the fire department,” he suggested.
“Do you have an unregistered cell phone?” said Mors.
“No.”
“Then perhaps you’d prefer to just hand yourself over to the police and confess what you’ve done, because if you make that call, it will be traced.”
Billy didn’t want to confess. He’d learn to live with his iniquity.
“And I don’t think you can go home either, or drive your own truck,” said Mors.
“Why not?”
“Because you know as well as I that you’ll be the prime suspect for what’s just happened, and you’ll struggle to provide an alibi.”
“I don’t care about that,” said Billy. “There’ll be no proof, and cops need evidence.”
“I’m not talking about the police: I’m talking about Parker. Do you think he’ll need proof?”
No, Billy thought, he sure as hell won’t.
“I’ll head away from here,” he said. “I’ll leave the state for a few days.”
“That could be viewed as the behavior of a guilty man,” said Mors. “The fire will be reported. Parker will be asked for the names of those he might have crossed recently. He can point to you and claim that your family appeared intent on linking him, incorrectly, to an act of criminal damage. Then the police will start looking for you, and whatever vehicle you were last seen driving.”
Billy’s unhappiness was growing, and with it his confusion. He wanted Mors to stop talking and give him time to think. There were holes in her argument, but he needed to be alone and undisturbed to find them. Billy wasn’t good at reasoning under pressure.
“Do you have a place near town you can go, somewhere quiet, even just for a couple of nights?” Mors asked. “It may be that Parker will take the smart view, and decide this has all spiraled out of control. An accommodation might be reached between him and your father, on your behalf. Mr. Quayle and I have no interest in seeing this situation deteriorate further. We only want Parker to be diverted. As long as you don’t mention our involvement, you’ll never hear from us again.” She gave Billy a look that spoke volumes. “And that, I don’t need to tell you, would be for the best.”
Billy got the message, but he was still prepared to ignore its contents. If Parker chose to seek his head in retribution, it might be that Billy could buy himself out of trouble with what he knew of Quayle and Mors. But for the present, Mors was right: the best decision Billy could make would be to lie low for a couple of days and see what transpired. At some point he’d have to admit to his old man what he’d done. It might even be wise; his father retained a number of high-powered lawyers, and once they became involved, Parker would have to back off and seek a compromise.
“What about my money?” he asked.
“In the glove compartment.”
Billy opened it, and found a thick envelope filled with fifty-dollar bills.
“A thousand dollars,” said Mors. “Not bad for a night’s work.”
Billy started to feel a little better about the world.
“I manage a building in Auburn,” he said. “It’s vacant. I can stay there for a while, if we stop off first for some food and beer.”
“Well,” said Mors, “that sounds like a plan.”
PARKER MADE THE LAST flight to Boston with only minutes to spare, and managed to get a call through to Bob Johnston in Portland before the doors closed. Johnston owned a rare book dealership that operated out of a brownstone in Munjoy Hill, but he also had a sideline in the restoration and rebinding of old volumes. Johnston was a little antisocial, like a lot of book people who operated in the more specialized areas of the market, but given the nature of the object Parker wanted Johnston to examine, this was probably for the best. Parker told Johnston to expect him after eleven p.m., and Johnston said that Parker could take his time because he never went to bed before one a.m. anyway.
Parker put the shoe box under the seat in front of him, but did not open it. He had no pressing desire to look at its contents for a while.
BILLY AND MORS STOPPED at a convenience store to pick up chips, cold cuts, bread, milk, and beer. If Mors thought that this seemed like a lot of food for one person, she didn’t comment. They drove to the Auburn property, where Billy instructed Mors to park in the back lot so he wouldn’t be observed entering the building. He was pleased to see that the windows on the upper floor remained dark, without even the telltale glow of the TV. Maybe Heb Caldicott was asleep, or dead. Either would be fine with Billy, the latter being infinitely preferable.
Billy got out of the car, Mors following behind with the second bag of groceries. Billy fiddled with the lock, and the door opened.
“I can take it from here,” he said.
He turned, and Mors shot him in the face.