Parker was sure he’d made the correct call when the GPS took him along a road marked “Private,” the evergreens along its edges encroaching like shards of a greater blackness against the night sky. When the phone rang again, he pulled over to the side of the road, and did not look over his shoulder as the rear door on the right opened and Louis slipped out.
“Why have you stopped?” said Quayle, giving Parker the final confirmation he required. Wherever Quayle was, he could see the Audi.
“The road is dark. I don’t want to end up in a ditch.”
Parker wondered if Quayle was using an infrared lens to observe the car. If so, Parker could only hope the trees would work in their favor, and that Louis was staying low. He held his breath, and released it only when Quayle began to speak again.
“There’s a turnoff to your right, about a quarter of a mile ahead. Take it, and continue driving until you see two houses. You’ll spot an oil can in the yard. Don’t proceed beyond it. Stop, and wait, but be sure to keep your hands on the wheel. And leave the phone on speaker.”
Parker did as he was told. He drove slowly along the road until he came to the turn, which took him uphill. The road was even rougher and narrower than before. If another car appeared from the opposite direction, one of them would have to learn to levitate, but he encountered no other vehicles, and eventually two dwellings came into view. The first looked like a pretty standard Maine camp: a single-story wood cabin that probably contained just a couple of bedrooms, a living area, and a bathroom. The other building was larger and older, consisting of two levels topped by a curiously ornate cupola, although the whole structure had long fallen into disrepair, and anyone taking up residence would have been forced to share with some of the local wildlife.
Parker pulled up at the oil can, but kept the engine running. He didn’t think Quayle planned to kill him, or not before the book was safely in his possession, so when Mors emerged from the bushes to his left, a gun in her hand, he tried not to fear actively for his life. Of Quayle, he saw no sign.
“Turn off the ignition,” said Quayle’s voice from the phone.
Parker did so, and silence reigned for a time. Mors ceased her advance, but kept him under the gun.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes,” said Parker.
“Get out of the car and kneel on the ground,” Quayle instructed. “Tell Miss Mors what you’re carrying, and she will relieve you of its burden.”
Parker opened the door, keeping his hands raised once he was out, before easing himself onto the damp gravel. Within seconds, Mors was behind him.
“Where is it?” she said.
“Holster under my left shoulder.”
She moved around until she was facing him.
“Reach in and remove it with your left hand, thumb and index finger only.”
Awkwardly, Parker took out the gun, and held it before him like a dead fish.
“Gently throw it at my feet.”
Parker did as he was told. The gun landed an inch from her right foot.
“Any others?”
“No.”
“I’m going to frisk you. If I find more weapons, I’ll shoot you.”
Parker decided against dying.
“Knife at my left shin, revolver in an ankle holster on my right.”
“Lie flat, hands on the back of your head, fingers interlocked.”
The ground smelled of spilled gas, and up close Parker could see the glitter of broken glass. He tried to avoid putting his face against it while Mors removed the knife and the revolver before frisking him anyway, just for her own peace of mind.
“You should see a doctor,” Parker said, when her face was close to his and he could smell the foulness of her breath. “I think you may have cancer.”
Mors didn’t reply, but seconds later she used a foot to spread Parker’s legs before kicking him hard in the balls. His vision went black, and he curled in upon himself, his eyes closed.
“You mustn’t be rude,” said Mors.
Parker stayed still for a while, until he was sure he wasn’t going to puke. He was just getting to his knees again when Quayle materialized from the old house and stepped down to the yard.
“It’s not wise to goad her,” he said. “She’s led a difficult life.”
Parker’s pain was slowly receding, but nausea was taking its place. He now wanted to hurt Mors very badly.
Quayle squatted before him.
“The book,” he said.
“Owen Weaver,” Parker replied.
“That’s not how it’s going to work. If I don’t have the book in my hands within the next thirty seconds, I’ll take my chances and tell Miss Mors to kill you.”
Parker saw no sense in arguing.
“The book is in the trunk.”
“Get it.”
Parker managed to rise to his feet. He was unsteady, and it hurt to walk, but at least he was staying upright. Mors and Quayle tracked him to the rear of the car, but from different angles. They were understandably wary of the trunk, just in case Parker had not come alone after all, but they were looking in the wrong place, which was all that mattered.
Parker opened the trunk. The book lay in its shoe box, the front cover facing up.
Parker picked up the book, holding it so that Quayle could see the blank pages loosely inserted.
“Owen Weaver,” Parker said again.
“Mr. Weaver?” Quayle shouted. “Let us know you’re alive.”
“I’m okay,” said a voice from inside the house. Parker guessed Weaver was on the second story, because one of the windows to the front was open.
Parker extended the book toward Quayle, who reached for it. When his fingers were within touching distance, Parker relaxed his grip and the sections fell apart, the wind sending them skipping across the dirt.
A number of things then happened simultaneously.
Quayle followed the progress of the pages, already moving to try to catch them. Mors shifted the barrel of her gun and pulled the trigger, firing not at Parker but at the figure of Louis emerging from the trees. Parker, caught between two guns, dove to the ground, jarring his tender balls painfully in the process, and scrambled to where his own weapons lay.
And finally, the first floor of the old house burst into flames.