Page 20 of The Instruments of Darkness

In another universe, this particular iteration of Kit No. 174 might have been regarded as blighted from the start, fundamentally flawed by a series of incidents during its manufacture, each unconnected to the last but all ultimately contributing to a structure that should never have been permitted to leave the warehouse, or would have been better off returned to Sears as soon as its faults became apparent to the purchasers. Its undeniable oddness, its sense of elemental deficiency, would then have had a logical explanation. But the house conformed to every basic standard, and so had been permitted to stand. Its abnormality was not inherent, but acquired.

Yet the house was not haunted, whatever some locals might have suggested—although none had ventured out lately to check, because even the rowdier kids from the district paid heed to the NO TRESPASSING signs posted on the property. It was just a house, distinct from the ground on which it stood in the same way that a tombstone is not the same as a grave.

What did it mark, this structure? Nothing, nothing at all.

And everything.

THE WOMAN WHO HAD briefly gone by the name of Mara Teller was examining the coverage of Colleen Clark’s arrest on her laptop, replaying the media footage of her transfer to Cumberland County Jail. A beer stood by the woman’s right hand, and a cigarette was burning in an ashtray, its column of ash growing longer and longer, like a gray worm being birthed, because the woman was entirely absorbed by the screen.

She watched, for a third time, the film of Clark being escorted from the Portland PD building. Her hands were cuffed, and she had a police officer at either side of her, but she held her head high, even as bright lights shone in her eyes and questions and abuse were shouted at her from the margins. The woman felt a degree of admiration, even sympathy, but not enough of either to hope that Clark got off. It was important she be convicted. If she were not, the inquiry into her son’s disappearance would take a different direction, which would be unfortunate.

Behind Clark walked the lawyer Castin, who had later made a statement to the media declaring his client’s innocence and expressing confidence that she would be exonerated. The woman thought Castin looked like a shyster. He talked too fast for her liking, and wore the kind of suit favored by hucksters who were trying to sell you something you didn’t want to buy.

Finally, she reached a short section of reportage headed by footage of a man of slightly above-average height leaving Portland PD headquarters. He wasn’t trying to flee the cameras, but gave the impression that, while he was aware of their presence, they were of no consequence to him. She listened to the commentary, even though she was already familiar with his name and reputation, before freezing the video on the private investigator’s face. Footsteps sounded behind her. She tapped the screen.

“I think,” she said, “that we may have a complication.”

CHAPTER XIV

Colleen Clark had informed me that her estranged husband was currently staying with his brother, Michael, in Dayton, about a half hour south of Portland. He was, she said, avoiding unnecessary travel for the present, and working remotely from a makeshift office in his brother’s home. Colleen and her husband had spoken only once since the revelation of the blanket in her car. In the course of the conversation, he had informed her that he never wished to see her again. According to a mutual acquaintance, he had consulted a divorce attorney and requested that papers be served on his wife as soon as she was released on bail.

I drove to Dayton the following morning in the first proper sunlight for a week, even if it hadn’t brought much warmth. Michael Clark lived on Ruel Lane, almost halfway between Dayton and Union Falls. There wasn’t much to Dayton, but that was true of a lot of small Maine towns. This region was once lumber and dairy country, but the lumber now came largely from up north and pasture had given way to industrial and housing developments, or warehouses with indefinable purposes, which counted as progress only if one was answerable to shareholders.

Michael Clark lived in a new family home surrounded by young pines, with three cars in the drive, two of which—a white Kia Stinger and a red Ford Fusion—were registered to the address. The third vehicle, a black Lexus coupe, I knew to be Stephen’s. I parked behind it, got out, and repositioned a child’s tricycle that was lying too close to one of the Stinger’s rear tires. It would have been just the right size for Henry Clark in a year or so, I thought. I wondered who owned it, given that, per Colleen, the family was childless. A neighbor’s kid, perhaps.

I rang the doorbell and waited. I’d spotted a drape move in one of the upper front windows as I parked, so I knew my arrival had been noted. If the Clarks had been watching the news, or reading the papers—and it was almost certain they had—they’d know who I was and why I was at their door. With luck, I could convince Stephen Clark to talk to me, but a hostile reception was more probable. I was working on behalf of his wife, whom he believed to have killed their son.

A woman in her early thirties answered the call of the bell. She was wearing a gold wedding band and a diamond engagement ring that, judging by the number of small stones, had been bought for quantity, not quality. She reminded me of Colleen: same hair color, same height, and a similar build, although this woman was toned where Colleen was thin, and tanned where she was pale. Regardless, if this was Michael’s wife, it appeared the Clark brothers shared a type.

“Mrs. Clark?” I said.

“That’s right.”

She wasn’t opening the door very far, and was blocking the gap with her body as though to protect whomever was inside.

I showed her my ID. “My name is Parker. I’m a private investigator. I was hoping to speak with your brother-in-law.”

“Why?”

But I could tell from her face that, as anticipated, she already knew why I was there.

“I’m involved in his wife’s case,” I told her. “I’ve been engaged by her lawyer to assist with the pre-trial investigation.”

She stared at me for a good ten seconds without speaking.

“I meant why are you working for her?” she said at last. “Why would you do that? You’re taking money from a woman who murdered her own baby.”

I didn’t answer because there was no answer to give, or none that would have satisfied this woman. She wasn’t the first to have asked me questions like that, and she wouldn’t be the last. I could have told her that my actions had nothing to do with any presumptions of innocence or guilt, which would have been only partly true, but she still wouldn’t have accepted the answer, and I wouldn’t have blamed her for it.

“Stephen Clark,” I said. “If he’s available.”

A man’s voice spoke from the shadows.

“It’s okay, Donna. I’ll talk to him.”

“Then you’ll do it outside,” she said, as she stepped back to let the man come forward, “because he’s not setting foot in this house.”

I’d seen enough images of Stephen Clark in the newspapers and on TV to recognize him, but his height still surprised me. He must have been six-six or six-seven, but he weighed no more than 170 pounds, which caused me to wonder if anyone in the extended Clark family had ever said yes to dessert. This was not the striking gauntness of his wife, though, or even the carefully tended appearance of his sister-in-law. Colleen had told me that her husband was an obsessive runner who competed annually in the Boston, New York, and Chicago marathons, in addition to shorter races fit in around work and family commitments. The stripping of the fat from his body made his head appear too large for his frame, and a pair of oversized spectacles magnified his weak eyes, lending him a peculiarly bug-like appearance. He wouldn’t have been out of place lying camouflaged on a stick.

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