Page 47 of The Instruments of Darkness

Sabine Drew made sure her cell phone was charged and she had sufficient water, nuts, and fruit in the car to keep her alive in case she somehow broke down in the wilderness between her home and Portland—not that there was a great deal of wilderness heading south, but one never knew. Cars quit, people became disoriented and stumbled into the woods looking for shelter or help, and the next thing anyone knew, their bones were being carried out in a bag.

By now Sabine was convinced that the crying child was the missing Henry Clark, because the tenor of the wailing altered when she spoke his name. That was the only response he offered, but she was neither surprised nor disappointed by this. The years had taught her that this residue of the dead, or the aspect of it to which she was most sensitive, was less a personality than a vessel of emotion; sometimes one above all others—rage, fear, sorrow, love—but more often an assemblage of different feelings. Henry Clark, though, definitely fell into the former category: he was pure fear.

She started the car and steeled herself for the longest ride she’d taken in a decade. She tuned out Henry. She felt bad about it, but she needed to be able to concentrate to drive, and his terror was a distraction that, with constant exposure, could easily mutate into pain for her, and pain might leave her in a tangle of metal by the side of the road. She turned the old radio to WMEH out of Bangor. She only ever listened to Maine Public Radio and could hopscotch from WMEH to WMEW or WMEP once the coverage began to give out, and from there to WMEA as she drew nearer to Portland.

But as she prepared to turn south out of her driveway, she was assailed by a wave of doubt. Somehow, she had convinced herself that the private investigator would accept whatever she had to say, and act on it. Now, with the road about to stretch before her, she saw herself through his eyes: a reclusive woman of late middle age, with poor dress sense and a home dye job to match, carrying the weight of a reputation that was perhaps better not recalled at all; a sad virgin who kept tropical fish for company, and claimed to be able to hear the dead. Didn’t every disappearance draw similarly troubled souls, some of them attention-seekers, malicious or otherwise, but others whose lunacy had persuaded them of the reality of their gifts?

“He’ll laugh at me,” she said aloud. “Worse, he’ll listen sympathetically while checking his watch, and I’ll be able to see the pity in his eyes.”

When you lived alone, you got used to the sound of your own voice: at least it was a conversation with someone who understood you. Similarly, when you lived with the reality of the lingering dead, you accommodated yourself to speaking without necessarily receiving a response, or not one that would have been audible even to the most sensitive recording equipment.

“Stupid woman,” she said, and it was all she could do not to bang her forehead against the steering wheel. “Stupid, deluded—”

An image flashed in her mind, like a night landscape briefly illuminated by lightning. The force of it was so strong that it pushed her into her seat, before the view through her windshield was transformed. It was no longer her own front yard that she saw, but a lagoon, or a lake; a bench; a girl—

And the dead, all of the dead.

“Oh my God,” said Sabine, as the scene flashed again, stronger this time, and now the girl was with her, both by the lake and in the car, but the two versions were not the same. The girl by the lake possessed beautiful, delicate features framed by long blond hair, but the girl in the car kept her head down, concealing her face, and her hair was dark with blood. Sabine could smell it, could smell her, in all her desolation.

if he doubts you, whispered the girl, speak to him of me

make him listen

you have to make him listen

“Who are you?” asked Sabine. But even as she spoke, she knew, for who else could it be? Beside her, the girl touched Sabine’s hand.

say my name

“Jennifer Parker. Your name is Jennifer Parker.”

And for the first time in many years, Sabine felt afraid in the presence of the dead.

CHAPTER XXVIII

True to her word, Delaney Duhamel arrived at the Walnut Street Café just over an hour later. I saw her take a moment to look around before she entered, checking that no one else from her firm was present. I had a coffee in front of me, but I’d barely touched it. There was only so much coffee a person could drink, especially in middle age and with a ninety-minute ride home ahead of them.

“Can I get you anything?” I said.

“I won’t be staying.”

She sat on the edge of a chair, produced a flash drive from her purse, and slid it under my copy of the New York Times.

“It contains Mara Teller’s registration details, copies of all the photographs taken by the freelancer during the forum, and details of the attendees at individual sessions. I figured in for a dime, but I couldn’t find her name on those lists. If she attended, she did so on the spur of the moment.”

I put the drive in my pocket.

“Any images we used,” she continued, “had to be with the consent of those pictured, so most of the publicity shots are grip-and-grins, though there are some general ones. But at first glance, I didn’t see Stephen Clark or Mara Teller identified in any of the captions.”

“What about Teller’s registration fee?”

“It was paid by USPS money order. I included a PDF of that, too. She originally tried to use one of those prepaid credit cards, but a glitch in the system meant it was rejected. Our registrants don’t tend to rely on prepaid cards.”

“Or money orders.”

“Yes, a money order is unusual. Can it be traced?”

“I should be able to find out where it was purchased,” I said. “That’ll be a start. Thank you, by the way. I’ll do my best not to bother you again, and I won’t let this blow back on you.”

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