Page 93 of The Furies

But they had also picked up valuable lessons about the mechanics of physical ransom payments, the most important of which was to keep moving. This meant no fixed drop-off points for the money: no holes in trees, no cases left on park benches, and no phone booths—assuming one could even find a suitable phone booth in this day and age. Neither Pantuff nor Veale was a bitcoin guy, and they didn’t have the contacts to guarantee trustworthy or untraceable electronic transfers. Mostly, though, they liked the kind of money a man could hold in his hand and spend in a convenience store. In their world, cash was king, and always would be.

For the purposes of the drop-off they had selected a location in Androscoggin County, close to the border with Cumberland County, because there was nothing like even minor jurisdictional issues to screw around with law enforcement. There Lisbon Road branched into Shiloh Road as it crossed the county line, which then passed over a small stretch of water, Pinkham Brook, not far from the big Shiloh Chapel. That was where the drop-off would occur, and where Pantuff would be waiting. A short distance farther on from the brook was a quiet dead end, which was where Pantuff would leave the car. He had already made a dry run from the brook to the dead end—metaphorically, if not literally, the brook being harder than anticipated to negotiate without getting his feet wet—and had encountered no obstacles. With the money safely in hand, he would cross back into Cumberland County, picking up Veale along the way. As long as they could avoid the state police, they’d probably be okay.

While Pantuff was shivering in the damp and dark, Veale would be otherwise occupied. Nate Sawyer’s widow would be instructed to drive a roundabout route from her home in Freeport: first south to Portland, then west toward North Windham, before gradually being brought back north to the drop-off point. Veale—in a ’98 Honda Civic for which $750 cash had already been paid, and which was currently parked at a chain motel out by the Maine Mall—would first fall in behind her when she was thirty miles from the drop-off, and only to note the vehicles running behind and ahead of her. He would then cut away and pick her up again ten miles closer to Shiloh Road, where he would once more check the vehicles near the Sawyer woman’s car. Finally, he would be sitting tight on a side road when she came within five miles of the drop-off. By that point it would be clear to him if she was being followed, and a determination would be made of what further action to take.

Pantuff and Veale had no intention of getting into a gunfight with cops or private operators. Veale thought the simplest solution, should the widow have sought outside help, would be to use the Civic to block Shiloh Road where it crossed the brook. The small-time crook from whom they’d acquired the car, who had himself picked it up from a wrecking yard for small change, suffered instant amnesia as soon as the money was in his wallet, so there were no anxieties on that front, especially if nobody got hurt during the ransom pickup. If by some miracle of sleuthing the Honda was traced back to the seller, the goon knew better than to give an accurate description of the man who’d purchased it. He might have been troubled by amnesia when required, but Pantuff and Veale were not.

As for the relics of Sawyer’s dead daughter, she would be told that they’d be waiting for her in a box by the side of the road shortly after the drop was made, once it was confirmed the money was in the bag. And there would be a box, because Pantuff would place it where it was supposed to be before making for the brook. Of course, the box would be empty when she finally opened it, unless Pantuff decided to leave a little souvenir of his own. He’d discovered a dead rat in the Braycott’s parking lot, and had bagged it before hanging it deep inside a thornbush, because he thought a dead rat might be appropriate for Nate Sawyer’s widow. Pantuff had considered taking a dump in the box, but if anything went badly wrong, he’d be leaving a wealth of DNA for the police to find. If he went down the gift route, the rat would have to do.

The plan wasn’t perfect, because no plan ever was. They would be at their most exposed after the money was thrown from the car, when Pantuff was still on foot. If any outside intervention was going to occur, it would happen then, but Veale would be ready and waiting to assist. Nevertheless, this was a weakness that needed to be addressed.

“What do you think?” said Pantuff, as they sat in the car on the Lisbon Falls side of Pinkham Brook.

“I think it would be simpler if I picked you up once you have the money,” said Veale. “We should forget about the other car. If we do, it’ll cut minutes from our exposure.”

“But if she does have people with her, we’ll have no way to stop them from following us.”

“I’ve been working on that. There’s a place out by the mall that sells those driveway spike strips—you know, the ones to stop drivers entering a property, or to puncture the tires if someone tries to steal your car. Wouldn’t take but a few seconds for me to lay them behind us, assuming she does have someone following her.”

“Huh,” said Pantuff. “Yeah, that might work. Simpler is always better.”

But it remained far from ideal. What if she was staying in touch with a tail by cell phone, or there was more than one car assisting her? He shared his concerns with Veale.

“Do you want to call it off?” said Veale, and was surprised to hear himself say the words, almost as surprised as he was to accept that a part of him wanted to. It’s the footsteps I’ve been hearing, thought Veale. They’re the reason I want to walk away.

And having admitted this to himself, he was prepared to concede yet more. He had tried and failed to dismiss the sound of a child moving in the night as an echo, and a smell of talcum powder and more as something coming through the vents or blown in from the street. He was now resigned to the bleak reality that he was being haunted, and this burden had fallen on him alone, because Pantuff was not similarly troubled. Veale could read the older man easily, and didn’t believe he could, or would, hide such a source of disturbance from him.

Veale was not superstitious, and did not have faith in any god. At the same time, he had always believed the world to be stranger than it first appeared, because otherwise it could not have accommodated a man like himself. And he held a memory from childhood, one that had never faded, the truth of which he had never doubted, a recollection of waking from sleep the night after his mother’s burial to feel a weight on his bed, the scent of her perfume strong in the room, and the lightness of her touch as her lips brushed his forehead as though to say good-bye to him for the last time. In that moment, he had often reflected, the abnormality existing within him, the otherness, had transitioned from dormant to active, for in the days that followed he had begun experimenting in earnest with the infliction of pain.

Now, it seemed, another revenant had entered his life. But if the child had been lured, what was the cause? It could only be the box of relics, as he had suggested to Pantuff. Some aspect of the child, some essence, had attached itself to them. He and Pantuff had stolen more than pictures, a tooth, a toy. In taking all that remained of the girl beyond her moldering bones, they had brought with them her—Veale struggled to find the right word: “spirit”? “soul”? No, he felt instinctively that this was not correct. “Shade” or “specter” would be closer to the mark, but remained inexact. He shifted in his seat, the fingers of his right hand clutching and unclutching, as though to wrest the letters, the syllables, from the air. Then it came to him: “sprite.” The dancing, the laughter: light, but darkness too, because every child harbored a shadow self. Veale knew this better than most.

But did the mother really know it too? Was that why she wanted those possessions back so badly? Because they weren’t just tokens of her child: they were her child. Did the same phantasm that was now haunting Veale also cavort through the rooms of the Freeport house at night, and regard her sleeping mother from the darkness?

If so, what was to be done? Pantuff would never agree to hand back the items, not even if the money was paid as agreed. In Pantuff’s mind, the relics were forfeit. It was a wonder that he had not already destroyed them: only the necessity of being able to confirm to the mother, if required, that they remained safe had prevented him from taking that step.

Veale released a sigh that was like a dying breath. Total destruction was the solution. Pantuff was right about that, though for the wrong reason: he wanted to destroy the woman’s life, but Veale wanted more. By burning the items they would consign whatever was left of the child to the flames, and Veale would be free of her. He tried to picture himself emptying the contents of the box into a bonfire, followed by the box itself. He could almost see himself doing it.

Almost.

“Hey!” said Pantuff. “Are you listening to me?”

Veale had been so absorbed that he’d failed to hear Pantuff’s reply, and was forced to ask him to repeat it.

“I said we don’t walk away, not until we have our money.”

Veale nodded. “And I’m okay with burning what we took,” he said. “We don’t give it back to her.”

“Were you ever not okay with it?” Pantuff asked.

Veale shrugged. “I had to give it some thought.”

“So what brought about the decision?”

“The child. I want her gone.”

Pantuff stared at him. A smile cracked his face, and then he was laughing, laughing fit to burst.

“Man,” he said, once he’d regained control of himself, “you want to see her burn. You’re hard, my friend.” He whistled in admiration. “You’re as fucking hard-core as they come.”

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