'Because if you help me, it might speed me on my way?'

'That's part of it,' said Soames. 'The other part is that I was there when the cleaning crew wiped the blood from the walls. I didn't like it.'

'Well,' said Parker, as he turned to go, 'there's not a lot about it to like.'

He stopped by the Boreas Police Department after leaving Soames, and was just in time to hear the tail end of an altercation between Sergeant Stynes, who was acting chief while Cory Bloom recovered from her injuries, and a gray-haired man who must have topped out at six-five or six-six, and was wearing a blue windbreaker with the words 'BOREAS PD' in white letters on the back over tan pants and black shoes. They were standing in the chief's gla.s.s-walled office, the door of which stood open. All activity had ceased around them as two officers in uniform one of them Mary Preston, the other a youngish man and a receptionist listened to what was unfolding.

'You don't tell my people how to do their job, Mr Foster,' said Stynes. 'Do I have to remind you that you're officially retired?'

So this was Carl Foster, thought Parker. He'd heard all about him from the locals. The former deputy chief looked like a hard man. Parker was glad that he had been able to deal with Cory Bloom instead of him.

'They should have brought me back!' shouted Foster. 'I know this town, d.a.m.n it. I know it better than you ever will!' He emphasized his point by slamming the palm of his right hand on Stynes's desk. 'And I can tell you that these people' he now waved the same hand behind him at the listening figures without even deigning to glance at them 'aren't worth a s.h.i.t.'

'Get out of this office,' said Stynes.

Unlike Foster, she didn't shout, didn't swear. Her authority was enough to carry her voice. She was handling herself well.

'This isn't over,' said Foster.

'Yes,' said Stynes, 'it is. And I'd be grateful if you'd leave that windbreaker here when you leave. That's department property.'

'You want it, you'll have to take it off my f.u.c.king back yourself,' said Foster.

He stomped out of the office, pa.s.sed between a pair of desks, and exited through the door beside the reception desk, only coming up short when he almost ran into Parker. He took a step back when he realized who the newcomer was, glowered, and then used the basest of epithets to describe Stynes, pointing his thumb in her direction so that Parker could be under no illusion as to whom he was referring. He appeared to be seeking an ally, but Parker simply turned his head away.

'f.u.c.k you too,' said Foster.

He brushed past Parker with enough force to cause him to move his feet, but not to stumble. When he was gone, Parker went to the desk.

'Do I need to put my name down to shout at someone,' he asked the receptionist, 'or can I just go straight through?'

Preston appeared behind her before she could answer. She was one of those who had come to the hospital to hear Parker's statement after the deaths at Green Heron Bay, and their encounter had been civilized.

'I guess you can go right to the head of the line,' said Preston.

She opened the door and led him to the chief's office. Stynes invited him to sit, but he told her that he preferred to stand. His injured side was plaguing him. He was about done for the day.

'No offense meant,' he told her. 'It's more comfortable for me to stay on my feet, and if I sit down I may not be able to get up again.'

'How are you feeling?'

'Alive. How's Cory Bloom?'

'They're letting her out of the ICU tomorrow.'

'I'm glad.'

Stynes turned to look out the window, where Foster's Jeep was pulling out of the parking lot.

'I'm sorry you had to hear that.'

'I've heard worse.'

'Did he say something to you on the way out?'

'He might have used a rude word. I tried not to look offended.'

'He's a jerk.'

'Still, he hides it well.'

'I was wondering if you'd come back here,' said Stynes.

'I'm going to stay around for a few days.'

'To recuperate?'

'To ask some questions.'

'Bangor is handling the investigation.'

'Does that mean you object to my asking questions?'

'Would it make any difference if I did?'

'Yes.'

'I'm not sure I believe that.'

'It strikes me that you have enough people making life difficult for you. I'm not planning to add to your problems.'

'I'll hold you to that,' she said. 'I had an idea that you might be taking what happened up there personally.'

'Just as you are.'

'Cory's not only my superior, she's also my friend. Who were you planning on talking to?'

'Anyone I can. I've already spoken to Amanda Winter's mother. I also mentioned to Bobby Soames that I'd be hanging around for a while. I'm sure I can think of a few more.'

'Bobby Soames leaks like the t.i.tanic after the iceberg hit.'

'Really? A chatty Realtor. Who knew?'

She nibbled at her bottom lip.

'If you were anyone else, I'd tell you to turn around and keep driving until you hit Portland,' she said. 'But I'll make an exception, if only because I know that my objections wouldn't be worth a d.a.m.n. But if you find out anything, you share it with Bangor and me.'

'Agreed.'

'You still have your weapon?'

'Yes.'

'Don't use it.'

'Anything else?'

'Just one. I have feds crawling over this, and our department is a virtual outpost of the MCU. If this goes to h.e.l.l, and I'm asked, we never had this conversation.'

'I get that a lot.'

'I'll bet. You take care, Mr Parker.'

'You know, you're the second person today who's told me to do that?'

'Only the second?' said Stynes. 'I'm shocked. Just make sure I'm not the last.'

Mary Preston joined Stynes in her office after Parker had left.

'I'm starting to like him,' said Preston. 'But is it okay to say that he makes me nervous?'

'He has blood on his hands,' said Stynes. 'And, you know, I think he may be almost fearless.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Don't you see what he's doing? He's announcing his presence here, letting people like Bobby Soames know that he's taking a professional interest in what happened to Ruth Winter, and by extension Bruno Perlman, and the Tedescos down in Florida. Whoever ordered their deaths is going to hear about it, and is going to know that Charlie Parker isn't like the cops, or even the feds. He's single-minded, he follows things through to their conclusion, and he won't give up. I don't think he ever gives up.'

Preston still looked confused.

'He's staking himself out, Mary,' Stynes explained. 'He's going to bring whoever was responsible for those deaths down upon himself.'

'And then?'

'I believe he's going to tear them apart.'

58.

In any given situation, the most difficult step is to reach a decision. Once a decision is made, control can be a.s.serted. Baulman and Riese were old soldiers, and they knew that, in war, any decision was better than none. To allow Hummel to remain alive, and wait to see what unfolded, would have been intolerable to them. It would have handed control of the situation to others to Marie Demers, to the Justice Department, and all those who wished to deprive them of a peaceful death.

And so the Jigsaw Man arrived at Golden Hills. He had been there on many previous occasions, and was familiar with the names of at least half a dozen patients at any one time, but he had never before traveled there with the intention of ending a life.

At the front desk, he gave the name of Beate Seidel, who had been resident at Golden Hills for more than four years, and was now in a state of terminal decline. The Jigsaw Man doubted that Beate was capable of any kind of coherence in word, deed, or memory. Her mind was a series of baffling, unconnected images, and all he saw in her face that afternoon was fear. He stayed with her for half an hour, attuning himself to the rhythms of the staff. The evening meal had just been served, and a calm of sorts reigned, punctuated by the sound of competing televisions from various rooms. The orderlies and nurses had retreated to their stations to catch up on paperwork, and grab something to eat or drink.

The Jigsaw Man left Beate in her bed, staring at the ceiling, and stepped to the door to check the hallway. It was clear, so he walked quickly down to Bernhard Hummel's room, slipping on his coat as he went, as though preparing to leave. The old man was snoozing on his bed, his slippers still on his feet. The Jigsaw Man left the door slightly open, advanced to the bed, and pulled the curtain halfway across, concealing them from anyone who might choose to peer in.

He stood over Hummel, and the old man opened his eyes. In his final moments, Bernhard Hummel was gifted with clarity.

'I knew you'd come,' he said. 'Ever since Kraus visited, I knew.'

'I'm sorry,' said the Jigsaw Man.

'Don't be. I'm tired of being afraid.'

Hummel closed his eyes and began to whisper.

'Please hear my confession and p.r.o.nounce forgiveness in order to fulfill G.o.d's will,' he said. 'I, a poor sinner, plead guilty before G.o.d of all sins. I have lived as if G.o.d did not matter and as if I mattered most. My Lord's name I have not honored as I should; my worship and prayers have faltered. I have not let His love-'

The Jigsaw Man had considered the best way to get rid of Hummel. Suffocation would have been easiest, but he knew that all deaths by suffocation or smothering were automatically treated as suspicious. Even a relatively gentle method, such as covering Hummel's face with a pillow, would leave traces: bloodshot eyes, bruising around the nose and mouth, and high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood. It was important that Hummel's pa.s.sing should appear natural. Unfortunately for Hummel, that meant a difficult death.

'In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins-' said the Jigsaw Man, talking over Hummel.

It was Baulman who had given the Jigsaw Man the idea. The grapes he had brought for Hummel were still in a bowl by the bed. The Jigsaw Man had also brought a small bag of them with him in his pocket, just in case Baulman's gift had already been removed, but now they would not be needed. He gently gripped Hummel's lower jaw and pulled down, exposing the interior of his mouth. Hummel's eyes opened again, but the Jigsaw Man shook his head.

'No,' he said, and Hummel squeezed his eyes shut.

'-in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,' the Jigsaw Man continued, as he plucked three large grapes from their stems and dropped them down Hummel's throat. 'Amen.'

The grapes lodged perfectly, and Hummel began to choke. The Jigsaw Man put the slightest of upward pressure on Hummel's Adam's apple to make sure that he could not swallow. Tears rolled down Hummel's cheeks. He clawed briefly at the Jigsaw Man's gloved hand, and spittle flew from his mouth. The Jigsaw Man counted the seconds until Hummel's body arched violently, and he smelled the dying of him. It had taken less time than expected. The Jigsaw Man was glad. He had always liked Hummel, and had no desire to see him suffer.

'Go in peace,' he concluded.

He pulled back the curtain, returned to the door, and listened. He heard no footsteps, no voices. He risked a glance out, and saw only the retreating back of an orderly. He stepped into the corridor, walked to the exit, and pressed the red b.u.t.ton that unlocked the door. The receptionist looked up from his desk.

'Goodbye, Pastor Werner,' he said.

'Goodbye,' Werner replied. 'And G.o.d bless you.'

59.

Werner stood in the bathroom, his body dripping from the shower. He was hosting a soup supper that evening in the hall beside the church, to be followed by a short prayer service. He didn't want to arrive there with the smell of Golden Hills still on his clothes and body.

He remained a lean, muscular man, even in his fifties. He kept weights and a bench in his bas.e.m.e.nt, and exercised every morning. There was a good gym on the outskirts of town, with a better selection of weights and machines, but he rarely used it, and when he did he was careful to change before going, and to shower at home.

Now, naked before the mirror, he saw the hairless body of the Jigsaw Man. The child, Amanda Winter, used the name when she was being interviewed by the police after her mother's murder, and Werner was amused when he heard about it for few events in a small town, especially not a murder investigation, could ever really be kept secret. The Jigsaw Man. Looking at himself, it made a kind of sense.

Werner's entire torso was covered with tattoos, as was his lower body down to his thighs. They had begun as a single small Balkenkreuz, the iron cross emblem of the Wehrmacht found on the side of German armored vehicles and aircraft during World War II. It was a shadow of the pectoral cross that he sometimes wore as a cleric. The Balkenkreuz had always fascinated him, even more than the swastika. The latter, he felt, had been hijacked by ignorant men although his back was emblazoned with the Parteiadler of the n.a.z.i Party, the stylized eagle atop the swastika but the Balkenkreuz was the icon of soldiery. He'd had it placed in the center of his chest when he turned eighteen, then had slowly added more crosses over the years, creating an interlocking pattern, a gridwork, interspersed with other symbols, including the twin Sig runes of the SS, the Wolfsangel of the 2nd SS Panzer Division, and even the sword-and-hammer symbol of Stra.s.serism. He had also supplemented the ornaments with appropriate quotations from Hitler and others. The first, written on his back, read 'It is thus necessary that the individual should finally come to realize that his own ego is of no importance in comparison with the existence of the nation, that the position of the individual is conditioned solely by the interests of the nation as a whole.' The second, across his stomach, read 'Parallel to the training of the body a struggle against the poisoning of the soul must begin.' All of the work had been done by the same sympathetic tattooist in Bangor. He was now an old man who, if he was aware of Werner's vocation, gave no indication of it. So, yes, Werner was a Jigsaw Man, and the pieces came together to form a representation of something far greater than himself.