The Wanderer in Unknown Realms (14 page)

She was a small woman, a single swath of white running through her short black hair like the coloring of a magpie, with an S-shaped scar across her neck that resembled the passage of a snake over pale sand. Her eyes were a very bright green, and, rather than detracting from her looks, the crow's-feet at their corners drew attention to her irises, enhancing her good looks when she smiled. She seemed neither older nor younger than her years, and her makeup had been discreetly applied. I guessed that most of the time she was content to be as God left her, and it was only on those rare occasions when she came down to the cities for business or pleasure that she felt the need to “prettify” herself, as my grandfather used to term it. She wore no wedding ring, and her only jewelry was the small silver cross that hung from a cheap chain around her neck. Her fingernails were cut so close they might almost have been bitten down, except that the ends were too neat, too even. An injury to her black dress pants had been repaired with a small triangle of material on the right thigh, expertly done and barely noticeable. They fit her well, and had probably been expensive when she bought them. She was not the kind to let a small tear be their ruination. I imagined that she had worked upon them herself, not trusting in another, not willing to waste money on what she knew she could do better with her own hands. A man's shirt, pristine and white, hung loose over the waist of her pants, the shirt tailored so that it came in tight at the waist. Her breasts were small, and the pattern of her brassiere was barely visible through the material.

The man beside her was twice her age, and then some. He had dressed in a brown serge suit for the occasion, with a yellow shirt and a yellow-and-brown tie that had probably come as a set, perhaps with a handkerchief for the suit pocket that he had long ago rejected as too ostentatious. “Funeral suits,” my grandfather called them, although, with a change of tie, they served equally well for baptisms and even weddings if the wearer wasn't one of the main party.

And even though he had brought out the suit for an event that was not linked to a church happening, to an arrival into or departure from this world, and had polished his reddish-brown shoes so that the pale scuffing at the toes looked more like the reflection of light upon them, still he wore a battered cap advertising “Scollay's Guide & Taxidermy” in a script so ornate and curlicued that it took a while to decipher, by which time the wearer would, in all likelihood, have managed to press a business card upon you, and inquire as to whether you might have an animal that needed stuffing and mounting, and, if not, whether you felt like rectifying that situation by taking a trip into the Maine woods. I felt a tenderness toward him as he sat before me, his hands clasping and unclasping, his mouth half forming slight, awkward smiles that faded almost as soon as they came into existence, like small waves of emotion breaking upon his face. He was an old man, and a good one, although I had met him for the first time only within the hour. His decency shone brightly from within, and I believed that when he left this world he would be mourned greatly, and the community of which he was a part would be poorer for his passing.

But I understood, too, that part of my warmth toward him arose from the day's particular associations. It was the anniversary of my grandfather's death, and that morning I had placed flowers upon his grave, and sat for a time by his side, watching the cars pass by on their way to and from Prouts Neck, and Higgins Beach, and Ferry Beach: locals all.

It was strange, but I had often stood by my father's grave and felt no sense of his presence; similarly for my mother, who had outlived him by only a few years. They were elsewhere, long gone, but something of my grandfather lingered amid the Scarborough woods and marshes, for he loved that place and it had always brought him peace. I knew that his God—for each man has his own God—let him wander there sometimes, perhaps with the ghost of one of the many dogs that had kept him company through his life yapping at his heels, flushing the birds from the rushes and chasing them for the joy of it. My grandfather used to say that if God did not allow a man to be reunited with his dogs in the next life He was no God worth worshipping; that if a dog did not have a soul, then nothing had.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

“An airplane, Mr. Parker,” said Marielle Vetters. “They found an airplane.”

We were in a back booth of the Bear, with nobody else near us. Behind the bar, Dave Evans, the owner and manager, was wrestling with a troublesome beer tap, and in the kitchen the line chefs were preparing for the evening's food orders. I had closed off the area in which we sat with a couple of chairs so that we would remain undisturbed. Dave never objected to such temporary changes of use. Anyway, he would have more significant worries that evening: at a table near the door sat the Fulci brothers with their mother, who was celebrating her birthday.

The Fulcis were almost as wide as they were tall, had cornered the market in polyester clothing that always looked a size too small for them, and were medicated to prevent excessive mood swings, which meant only that any damage caused by non-excessive mood swings would probably be limited to property and not people. Their mother was a tiny woman with silver hair, and it seemed impossible that those narrow hips could have squeezed out two massive sons who had, it was said, required specially built cribs to contain them. Whatever the mechanics of their birth, the Fulcis loved their mother a lot, and always wanted her to be happy, but especially so on her birthday. Thus it was that they were nervous about the impending celebrations, which made Dave nervous, which made the line chefs nervous. One of them had cut himself with a carving knife when informed that he was to be solely responsible for looking after the Fulci family's orders that evening, and had requested permission to lie down for a while in order to calm his nerves.

Welcome, I thought, to just another night at the Bear.

“You mind me asking you something?” Ernie Scollay had said, shortly after he and Marielle arrived and I'd offered them a drink, which they'd declined, and then a coffee, which they'd accepted.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“You got business cards, right?”

“Yes.”

I removed one from my wallet, just to convince him of my bona fides. The card was very simple—black on white, with my name, Charlie Parker, in bold, along with a cell-phone number, a secure email address, and the nebulous phrase “Investigative Services.”

“So you got a business?”

“Just about.”

He gestured at his surroundings.

“Then how come you don't have a proper office?”

“I get asked that a lot.”

“Well, maybe if you had an office you wouldn't get asked it so much,” he said, and it was hard to argue with his logic.

“Offices are expensive to keep. If I had one, I'd have to spend time in it to justify renting it. That seems kind of like putting the cart before the horse.”

He considered this, then nodded. Maybe it was my clever use of an agricultural metaphor, although I doubted it. More likely it was my reluctance to waste money on an office that I didn't need, in which case I wouldn't be inclined to pass on any associated costs to my clients, one Ernest Scollay, Esq., included.

But that was earlier, and now we had moved on to the purpose of the meeting. I had listened to Marielle tell me of her father's final days, and to her description of the rescue of the boy named Barney Shore, and even though she had stumbled a little as she told of the dead girl who had tried to lure Barney deeper into the forest, she had kept eye contact and had not apologized for the oddness of the tale. And I, in turn, had expressed no skepticism, for I had heard the story of the girl of the North Woods from another many years before, and I believed it to be true.

After all, I had witnessed stranger things myself.

But now she had come to the airplane, and the tension that had been growing between her and Ernie Scollay, the brother of her father's best friend, became palpable, like a static charge in the air. This, I felt, had been the subject of much discussion, even argument, between them. Scollay appeared to pull back slightly in the booth, clearly distancing himself from what was about to be said. He had come with her because he had no choice. Marielle Vetters planned to reveal some, if not all, of what her father had told her, and Scollay had known that it was better to be here and witness what transpired than to sit at home fretting about what might be said in his absence.

“Did it have markings?” I asked.

“Markings?”

“Numbers and letters to identify it. It's called an N-number here, and it's usually on the fuselage, and always begins with the letter ‘N' if the plane was registered in the United States.”

“Oh. No, my father couldn't see any identification marks, and most of the plane was hidden anyway.”

That didn't sound right. Nobody was going to fly a plane without registration markings of some kind.

“Are you sure?”

“Very. He said that it had lost part of a wing when it came down, though, and most of the tail was gone.”

“Did he describe the plane to you?”

“He went looking for pictures of similar aircraft, and thought that it might have been a Piper Cheyenne or something like it. It was a twin-engine plane, with four or five windows along the side.”

I used my phone to pull up an image of the plane in question, and what I saw seemed to confirm Marielle's statement about the absence of markings. The plane's registration number was on the vertical fin of its tail; if that was gone, and any other markings were on the underside of the wing, the plane would have been unidentifiable from the outside.

“What did you mean when you said that most of the plane was hidden?” I asked. “Had someone tried to conceal its presence?”

Marielle looked at Ernie Scollay. He shrugged.

“Best tell the man, Mari,” he said. “Won't be much stranger than what he's heard already.”

“It wasn't a person or people that did it,” she said. “My father told me that it was the forest itself. He said the woods were conspiring to swallow the plane.”

About the Author

John Connolly
is the author of such international bestsellers as
The Whisperers, The Gates, The Lovers, The Reapers, The Unquiet, The Black Angel, Every Dead Thing, Dark Hollow, The Killing Kind, The Book of Lost Things,
and
Bad Men
. He is also the host of the weekly radio show
ABC to XTC
. He divides his time between Dublin, Ireland and Portland, Maine. He can be contacted through his website at
www.johnconnollybooks.com
or via Twitter
@jconnollybooks
.

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