John Connolly - The Lovers

No mention was made of the woman. I didn’t ask what had become of her, or her lover. I didn’t want to know, but I could guess. They had been hidden away somewhere deep and dark, far from each other, and there they would rot.

“Hansen was one of us,” said Epstein. “He’d been keeping tabs on you ever since you left Maine. He shouldn’t have entered the house. I don’t know why he did. Perhaps he saw Maser and decided to try to intercept him before he got to you. He’s being kept in a medically induced coma for now. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever be able to return to his duties.”

“My secret friends,” I said, remembering the words that the Collector had spoken to me. “I never figured Hansen for one of them. I must be lonelier than I thought.”

Epstein sipped his water. “He was, perhaps, overzealous in ensuring that your activities were restricted. The decision to rescind your licenses was not his, but he was willing to enforce a Z Qto enforcny decisions that were made. It was felt that you were drawing too much attention, and that you needed to be protected from yourself.”

“It helped that he didn’t like me anyway.”

Epstein shrugged. “He believed in the law. That was why we chose him.”

“And there are others?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Not enough.”

“And now?”

“We wait. You’ll get your investigator’s license back, and your firearms permit will be restored to you. If we can’t protect you from yourself, then I suppose that we have to give you the ability simply to protect yourself. There may be a price, though.”

“There always is.”

“An occasional favor, nothing more. You’re good at what you do. The way will be smoothed with state police, local law enforcement, in the event that your involvement might prove useful. Consider yourself an adviser, an occasional consultant on certain matters.”

“And who is going to smooth the way? You, or another of my ‘friends’?”

I heard the door open behind me. I turned. SAC Ross entered, but he did not remove his coat or join us at the table. Instead, he simply leaned against the counter of the deli, his hands entwined before him, and looked at me like a social worker forced to engage with a repeat offender of whom he is starting to despair.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Ross and I had history. Him?”

“Him,” said Epstein.

“Unit Five.”

“Unit Five.”

“With friends like that…”

“…one needs enemies to match,” finished Epstein.

Ross nodded. “This doesn’t mean that I’m your go-to guy every time you mislay your keys,” he said. “You need to keep your distance.”

“That won’t be hard.”

Epstein raised a placatory hand. “Gentlemen, please.”

“I have another question,” I said.

“Absolutely,” said Epstein. “Go ahead.”

“That woman was whispering something as she was carried away. Before I went out cold, I thought I saw Maser saying the same thing. It sounded like Latin.”

“Dominus meus bonus et benignitas est,” said Epstein. “My master is good and kind.”

“Eddie Grace used almost those same words,” I said, “except he said them in English. What does it mean? Some kind of prayer?”

“That, and perhaps more,” said Epstein. “It’s a play on words. A name has recurred over the course of many years. I Z Qany yearst’s appeared in documents, records. At first we thought it was a coincidence, or a code of some kind, but now we believe that it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

“We think that it’s the name of the Entity, the controlling force,” said Epstein. “‘My master is good and kind.’ ‘Good’ and ‘kind.’ That’s what they call the one whom they serve. They call him ‘Goodkind.’

“Mister Goodkind.”

It would be a long time before I learned of what passed between Ross and Epstein once I was gone, and only the silent woman kept them company in the dim light of the diner.

“Are you sure it’s wise to let him roam?” asked Ross as Epstein struggled to find the sleeve of his coat.

“We are not letting him roam,” replied Epstein. “He’s a tethered goat, even if he doesn’t realize it. We simply have to wait, and see what comes to feed.”

“Goodkind?” asked Ross.

“Eventually, perhaps, if he truly exists,” said Epstein, finding at last his sleeve. “Or if our friend lives long enough…”

I left New York that evening after performing one more service for the dead, this one long delayed. Beneath a simple marker in the corner of Bayside Cemetery, I laid flowers on the grave of a young woman and an unknown child, the final resting place of Caroline Carr.

My mother.

My heart asks for peace-

Day after day flies by, and every hour takes away

A little piece of life; but you and I, we two,

We contemplate living… -ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN (1799-1837),

“IT’S TIME, MY FRIEND, IT’S TIME”

I SPENT THE RESTof the week alone. I saw no one. I spoke to no one. I lived with my thoughts, and in the silence I tried to come to terms with all that I had learned.

On Friday night, I went to the Bear. Dave Evans was working the bar. I had already told him by phone that I was done with the job, and he had taken it well. I guess he knew that it would only be a matter of time. I had already received unofficial confirmation that my PI’s license would be restored to me within days, just as Epstein had told me, and all objections to my license to carry had been withdrawn.

But that night, it was clear that Dave was swamped. The main bar area was jammed, so it was standing room only. I stepped aside to let Sarah pass by with a tray of beer orders in one hand, a stack of food orders in the other. She looked frazzled, which was unusual, but then I noticed that everybody else who was working d Z Pȇid too.

“Gary Maser gave me twenty-four hours’ notice, then left,” said Dave, as he juggled mixing a brandy Alexander with keeping an eye on three pints that were pouring simultaneously. “Pity. I liked him. I figured he might stay on. Any idea what happened there?”

“None,” I said.

“Well, you hired him.”

“My mistake.”

“What the hell. It wasn’t fatal.” He gestured at the dressing on my neck. “Although that looks like it could have been. I guess I shouldn’t ask.”

“You could ask, but I’d have to lie to you.”

One of the taps began to splutter and froth.

“Damn it all,” said Dave. He looked at me. “Do a favor for an old friend?”

“I’m on it,” I said. I went in back and changed the keg. While I was there, two more ran down, so I changed those too. When I came back out, Dave was taking care of the service bar, which dealt with orders from the restaurant, and there were at least ten people waiting for drinks, and only one bartender to deal with them.

So, for one more night, I slipped back into my old role. I didn’t mind. I knew now that I would be returning to what I did best, so I enjoyed working one last time for Dave, and quickly fell into all the old routines. Customers came in, and I remembered them by their orders even if I couldn’t recall their names: Tanqueray Guy; Margarita Girl; five guys in their thirties who came in every Friday and always ordered five of the same beer, never once experimenting with some of the more exotic brews, so that their arrival was always known as the Charge of the Coors Light Brigade. The Fulci brothers arrived with Jackie Garner in tow, and Dave contrived to look pleased to see them. He owed them for keeping reporters away from the bar after Mickey Wallace died, even if he suspected that their presence had scared off regular customers too. Now, though, they were sitting in a corner, eating burgers and knocking back Belfast Bay Lobster Red like men who were about to be returned to prison the next day, an experience with which the Fulcis were not unfamiliar.