John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

The girl in Louisiana was part of a bloody succession, a modern-day Windeby Girl, a descendant of that anonymous woman found in the fifties in a shallow grave in a peat bog in Denmark, where she had been led nearly two thousand years before, naked and blindfolded, to be drowned in twenty inches of water. A path could be traced through history leading from her death to the death of another girl at the hands of a man who believed he could appease the demons within himself by taking her life but who, once blood had been spilled and flesh torn, wanted more and took my wife and child.

We do not believe in evil anymore, only evil acts that can be explained away by the science of the mind. There is no evil and to believe in it is to fall prey to superstition, like checking beneath the bed at night or being afraid of the dark. But there are those for whom we have no easy answers, who do evil because that is their nature, because they are evil.

Johnny Friday and others like him prey on those who live on the periphery of society, on those who have lost their way. It is easy to get lost in the darkness on the edge of modern life, and once we are lost and alone, there are things waiting for us there. Our ancestors were not wrong in their superstitions: there is reason to fear the dark.

And just as a trail could be followed from a bog in Denmark to a swamp in the South, so I came to believe that evil, too, could be traced throughout the life of our race. There was a tradition of evil that ran beneath all human existence like the sewers beneath a city, that continued on even after one of its constituent parts was destroyed, because it was simply one small part of a greater, darker whole.

Perhaps that was part of what made me want to find out the truth about Catherine Demeter, for as I look back, I realize that evil had found its way to touch her life too and taint it beyond retrieval. If I could not fight evil as it came in the form of the Traveling Man, then I would find it in other forms. I believe what I say. I believe in evil because I have touched it, and it has touched me.

WHEN I TELEPHONED Rachel Wolfe’s private practice the following morning, the secretary told me that she was giving a seminar at a conference at Columbia University. I took the subway from the Village and arrived early at the main entrance to the campus. I wandered for a while around the Barnard Book Forum, students jostling me as I stood browsing in the literature section, before making my way to the main college entrance.

I passed through the university’s large quadrangle, with the Butler Library at one end, the administration building at the other, and like a mediator between learning and bureaucracy, the statue of Alma Mater in the grass center. Like most city residents, I rarely came to Columbia, and the sense of tranquillity and study only feet away from the busy streets outside was always surprising to me.

Rachel Wolfe was just finishing her lecture as I arrived, so I waited for her outside the theater until the session ended. She emerged talking to a young, earnest-looking man with curly hair and round spectacles, who hung on her every word. When she saw me she stopped and smiled a good-bye at him. He looked unhappy and seemed set to linger, but then turned and walked away, his head low.

“How can I help you, Mr. Parker?” she asked, with a puzzled but not uninterested look.

“He’s back.”

We walked over to the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam Avenue, where intense-looking young men and women sat reading textbooks and sipping coffee. Rachel Wolfe was wearing jeans and a chunky jumper with a heart-shaped design on the front.

Despite all that had happened the previous night, I was curious about her. I had not been attracted to a woman since Susan’s death, and my wife was the last woman with whom I had slept. Rachel Wolfe, her long red hair brushed back over her ears, aroused a sense of longing in me that was more than sexual. I felt a deep loneliness within myself and an ache in my stomach. She looked at me curiously.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of something.”

She nodded and picked at a poppy-seed roll before pulling off a huge chunk and stuffing it in her mouth, sighing with satisfaction. I must have looked slightly shocked, because she covered her mouth with her hand and giggled softly.

“Sorry, but I’m a sucker for these things. Daintiness and good table manners tend to go out the window when someone puts one in front of me.”

“I know the feeling. I used to be like that with Ben & Jerry’s until I realized that I was starting to look like one of the cartons.”

She smiled again and pushed at a piece of roll that was trying to make a break for freedom from the side of her mouth. The conversation sagged for a time.

“I take it your parents were jazz fans,” she said eventually.

I must have looked puzzled for a moment, because she smiled in amusement as I tried to take in the question. I had been asked it many times before but I was grateful for the diversion, and I think she knew that.

“No, my father and mother didn’t know the first thing about jazz,” I replied. “My father just liked the name. The first time he heard about Bird Parker was at the baptismal font, when the priest mentioned it to him. The priest was a big jazz fan, I was told. He couldn’t have been happier if my father had announced that he was naming all of his children after the members of the Count Basie Orchestra. My father, by contrast, wasn’t too happy at the idea of naming his firstborn after a black jazz musician, but by then it was too late to think of another name.”

“What did he call the rest of his children?”

I shrugged. “He didn’t get the chance. My mother couldn’t have any more children after me.”

“Maybe she thought she couldn’t do any better?” She smiled.

“I don’t think so. I was nothing but trouble for her as a child. It used to drive my father crazy.”

I could see in her eyes that she was about to ask me about my father but something in my face stopped her. She pursed her lips, pushed away her empty plate, and settled herself back in her chair.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

I went through the events of last night, leaving nothing out. The words of the Traveling Man were burned into my mind.

“Why do you call him that?”

“A friend of mine led me to a woman who said that she was receiving, uh, messages from a dead girl. The girl had died in the same way as Susan and Jennifer.”

“Was the girl found?”

“No one looked. An old woman’s psychic messages aren’t enough to launch an investigation.”

“Even if she exists, are you sure it’s the same guy?”

“I believe it is, yes.”

Wolfe looked like she wanted to ask more, but she let it go. “Go back over what this caller, this Traveling Man, said, again, slowly this time.”

I did until she lifted her hand to stop me. “That’s a quote from Joyce: ‘mouth to mouth’s kiss.’ It’s the description of the ‘pale vampire’ in Ulysses. This is an educated man we’re dealing with. The stuff about ‘our kind’ sounds biblical; I’m not sure of it. I’ll have to check it. Give it to me again.” I spoke the words slowly as she took them down in a wire-bound notebook. “I have a friend who teaches theology and biblical studies. He might be able to identify a source for these.”

She closed the notebook. “You know that I’m not supposed to get involved in this case?”

I told her that I hadn’t known.

“Following our earlier discussions, someone got in touch with the commissioner. He wasn’t pleased at the snub to his relative.”

“I need help with this. I need to know all I can.” Suddenly I felt nauseous, and when I swallowed, my throat hurt.