the servant of twin angels, two halves of the same being. One had been found by its enemies a long time before and imprisoned in silver to prevent it from roaming, but Brightwell and the other angel had continued to search for it. They were consumed by their need to free it.’
‘Jesus. And did he find what he was looking for?’
‘He died finding it but, yes, he thought that he did, at the end.’
‘That woman, Darina Flores, could she have shared the same beliefs?’
‘If, as it seems, she was with Brightwell when he came to Falls End, then it’s possible.’
‘But she didn’t have a mark like that, I asked my father.’
‘It might have been hidden. I’ve never heard of Darina Flores until tonight.’
She sat back and stared at me.
‘Why was Brightwell so interested in that plane?’
‘Are you asking me to find out?’
She considered the question and then some of the tension released itself from her.
‘No. I think you’re right, and Ernie is too. We should just stay quiet, and leave the plane where it is.’
‘In answer to your question, Brightwell wasn’t interested in money, or not as an end in itself. If he was curious about that plane, it was because of something else. If your father was right about a passenger being on that plane, cuffed to a seat, then it’s possible this individual was the object of Brightwell’s curiosity; that, or the papers your father saw. Those names had meaning. They’re a record of some kind. So the cash was only a means to an end for Brightwell. He confronted your father at your mother’s rest home because he and, presumably, the Flores woman were looking out for unusual spending patterns. The cost of your mother’s care qualified.’
‘Do you think Brightwell accepted my father’s lie about the source of the funds?’
‘Even if he didn’t, he never had the chance to pursue the matter. He died in the same year that he confronted your father.’
Again, she gave me the stare. She wasn’t a fool. Ernie Scollay might principally have been worried about the police, or someone coming after him for money that he didn’t have, but Marielle Vetters had deeper concerns.
‘You called them “Believers”, plural. Even if the woman wasn’t one, that still implies that there are more of them out there, more like him.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘there were never any others like him. He was unpleasant in ways that you can’t even begin to imagine. As for the Believers, I think they’ve been wiped out. But this Flores woman may be something different. That’s why it’s better if you and Mr Scollay keep a lid on this. If she’s still out there, you don’t want to bring her down upon yourselves.’
A horn tooted in the parking lot. Ernie Scollay was growing impatient.
‘Your ride’s here,’ I said.
‘Ernie knew about the plane before I did,’ said Marielle. ‘His brother told him the story before he died, and it was only when I came to him with the rest of it that he felt compelled to seek advice. He’ll stay quiet now. He’s a good man, but he’s no fool. I’ll work on my brother too. He can be an idiot, but he’s a self-aware idiot. He won’t want to put easy money at risk.’
‘And you’re not going to say anything either.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Which just leaves you.’
‘I’m not bound by issues of client confidentiality since, strictly speaking, you’re not a client, but I know what these people are like. I’m not going to put you, your family, or Mr Scollay at risk.’
She nodded in understanding, both at what I had said and its subtext, and rose.
‘I have one last question, Mr Parker,’ she said. ‘Do you believe in fallen angels?’
I did not lie to her.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
From her bag she produced a sheet of paper. It looked old, and had clearly been unfolded and refolded many times. She placed it by my right hand.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘My father left the satchel on the plane, but he took from it one sheet of names. He couldn’t say why. I think he saw it as some form of additional security. If something happened to him or to Paul, then this might have provided a clue to the identity of those responsible.’
She rested her hand on my shoulder as she passed.
‘Just don’t mention our names,’ she said, and then she was gone.
In the pristine kitchen of a Connecticut house, Barbara Kelly was fighting for what little life she had left.