“One over there, for the tractor.” Gurney pointed toward a weathered shed on the far side of the asparagus patch. “And one in the open lean-to structure at the back of the-” He stopped for a second. “I mean, where the back of the barn used to be.”
“I see. Would you please come over to the van now and tell me if this gas container is one of yours?”
Kramden had parked his arson-unit vehicle in back of Gurney’s car. He opened the rear door, and Gurney immediately identified the container inside.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. There’s a visible nick in the handle. No doubt about it.”
Kramden nodded. “When did you last use it?”
“I don’t use it that often. It’s mainly for the weed whacker I keep down there. So… not since last fall.”
“How much gas did you have in it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where did you last see it?”
“Probably in back of the barn.”
“When did you last touch it?”
“Again, I have no idea. Possibly not since last fall. Possibly more recently, if I had to move it to get to something else. I have no specific recollection.”
“Do you use a two-cycle oil additive in the gas?”
“Yes.”
“What brand?”
“Brand? Homelite, I think.”
“Do you have any idea why the gas container was concealed in a culvert?”
“Concealed? What culvert?”
“Let me rephrase the question. Do you have any idea why this gas container would be anywhere other than at the location where you said you left it?”
“No, I don’t. Where exactly did you find it? What culvert are you talking about?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t share any more detail on that. Is there anything you haven’t told me, relative to the fire or to this investigation, that you wish to tell me at this time?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Then we’re finished for now. Do you have any other questions, sir?”
“None you’d be willing to answer.”
Two minutes later Investigator Everett Kramden’s van was heading slowly down the town road, out of sight.
The air was perfectly still. There was no hint of movement in the tall, brown grass, nor even in the smallest branches at the tops of the trees. The only sound was that faint, continuous ringing in Gurney’s ears-the sound the neurologist had explained wasn’t really a “sound” at all.
As he turned to go back into the house, the side door opened and Kyle and Kim emerged. “Is the asshole gone?” asked Kyle.
“Appears to be.”
“While Madeleine has the omelets baking, I’m giving Kim a two-minute ride on the bike.” He sounded excited. She looked pleased.
By the time Gurney reached the kitchen, the throaty twin-carbureted engine was in full, minimally muffled roar.
Madeleine was setting the timer on the oven. She looked over at him. “Did you ever see the French movie
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s a clever scene in it. A man, dressed in a black raincoat and carrying a folded-up black umbrella, is being followed by a team of assassins with sniper rifles. They’re following him through the winding cobblestone streets of an old town. It’s a misty Sunday morning, and church bells are ringing in the background. Every time the two assassins try to line up the man with the umbrella in the sights of their rifles, he disappears around another corner. Then they come to an open plaza with a big stone church. Just as the assassins are aiming their rifles, the man hurries up the steps and slips into the church. So the assassins decide to take up positions on both sides of the plaza, where they can watch the church doors and wait for him to come out. Some time passes, it starts to rain, the church doors open. The assassins get ready to shoot. But instead of just the man who went in, two men come out, both dressed in black raincoats, and they both open up black umbrellas, so the assassins can’t see their faces clearly. After a couple of seconds of confusion, the assassins decide to shoot both of them. But then another man comes out in a black raincoat with a black umbrella, and then another, and then ten or twenty more, and eventually the whole plaza is full of people under black umbrellas. It becomes rather surreal-the expanding pattern of umbrellas in the plaza. And the assassins are just standing there in the rain, getting soaked, with no idea what to do.”
“How does it end?”
“I don’t remember-I saw it so long ago. All I remember clearly are the umbrellas.” She wiped the countertop with a sponge, then took it to the sink and rinsed it out. “What did he want?”
It took Gurney a second to realize what she was asking. “He found the gas container that I usually keep by the barn. The odd thing is, he found it hidden by the road somewhere.”
“Hidden?”
“That’s what he said. Wanted me to identify it. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Why would it be hidden? Did someone use it to start the fire?”
“Maybe. I don’t really know. Investigator Kramden wasn’t very communicative.”
She cocked her head curiously. “The fire obviously was started on purpose. That was no secret, with the pile of No Hunting signs in front of the door, so what would be the point of hiding-”
“I have no idea. Unless, of course, the arsonist was so drunk that hiding the gas can made some kind of sense to him.”
“You really think that’s the explanation?”
He sighed. “Probably not.”
She gave him one of those probing looks that made him feel transparent. “So,” she said lightly, “what’s the next step?”
“I can’t speak for Kramden. Personally, I have to stare at the available facts for a while, figure out what’s connected to what. There are some basic questions I need to get past.”
“Like deciding whether you’re dealing with one adversary or two?”
“Exactly. In some ways I’d prefer it to be two.”
“Why?”
“Because if the same person is behind the intrusions into Kim’s home and this attack on us, then we’re facing something-and someone-a lot more serious than a resentful hunter.”
The oven timer produced three loud dings. Madeleine ignored the summons. “Someone connected with the Good Shepherd case?”
“Or with Robby Meese-whom I may have underestimated.”
The timer rang again.
Madeleine inclined her head toward the window. “I can hear them coming up the road.”
“What?” The word was less a question than an expression of his irritation at the abrupt change of subject. She didn’t bother to respond. He waited, and after a few seconds he, too, could make out the vintage growl of the BSA.
Forty-five minutes later, after the omelets had been consumed and the table cleared, Gurney was in his den, again reviewing the e-mail documents he’d received from Hardwick-hoping he’d find something significant that he’d missed before.
He postponed looking again at the autopsy photos until he’d gone through everything else. He came close to bypassing what he told himself would be a useless, unpleasant experience-especially since the dreadful images were still so vivid in his mind from his first viewing. But he was finally pushed into it by that obsessive-compulsive gene that had been a plus in his career and a wrecking ball in his personal life.
