comfortable with. This guy would want her dead as soon as possible. Less chance of uncontrollable outcomes.”
“You’re not shy about your opinions, are you, Mr. Gurney? Anything else you’d care to share?”
He thought of his summary sheet of comments and questions, the one he’d sent to Hardwick and Holdenfield. “I have some unpopular thoughts about the original case that you might find helpful.”
“I’m getting the impression you consider unpopularity a virtue.”
“Not a virtue. Just irrelevant.”
“Really? I thought I might have detected an appetite for debate. Sleep well. Tomorrow morning should be interesting.”
He hardly slept at all.
His attempt to get to bed early was disrupted by Madeleine’s return from her clinic meeting-eager to voice the perennial complaint of social workers: “If the energy devoted to ass covering and bureaucratic baloney were devoted to helping people, it could change the world in a week!”
Three cups of herbal tea later, they finally made their way into the bedroom. Madeleine settled down on her side of the bed with
After setting his alarm, Gurney lay there pondering Bullard’s motives and how they might play out in the Sasparilla meeting. She seemed to view him as an ally, or at least a useful tool, in her anticipated conflict with Trout and company. He didn’t mind being used, so long as it didn’t obstruct his own purposes. He knew that his alliance with her was very ad hoc, with no roots, so he’d need to be sensitive to any shifting winds at the meeting. Hardly a new experience. At the NYPD the winds were always shifting.
An hour later, as his mind was drifting into a state of pleasantly numb emptiness, Madeleine put her book aside and asked, “Were you ever able to get back in contact with that depressed accountant you were worried about-the one with the big gun?”
“Not yet.”
The question refilled his mind with a tangle of questions and anxieties, and all hope of a restful night vanished. His thoughts and fitful dreams were infested with repetitive images of guns, ice picks, burning buildings, black umbrellas, smashed heads.
At sunrise he fell into a deep sleep, from which the sharp trill of his alarm roused him an hour later.
By the time he’d showered, dressed, and had his wake-up coffee in hand, Madeleine was already outside, loosening the soil in one of the garden beds.
He recalled she’d said something recently about getting the sugar-snap peas planted.
How bland the morning felt-in the way that mornings often felt bland, unthreatening, uncomplicated. Each morning-assuming that some minimal intervention of sleep had demarcated it from the day before-created the illusion of a new beginning, a kind of freedom from the past. Humans, it seemed, were truly diurnal creatures, not simply in the sense of being non-nocturnal but in the sense of being designed for living one day at a time-one
The sun sets and we sleep. The sun rises and we wake. We wake and, ever so briefly, ever so blindly, we enjoy the fantasy of beginning anew. Then, without fail, reality reasserts its presence.
That morning, as he stood at the kitchen window with his coffee, gazing contemplatively down over the stubbly pasture, reality reasserted itself in the form of a dark figure astride a dark motorcycle, motionless, between the pond and the burned timbers of the barn.
Gurney put down his coffee, slipped on a jacket and a pair of low boots, and stepped outside. The figure on the motorcycle remained still. The air smelled more like winter than like spring. Four days after the fire, it still carried a hint of ashiness.
Gurney began walking slowly down the pasture path. The rider kick-started his machine-a big, muddy motocross bike-and began creeping erratically up the path from the low end, moving no faster than Gurney was walking. The result was that they met approximately in the middle of the field. It wasn’t until the man flipped up his visor that Gurney recognized the intense eyes of Max Clinter.
“You should have told me you were coming,” said Gurney in his unruffled way. “I have a meeting this morning. You might have missed me.”
“Didn’t know I was coming till I was coming,” said Clinter-as edgy as Gurney was calm. “Awful lot of items on my list, hard to decide on the right order. Right order is the key. You understand that things are coming to a head?” His engine was still running.
“I understand the Good Shepherd is back, or someone wants us to think so.”
“Oh, he’s back. I feel it in my bones-the bones that got broken ten years ago. The evil fucker is definitely back.”
“What can I do for you, Max?”
“I came to ask you a question.” His eyes sparkled.
“If you’d left a number when you called me, I’d have called you back.”
“When you didn’t pick up, I took it as a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That it’s always better to ask a question face-to-face. Better to see a man’s eyes, not just hear the voice. So here’s my question: Where do you stand on this Ram-shit business?”
“Say that again?”
“World is full of evil, Mr. Gurney. Evil and its mirror. Murder and the media. Need to know where you stand on that.”
“You’re asking how I feel about news coverage of violence? How do
A rough laugh burst from Clinter’s throat. “Drama for idiots! Orchestrated by maggots! Exaggeration, garbage, and lies! That’s what ‘news coverage’ is, Mr. Gurney. The glorification of ignorance! The manufacture of conflict for profit! The sale of anger and resentment as entertainment! RAM News, the vilest of all. Spewing bile and shit for the profit of pigs!”
Patches of white spittle had accumulated at the corners of Clinter’s mouth.
“You seem pretty full of anger yourself,” said Gurney placidly.
“Full of anger? Oh, yes! Full of it, you might even say consumed by it, driven by it. But I’m not
Clinter’s engine was still idling, more roughly now. He gave the throttle a twist, revving it up to a screaming roar.
“So you’re not a salesman,” said Gurney when the roar subsided. “But what are you, Max? I can’t quite figure you out.”
“I’m what that evil fucker made me. I’m the wrath of God.”
“Where’s the Humvee?”
“Funny you should ask.”
“Any chance you were in the vicinity of Cayuga Lake the day before yesterday?”
Clinter stared at him long and hard. “There’s a chance, yes.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
Another appraising stare. “I was there by special invitation.”
“Sorry?”
“His opening move.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Got a text message from the Shepherd-an invitation to meet him on the road, finish what we left unfinished. Foolish of me to take his words at face value. I wondered why he didn’t show, couldn’t figure it out, till I heard the morning news. The Blum murder. He set me up, don’t you see? Had me driving by her house, back and forth, full of hate and hunger. Hunger to get even. He knew I’d show up. Okay, then. One point for him. Next one’s for me.”
“I don’t suppose the source of the message could be traced?”
“To a prepaid anonymous cell phone? Not worth the effort. But tell me something. How’d you know I was out
