He was saved from having to make the decision by the sight, through the kitchen window, of Kim’s red Miata coming up the hill past the remnants of the barn-and, behind the Miata, Kyle on his BSA.
As they were approaching the cleared area by the house, the Miata jounced with a loud clunk into and out of a declivity formed by a collapsed groundhog burrow in the rough pasture lane. But when Kim emerged from the car after parking next to Gurney’s Outback, her expression showed no awareness of the impact. As she walked toward the doorway where he was standing, it was clear that the rigid anxiety around her mouth and eyes arose from concerns deeper than a whack to her rear axle. He sensed a similar anxiety in the grim, exaggerated attention Kyle was giving to balancing his motorcycle on its kickstand.
When Kim came face-to-face with Gurney, she was biting her lip as if to keep from crying. “I’m sorry for all this nutty emotion.”
“It’s perfectly all right.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.” She had the look of a frightened child seeking absolution for an offense too complex to grasp.
Kyle was standing behind her, his own distress apparent now in the tight set of his mouth.
Gurney smiled as warmly as he could. “Come into the house.”
As they entered the kitchen from the mudroom hallway, Madeleine entered from the opposite hallway. She was wearing what Gurney called her “clinic suit”-dark brown tailored slacks and a beige jacket, an outfit far more subdued and “professional” than her preferred riot of tropical colors.
She smiled thinly at Kim and Kyle. “If you’re hungry, there’s stuff in the fridge and the pantry.” She went to the sideboard and picked up the tote bag that served as her general carryall. It bore a logo consisting of a friendly- looking goat circled by the words SUPPORT LOCAL FARMING.
“I should be back in two hours,” she said on her way out.
“Be careful,” Gurney called after her.
He looked at Kim and Kyle. They were obviously tired, wired, and scared.
“How did he know?” Kim asked, a question apparently so much on her mind that she assumed that its meaning would be clear.
“You mean, how did the Shepherd know he could send you something at Kyle’s address?”
She nodded rapidly. “I hate the idea that he was following us, watching us. It’s too creepy.” She began rubbing her arms as though trying to get warm.
“Not any creepier than that little recording, or the drops of blood in your kitchen, or the knife in your basement.”
“But that was all Robby. Robby the asshole. But this… this is the killer… who killed Ruthie… and Eric… with ice picks! Oh, my God… Is he going to kill everyone I spoke to?”
“I hope not. But right now it might be a good idea to start the woodstove going. It gets pretty chilly in here when the sun goes down.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Kyle, sounding desperately eager to do something useful.
“Thanks. Kim, why don’t you try to relax in the armchair closest to the stove. There’s a wool blanket on the seat. I’ll put on some coffee for us.”
Ten minutes later Gurney was sitting with Kim and Kyle in the semicircle of chairs around the fire. The soothing smell of cherrywood, reddish yellow flames flickering in the belly of the iron stove, and steaming coffee mugs in their hands provided a small touch of reassurance, a hint that chaos might indeed have boundaries.
“I’m pretty confident that no one followed us down to the city,” said Kyle. “And I know for sure that no one followed us back up here today.”
“How can you say that?” Kim’s question came across more as a plea for reassurance than as a challenge.
“Because I was behind you all the way, sometimes really close, sometimes way back. I kept checking. If anyone was tailing us, I would have seen them. And by the time we got off Route 17 at Roscoe, there was no traffic in sight at all.”
Kyle’s explanation seemed to lower Kim’s fear level just a little. It raised other possibilities in Gurney’s mind, which he decided to keep to himself, at least for the time being, since they would do no good for Kim’s emotional state.
“You mentioned Robby Meese a few minutes ago,” said Gurney. “I was wondering… how much contact did he have with Jimi Brewster?”
“Not very much.”
“Wasn’t he the cameraman for the video you sent me?”
“He was, but the Robby-Jimi chemistry was bad. Robby’s insecurity had just started rearing its ugly head.”
“How?”
“The more Robby was exposed to the people involved in my project, the hungrier he seemed to be for their approval. That’s when I started seeing a side of him I hadn’t seen before-a real suck-up, a money worshipper. I think Jimi saw it, too. And Jimi was so violently against all that.”
“Who was he sucking up to?”
“Pretty much everybody. Eric Stone, until he found out that everything Eric owned was mortgaged for more than it was worth. Then Ruthie, who was vulnerable and had enough money to interest him.” She shook her head. “Such a sleazy little bastard-and he hid it so well for the first few months I knew him.”
Gurney waited quietly for her to continue, which she did, after taking a deep breath. “Of course, there was Roberta, who had tons of money from her father’s plumbing business. She was more intimidating than vulnerable, but he never stopped calling her. And there was Larry, also with scads of money, from his big cosmetic-dentistry practice. But I think Larry saw through Robby, saw how desperate he was for attention, maybe even felt sorry for him. Why are we talking about this? Robby didn’t kill Ruthie or Eric. He’s not capable of it. He’s a creep, but not that kind of creep. So what difference does any of this make?”
Gurney didn’t have an answer, but he was saved from having to admit it by the ringing of his phone on the sideboard. He hoped it would be Lieutenant Bullard with her reactions to the Brewster video. He glanced at the ID screen.
It was Hardwick. “Davey boy, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but you have managed to turn yourself into a giant fart in the elevator.”
“Is someone complaining?”
“Complaining? If tying a class-A felony around your neck and dropping you into the criminal-justice wood chipper is a form of complaining, then yeah, I’d say someone’s complaining.”
“Trout’s actually pursuing the barn thing?”
“BCI arson unit has nominal control, but the FBI regional office is expressing serious interest. They’re offering any help that might be needed to look into your financial life, find out if you might be in any tight situations that would make fire-insurance money attractive-gambling problems, mortgage problems, health problems, girlfriend problems.”
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Gurney. He began pacing around the dining table.
“Fuck did you expect? You threaten to pull the man’s pants down in public, you’re gonna get a reaction.”
“I’m not surprised at the reaction, just at how fast I’m running out of time.”
“Speaking of which, apart from pissing off everyone in the world, are you actually making any progress with your grand expose of the hidden truth?”
“You say that like I’m searching for something that isn’t there.”
“Didn’t say that. Just wondering if you’re any closer to whatever the hell
“I won’t know till I get there. Meantime, what do you know about the White Mountain Strangler?”
There was brief silence. “Ancient history, right? Fifteen years ago? New Hampshire?”
“More like twenty years ago. In and around the town of Hanover.”
“Right. It’s sort of coming back now. Five or six women strangled with silk scarves, relatively short time frame. Why?”
“One of the strangler’s victims was the girlfriend of the son of one of the eventual victims of the Good Shepherd. She was a senior at Dartmouth. And it just so happens that the son of another Good Shepherd victim was there at the same time, as a freshman.”
