Perhaps by the Good Shepherd, who perhaps was still monitoring its transmissions. If both of those assumptions were valid-and both were big ifs-that equipment could provide a channel of communication. A way of talking to the killer. An opportunity to send a message.
But what kind of message should it be?
It was a simple question-with an unlimited number of answers.
All he had to do was figure out the right one.
Shortly after Madeleine left for the clinic, the den phone rang again. The ID announced it was Hardwick. The raspy voice said, “Check the
The man certainly had his ways of saying good-bye.
Gurney went to his computer and spent an hour wading through the online archives not only of the
There had been five attacks in two months, all fatal. All the victims were women, and all had been strangled with white silk scarves, which were left knotted around their necks. The common factors among the victims were more circumstantial than personal. Three of the women had lived alone, and they had been killed in their homes. The two others worked late in isolated environments. One had been killed in an unlit parking area behind a crafts store she managed, the other in a similar area behind her own small flower shop. All five attacks occurred within a ten-mile radius of Hanover, home of Dartmouth College.
Although a sexual motive is often present in the serial strangulation of women, there were no signs of rape or other abuse. And the “victim profile” struck Gurney as odd. In fact, there really wasn’t any. The only physical factor the women appeared to have in common was that they were all fairly small. But they looked nothing alike. Their hairstyles and clothing styles were quite diverse. They represented a curious socioeconomic mix-a Dartmouth student (Larry Sterne’s girlfriend at the time), two shopkeepers, a part-time cafeteria aide in a local grammar school, and a psychiatrist. They ranged in age from twenty-one to seventy-one. The Dartmouth student was a blond WASP. The retired psychiatrist was a gray-haired African-American. Gurney had rarely seen such variation among the victims of a serial killer. It was hard to discern in these women the killer’s fixation-the obsession that had motivated him.
As he was pondering the peculiarities of the case, he heard the upstairs shower running. A little while after that, Kim appeared at the den doorway with a terribly anxious expression.
“Good morning,” said Gurney, closing down his computer search.
“I’m so sorry for getting you into this,” she said, close to tears.
“It’s what I used to do for a living.”
“When you did it for a living, no one burned down your barn.”
“We don’t know for sure that the barn has anything to do with the case. It might have been some-”
“Oh, my God,” she broke in, “what happened to your hand?”
“The arrow that I left on the sideboard-I leaned my hand on it in the dark last night.”
“Oh, my God,” she repeated, wincing.
Kyle appeared in the hallway behind her. “Morning, Dad, how are-” He stopped when he saw the bandage. “What happened?”
“Nothing much. Looks worse than it is. Want some breakfast?”
“He cut it on that nasty arrow thing,” said Kim.
“Jeez, that thing’s like a razor,” said Kyle.
Gurney stood up from his desk. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll have some eggs, toast, coffee.”
He was trying to sound normal. But even as he smiled casually and led the way out to the kitchen table, the question of what to say about the latest murder or about the GPS trackers began to fill his mind. Did he really have a right to keep all that to himself? And why was he doing it?
Doubts about his own motivations had always been the principal termites undermining whatever peace of mind he was temporarily able to achieve. He tried to force his attention back to the mundane details of breakfast. “How about starting with some orange juice?”
Apart from a few isolated comments, breakfast was a quiet affair, almost awkwardly so. As soon as they’d finished eating, Kim, in her transparent eagerness to occupy herself with something, insisted on clearing the table and washing the dishes. Kyle absorbed himself in checking his text messages, appearing to go through all of them at least twice.
In the silence, Gurney’s mind went back to the crucial question of how to play his wild card. He had only one chance to get it right. He had an almost physical sense of time running out.
He envisioned an endgame in which he would finally confront the Good Shepherd. An endgame in which the puzzle pieces would snap together. An endgame that would prove that his contrary view was the product of a sound mind and not the fantasy of a damaged cop whose best days were behind him.
He didn’t have time to question the rationality of this goal-or the likelihood of his success. All he could do now was focus on how to bring about the confrontation. And where.
Deciding
When the phone rang, it brought him back to the present, sitting at the table, which was now in the full light of the morning sun. He was surprised to see that while he’d been lost in his thoughts, Kim and Kyle had retreated to the armchairs at the far end of the room and that Kyle had started a small fire in the woodstove.
He went to the den to take the call.
“Good morning, Connie.”
“David?” She sounded surprised to have reached him.
“I’m here.”
“In the eye of the storm?”
“Feels that way.”
“I bet it does.” Her voice was edgy and energetic. Connie always sounded as though she were on uppers. “Which way is the wind blowing at the moment?”
“Sorry?”
“Is my daughter hanging in or heading for the exit?”
“She tells me she’s determined to drop the project.”
“Because of the intensity?”
“Intensity?”
“The ice-pick murders, rebirth of the Shepherd, panic in the streets. That’s what’s scaring her off?”
“The people who were murdered were people she cared about.”
“Journalism isn’t for the faint of heart. Never was, never will be.”
“She also has the feeling that her idea for a serious emotional documentary is being converted into a sleazy RAM soap opera.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake, David, we live in a capitalist society.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning the media business is-surprise, surprise-a business. Nuance is nice, but drama is what sells.”
“Maybe you ought to be having this conversation with her rather than with me.”
“Like hell I should. She and I are oil and water. But, like I told you before, she looks up to you. She’ll listen to you.”
“What do you want me to tell her? That RAM is a noble enterprise, that Rudy Getz is a prince?”
“From what I hear on the street, Rudy is a shit. But he’s a smart shit. The world is the world. Some of us face it, some of us don’t. I hope she thinks twice about bailing out.”
“Bailing out in this case might not be such a bad idea.”
There was a silence-not a common thing in a conversation with Connie Clarke. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. “You don’t know what that could lead to. Her decision to go to journalism school, to get a degree, to pursue this idea of hers, to build a media career for herself-it’s all been such a lifesaver, such a salvation from where she was before.”
