“This Hector Flores character,” said Gurney abruptly, “what kind of person were you imagining he was?”
Ashton winced. “You mean, as a psychiatrist, how could I have been so miserably wrong about someone I was observing daily for three years? The answer is embarrassingly simple: blindness in pursuit of a goal that had become far too important to me.”
“What goal was that?”
“The education and blossoming of Hector Flores.” Ashton looked like he was tasting something bitter. “His remarkable growth from gardener to polymath was going to be the subject of my next book-an exposition of the power of nurture over nature.”
“And after that,” said Gurney with more sarcasm than he’d intended, “a second book under another name demolishing the argument in your first book?”
Ashton’s lips stretched in a cold, slow-motion smile. “That was an informative conversation you had with Marian.”
“Which reminds me of something else I wanted to ask you. About Carl Muller. Are you aware of his emotional condition?”
“Not through any professional contact.”
“As a neighbor, then?”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Put simply, I’d like to know how nuts he really is.”
Again Ashton presented his humorless smile. “Basing my opinion on hearsay, I’d guess he’s in full retreat from reality. Specifically, from grown-up reality. Sexual reality.”
“You get all that from the fact that he plays with model trains?”
“There’s a key question one must always ask about inappropriate behavior: Is there an age at which that behavior would have been appropriate?”
“Not sure I understand.”
“Carl’s behavior appears appropriate for a prepubescent boy. Which suggests it may be a form of regression in which the individual returns to the last secure and happy time in his life. I’d say that Carl has regressed to a time in his life before women and sex entered the equation, before he experienced the pain of having a woman deceive him.”
“You’re saying that somehow he discovered his wife’s affair with Flores and it drove him off the deep end?”
“It’s possible, if he were fragile to begin with. It’s consistent with his current behavior.”
A bank of clouds, which had materialized out of nowhere in the blue sky, drifted gradually in front of the sun, dropping the temperature on the patio at least ten degrees. Ashton seemed not to notice. Gurney stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Could a discovery like that be enough to make him kill her? Or kill Flores?”
Ashton frowned. “You have reason to believe that Kiki and Hector are dead?”
“None, apart from the fact that neither one of them has been seen for the past four months. But I have no evidence that they’re alive, either.”
Ashton looked at his watch, a softly burnished antique Cartier. “You’re painting a complicated picture, Detective.”
Gurney shrugged. “
“Not for me to say. I’m not a forensic psychologist.”
“What are you?”
Ashton blinked, perhaps at the abruptness of the question. “I beg pardon?”
“Your field of expertise…?”
“Destructive sexual behavior, particularly sexual abuse.”
It was Gurney’s turn to blink. “I had the impression you were director of a school for troubled kids.”
“Yes. Mapleshade.”
“Mapleshade is for kids who’ve been sexually abused?”
“Sorry, Detective. You’re opening a subject that cannot be discussed briefly without the risk of misunderstanding, and I don’t have the time now to discuss it in detail. Perhaps another day.” He glanced again at his watch. “The fact is, I have two appointments this afternoon I need to prepare for. Do you have any simpler questions?”
“Two. Is it possible that you were mistaken about Hector Flores being Mexican?”
“Mistaken?”
Gurney waited.
Ashton appeared agitated, moved to the edge of his chair. “Yes, I may have been mistaken about that, along with everything else I thought I knew about him. Second question?”
“Does the name Edward Vallory mean anything to you?”
“You mean the text message on Jillian’s phone?”
“Yes. ‘For all the reasons I have written. Edward Vallory.’ ”
“No. The first officer on the case asked me about that. I said it wasn’t a familiar name then, and that hasn’t changed. I was told that the phone company traced the message back to Hector’s cell phone.”
“But you have no idea why he would use the name Edward Vallory?”
“None. I’m sorry, Detective, but I do need to prepare for my appointments.”
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be at Mapleshade all day-with a full schedule.”
“What time do you leave in the morning?”
“Here? Nine-thirty.”
“How about eight-thirty, then?”
Ashton’s expression flickered between consternation and concern. “All right. Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”
On the way to his car, Gurney glanced back into the far corner of the patio. The sun was gone now, but Hobart Ashton’s metronomic twig was still rocking back and forth to a slow, monotonous beat.
Chapter 21
As Gurney drove down Badger Lane under gathering clouds, the homes that had looked picturesque when bathed in sunlight now looked grim and guarded. He was eager to reach the openness of Higgles Road and the pastoral valleys that lay between Tambury and Walnut Crossing.
Ashton’s decision to end the interview, necessitating a return trip, didn’t bother Gurney at all. It would give him time to digest his first live impressions of the man, along with the opinions offered by his extraordinary neighbors. Having an opportunity to organize it all in his mind would help him start to make connections and put together the right questions for tomorrow. He decided he’d head straight for the Quick-Mart on Route 10, get the biggest container of coffee they offered, and make some notes.
As he came within sight of the intersection at Calvin Harlen’s tumbledown farm, he could see that a black car was blocking the road, angled directly across it. Two muscular young men with matching buzz cuts, sunglasses, dark jeans, and shiny Windbreakers were leaning against the side of the car, watching Gurney’s approach. The fact that the car was an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria-as obvious a law-enforcement vehicle as a cruiser with its siren blaring-made the state police ID tags pinned to their jackets no surprise.
They ambled over to where Gurney had stopped, one on each side of his car.
“License and registration,” said the one at Gurney’s window in none too friendly a tone.
Gurney already had his wallet out, but now he hesitated. “Blatt?”
The man’s mouth twitched as if a fly had landed on it. He slowly removed his glasses, managing to inject menace into the action. His eyes were small and mean. “Where do I know you from?”
