Shut Your Eyes Tight

“Whose?”

“His.”

The dour tone hardened. “What does that mean?”

“You’re familiar with the Perry case?” Gurney took the ensuing silence for a yes. “It’s about to explode into a media circus, maybe the biggest mass-murder case in the history of the state. Thought Sheridan might want a heads-up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You asked me that already, and I told you.”

“Give me the facts, wiseass, and I’ll pass them along.”

“No time to go through it all twice. I need to talk to him right now, even if you have to drag his ass off the can. Tell him this one’s going to make the Mellery murder look like a misdemeanor.”

“This better not be bullshit.”

Gurney figured that was Stimmel’s way of saying, Good-bye, we’ll get back to you. He laid down his phone, picked up his coffee, and took another sip. Still nice and warm. He looked out at the asparagus ferns leaning away from a gentle westerly breeze. The fertilizer questions-if, when, how much-that had filled his mind less than a week ago now seemed infinitely postponable. He hoped he hadn’t overstated the situation to Stimmel.

Two minutes later Kline was on the phone, excited as a fly on fresh manure. “What is this? What media explosion?”

“Long story. You have time to talk?”

“How about you give me the one-sentence summary?”

“Imagine a news story that starts like this: ‘Police and DA clueless as serial murderer abducts Mapleshade girls.’ ”

“Didn’t we go through this yesterday?”

“New information.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Home, but I’m heading into the city in an hour.”

“This is real? Not some wild-ass theorizing?”

“Real enough.”

There was a pause. “How secure is your phone?”

“I have no idea.”

“You can take the thruway to the city, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So you could stop at my office en route?”

“I could.”

“Can you leave now?”

“Maybe in ten minutes.”

“Meet me at my office at nine-thirty. Gurney?”

“Yes?”

“This goddamn better be real.”

“Sheridan?”

“What?”

“If I were you, I’d pray for it not to be.”

Ten minutes later Gurney was on the road, heading east into the sun. His first stop was Abelard’s for a container of coffee to substitute for the nearly full cup he’d left on the kitchen table in his rush to get out.

He sat for a while in the gravelly little patch in front that passed for a parking area, reclined his seat about a third of the way, and tried to relax his mind by concentrating on nothing but the flavor of the coffee. It wasn’t a technique that worked particularly well for him, and he wondered why he kept trying it. It did have the effect of changing what was on his mind, but not necessarily to anything less worrisome. In this case it moved his focus from the dysfunctional mess of the investigation to the dysfunctional mess of his relationship with Kyle-and the growing pressure he felt to call him.

It was ludicrous, really. All he had to do was stop procrastinating and make the call. He knew very well that procrastination was nothing but a short-term escape that creates a long-term problem-that it just occupies more and more storage space in the brain, creating more and more discomfort. Intellectually, there was no argument. Intellectually, he knew that most of the misery in his life arose from the avoidance of discomfort.

He had Kyle’s new number on his speed dial. Christ! Just do it!

He took out his phone, called the number, got voice mail: “Hi, this is Kyle. I can’t pick up right now. Please leave a message.”

“Hi, Kyle, it’s Dad. Thought I’d call, get your impressions of Columbia. The apartment share working out okay?” He hesitated, almost asked about Kate, Kyle’s ex-wife, thought better of it. “Nothing urgent, just wondering how you’re doing. Give me a call whenever you can. Talk to you soon.” He pushed the “end call” button.

A curious experience. A bit tangled, like the rest of Gurney’s emotional life. He was relieved that he’d finally called. He was also relieved, to be honest about it, that he’d gotten his son’s voice mail instead of his son. But maybe now he could stop thinking about it, at least for a while. He took a couple more swallows of his coffee, checked the time-8:52 A.M.-and got back on the county road.

Except for a gleaming black Audi and a handful of not-so-gleaming Fords and Chevys with official plates, the parking lot of the County Office Building was empty, as it usually was on a Saturday morning. The looming dirty- brick edifice looked cold and deserted, every bit the wretched institution it had once been.

Kline emerged from the Audi as Gurney pulled in to a nearby space. Another car, a Crown Victoria, entered the lot and parked on the far side of the Audi. Rodriguez got out from behind the wheel.

Gurney and Rodriguez approached Kline from opposite directions. They exchanged nods with the DA, but not with each other. Kline led the way in through a side door to which he had his own key, then up a flight of stairs. Not a word was spoken until they were seated in the leather chairs around the coffee table in his inner office. Rodriguez folded his arms tightly across his chest. His dark eyes were uncommunicative behind his steel-rimmed glasses.

“Okay,” said Kline, leaning forward. “Time to cut to the chase.” He was giving Gurney the kind of piercing look he might give a hostile witness on the stand. “We’re here because of your promised bombshell, my friend. Let’s have it.”

Gurney nodded. “Right. The bombshell. You may want to take notes.” A twitch under one of the captain’s eyes told Gurney he heard the suggestion as an insult.

“Just get to the point,” said Kline.

“The bombshell comes in parts. I’ll toss them on the table. You fit them together. First of all, it turns out that Hector Flores is the name of a character in an Elizabethan play-a character who pretends to be a Spanish gardener. Interesting coincidence, no?”

Kline gave Gurney a questioning frown. “What kind of play?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. The plot involves the violation of a major sexual taboo, incest-which happens to be a common element in the childhood formation of sex offenders.”

Kline’s frown deepened. “So you’re saying… what?”

“I’m saying that the man who was living in Ashton’s cottage almost certainly took the name Hector Flores from that play.”

The captain let out a little snort of disbelief.

“I think we need a bit more detail here,” said Kline.

“This play is about incest. The Hector Flores character in the play shows up disguised as a gardener. And…” Gurney couldn’t resist the dramatic pause. “It just so happens that he kills the guilty female character in the play by cutting off her head.”

Kline’s eyes widened. “What?”

Rodriguez gave Gurney a disbelieving stare. “Where the hell is this play?”

Rather than get bogged down in the argument sure to ensue if he revealed that the full text of the play no longer existed, Gurney gave the captain the name and affiliation of Peggy Meeker’s old college professor. “I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss it with you. And by the way, there’s no doubt at all that the play relates to Jillian Perry’s