“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 where would be easy.
How would be the challenge.
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.”
“Where was that?”
There was another silence. “The ambitious, focused young woman you’re seeing now is kind of a miracle. The way she was a few years ago had me scared—the way she was when she bailed out of normal life after her father disappeared. When she was in her teens, she was adrift. She didn’t want to do anything, wasn’t interested in anything. There were times she’d be okay, and then she’d sink back into a dark hole. This journalism thing—particularly this Orphans project—has provided some direction. It’s given her a life. I’d rather not think where ‘bailing out’ might lead.”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“She’s there? In your house?”
“Yes. Long story.”
“There, now, in the same room with you?”
“In another room, with my son.”
“Your son?”
“Another long story.”
“I see. Well … I’d love to hear that story when you have time to tell it to me.”
“Be happy to. Maybe in another day or two. Things are a little complicated right now.”
“I gather. In the meantime please remember what I said.”
“I’d better go now.”
“Okay, but … do what you can, David. Please. Don’t let her self-destruct.”
When the call ended, he stood at the den window, staring out at the ridge without really seeing it. How the hell was anyone supposed to keep anyone else from self-destructing?
A fresh surge of throbbing in the heel of his hand interrupted his train of thought. He raised the hand, resting it against the window sash, and the pain faded. He looked at the clock on the desk. In less than an hour, he and Kim would have to leave for their meeting with Rudy Getz.
But right now he had more pressing issues to resolve.
The wild card. The opportunity to send a message to the killer.
What should the message be?
An invitation?
To come where? To do what? For what reason?
What might the Shepherd want?
One thing the Shepherd always seemed to want was security.
Perhaps Gurney could offer him an opportunity to eliminate some element of risk in his life.
Perhaps an opportunity to eliminate an adversary.
Yes. That would do nicely.
An opportunity to kill someone troublesome.
And Gurney knew the place for it. The perfect place for a murder.
He opened the desk drawer and took out a business card that had no name on it, just a cell number.
He took out his phone and made the call. It went into voice mail. There was no salutation, no identification, just a brusque command: “State your purpose.”
“It’s Dave Gurney. An urgent matter. Call me.”
The response came less than a minute later. “Maximilian Clinter here. What’s up, laddie?” The brogue was present in full force.
“I have a request. I have to do something, and I need a special place to do it.”
“Well, well, well. Something major?”
“Yes.”
“How major exactly?”
“As major as it gets.”
“As major as it gets. Well, well. That can only mean one thing. Am I right?”
“I’m not a mind reader, Max.”
“I am.”
“Then you don’t have to ask me any questions.”
“It’s not a question, just a request for confirmation.”
“I’m confirming that it’s major, and I’m asking for the use of your cabin for one night.?
??
“Care to provide some details?”
“I haven’t figured them out yet.”
“The basic idea, then.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I have a right to know.”
“I’m going to invite someone to join me there.”
“The man himself?”
Gurney made no reply.
“Bloody hell! Is it the truth? You found him?”
“Actually, I want him to find me.”
“In my cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he want to come there?”
“Possibly to kill me, if I can give him a good enough reason.”
“I see. You plan to spend the night in my cabin in the middle of Hogmarrow Swamp, in the hope of getting a midnight visit from a man with a good reason to kill you. Do I have this right?”
“More or less.”
“And what’s the happy ending? A split second before you get your head blown off, I drop out of the sky to save you, like fucking Batman?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I save myself. Or I don’t.”
“What are you, a one-man army?”
“It’s too damn iffy for anyone else to be involved.”
“I should be part of it.”
Gurney gazed unseeingly out the den window, contemplating the wobbly stack of assumptions under his so-called plan. Going it alone would be risky as hell. But bringing in backup, especially someone like Clinter, would be riskier. “Sorry. My way or no way.”
Clinter’s voice exploded. “You’re talking about the fucker who fucked up my life! The fucker I live to kill! The fucker I want to feed to a dog! And you’re telling me it has to be done your fucking way. Your fucking way? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“I really don’t know, Max. But I see a tiny window of opportunity to stop the Good Shepherd. Maybe stop him from killing Kim Corazon. Or my son. Or my wife. It’s now or never, Max. My only chance. There are already too many variables, too many what-ifs. And one more person in the mix would be one more variable. Sorry, Max, I can’t tolerate that. My way or no way.”
There was a long silence.
“Okay.” Clinter’s voice was flat. No brogue. No feeling.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, you can use my house. When do you need it?”
“Sooner the better. Let’s say tomorrow night. From dusk to dawn.”
“Okay.”
“But I absolutely need you to stay away.”
“What if you end up needing help?”
“Who helped you in that little room in Buffalo?”
“Buffalo was different.”
“Maybe not so different. Are there keys to the cabin doors?”
“No. My little vipers are the only locks I’ve ever needed.”
“Your rumored rattlesnakes?” Gurney recalled that odd tidbit from his visit to Clinter’s cabin the previous week. It seemed like a month ago.
“Rumors can be stronger than facts, laddie. Never underestimate the power of the human mind. A snake in the brain is worth two in the bush.” The brogue was creeping back in.
Chapter 41
The Devil’s Accomplice
Shortly before eleven that morning, Kyle settled down with Gurney’s computer, printer, and a USB cable and began transferring PDF files from his BlackBerry. A classmate was keeping him up to date with lecture summaries and assignments, reducing any pressure he might be feeling to return to the city. Kyle explained that his side job was also doable via e-mail, at least temporarily.
At eleven sharp, Gurney and Kim left for their twelve-thirty meeting with Getz. They took the Miata, with Kim driving. Gurney hoped, as a passenger, he might to be able to devote some serious thought to his notion of luring the Shepherd to Max Clinter’s cabin. And, with a little luck, he might be able to grab a catnap.
With some crimes, figuring out the motive could lead you to the perp. With other crimes, identifying the perp could lead you to the motive. In the current situation, there wasn’t enough time for either approach. The only hope was to get the perp to identify himself. Which sounded like an impossible challenge. How do you ensnare a man who has a hawk’s eye for snares?
When they were halfway to Ashokan Heights on Route 28, Gurney finally sank into his desperately needed nap. It ended twenty-five minutes later, when Kim woke him on Falcon’s Nest Lane, a mile from Getz’s house.
“Dave?”
“Yes?”
“What do you think I should do?” She was looking straight ahead as she spoke.
“That’s a big question,” he said vaguely. “If you decide to back away from RAM, is there a Plan B?”
“Why do I need a Plan B?”
Before he could come up with an answer, the car reached the imposing entrance to Getz’s driveway. Kim drove between the stone pillars into the tunnel of arching rhododendrons that led to the house.
Getting out of the car, they were greeted by the thumping reverberation of a helicopter rotor. It grew steadily louder as they stood looking up through the surrounding trees for the source. Soon it seemed so close that Gurney could feel it as much as hear it. He didn’t see the craft itself, which had been approaching from a direction blocked from his field of vision by the façade of the house, until it was about to touch down on the roof. Caught briefly in the direct downwash of the rotors, Kim’s hair was blown wildly around her face.
When the air was again still, she reached into her shoulder bag and took out a small brush. She neatened her hair, straightened her blazer, and gave Gurney a small smile. They climbed the cantilevered steps to the door, and Gurney knocked.
There was no response. He tried again. After they’d waited another half minute or so, as he was about to knock a third time, one of the doors opened.
Rudy Getz’s mouth was stretched into something like a grin. His hooded eyes were gleaming in a way that made him look high. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, as he had been on their previous visit, but the white linen sport jacket had been replaced by a pale lavender one. “Hey, good to see you! Good timing! I like that. Come in, come in.”
The modernistic interior with its cold metal-and-glass furniture was as Gurney remembered it. Getz was snapping his fingers as though his level of nervous energy demanded it. He pointed to the same oval, acrylic coffee table and cluster of chairs where they’d had their first meeting. “Grab a seat. Time for a drink. Love helicopters, love ’em to death. RAM’s got a fleet of them. We’re famous for it. The Ram-copters. Every major news event, a Ramcopter is always the first one there. Really big event, we send two. No one else has the resources to send two. Point of pride. But whenever I go up, I always land thirsty. Join me in a drink?”
Before Gurney or Kim could answer, Getz put two fingers to his lips and whistled—a loud, sharp note that outdoors would have been audible at five hundred yards. Almost immediately the Rollerblader entered from a doorway on the far side of the room. Gurney recognized the skates, the black leotard stretched over the eye-catching body, the deep blue gel-spiked hair, the eyes as blue and shocking as the hair.
“You ever have Stoli Elit?” asked Getz.
“I’ll just have a glass of water, if that’s okay,” said Kim.
“You, Detective Gurney?”
“Water.”
“Too bad. Stoli Elit is really special. Costs a fortune.” He looked at the Rollerblader. “Claudia, sweetheart, bring me three fingers, neat.” He held up three fingers horizontally, to show her how much he wanted in his glass.
She pivoted on the tips of her skates and glided out through the far doorway.
“So we’re all here. Let’s sit down and talk.” Getz motioned again to the chairs.
Kim and Gurney sat on one side of the table, Getz on the other side.
Claudia came gliding back and placed a glass in front of Getz. He picked it up, sipped some clear liquid from it, and smiled. “Perfect.”
She g
ave Gurney an appraising glance and again disappeared through the far doorway.
“Okay,” said Getz. “Business.” He set his gleaming eyes on Kim. “Sweetheart, I know you got stuff you want to say. Let’s get that out of the way first. Talk to me.”
Kim looked lost for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know what to say—other than that I’m horrified. Horrified by what’s happened. I feel responsible. These people who were killed—they were killed because of me. Because of The Orphans of Murder. It has to be stopped. Ended.”
Getz stared at her. “That’s it?” He seemed taken aback, as though he’d been auditioning an actress who stopped speaking after her first line.
“That and the whole tone of the program. It wasn’t what I was expecting. The way it was edited, that hokey opening on the dark country road, the so-called experts who were asked for their opinions—to be honest, I thought it was trashy.”
“Trashy?”
“Bottom line, I want the series canceled.”
“Bottom line, you want it canceled? That’s pretty funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah. Funny. You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“I did ask for water.”
“You did. That’s the truth.” Getz pointed a forefinger at her as if it were the barrel of a gun and grinned. Then he picked up his vodka and downed it in two long swallows. “Okay, let’s get some facts on the table. A small housekeeping detail first. You really need to check your contract, sweetheart, so you’ll have a clearer understanding of the basics—like who owns what, who makes what decisions, who gets to cancel things. Et cetera. But this is no time to get bogged down in legalities. We have bigger issues to talk about. Let me tell you a few things about RAM that—”
“Are you telling me you won’t cancel it?”
“Please. Let me give you some context here. Without context we can’t make good decisions. Please. Allow me to finish. I was starting to say there are a few things about RAM you may not know. Such as, we have more number-one shows running than any other cable or broadcast network. We have the highest—”
“I don’t care.”
“Please. Allow me to speak. These are facts you may not be aware of. We have the highest total audience figures in the business. Every year the numbers get better. Our parent company is the largest media company in the world, and we are their most profitable division. Next year we’ll be even more profitable.”