Now Madeleine spoke up. “How sure are you?”
“About the abuse and murder of slaves? One hundred percent.”
“No, I mean how sure are you that those things took place here, on our property?”
“To be absolutely sure, more digging will be necessary. That’s why I’m here. To explain the research opportunity and enlist your cooperation.”
“That’s not my question. Based on what you’ve seen, how sure are you right now that the kind of horrors you described actually occurred here?”
Thrasher looked pained. “If I had to assign to my opinion a level of confidence, based only on what’s been unearthed so far, I’d put it around seventy-five percent.”
“Fine,” said Madeleine with a brittle smile. “That leaves a twenty-five percent chance that whatever is down there by the pond has nothing to do with the serial murder of slave children. Is that right?”
Thrasher let out an exasperated sigh. “More or less.”
“Fine. Thank you for the history lesson, Doctor. It’s been very enlightening. David and I will discuss the situation, and we’ll let you know what we decide.”
It took Thrasher a moment to realize that he’d been dismissed.
52
The charged silence that followed Madeleine’s final comment persisted long after Thrasher had departed. It reminded Gurney of the silence in their car on the way home from a medical appointment years earlier, during which he’d been informed that the results of an initial MRI had been inconclusive regarding a possible cancer and that he’d need to undergo additional tests.
Such a disturbing subject. Such a major unknown. So little to be said.
They hardly spoke at all during a brief dinner. It wasn’t until Gurney began to clear the table that Madeleine commented, “I hope what I said to him, the way I said it, isn’t going to create a problem in your professional relationship.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t make much difference how he feels about me.”
She looked doubtful. He carried their dishes to the sink, then came back and sat down.
“Twenty-five percent is a lot,” she said.
“Yes.”
“So there’s a good chance he’s wrong.”
“Yes.”
She nodded, appearing comforted that he’d agreed, even if he’d done so without much conviction. She stood up from the table. “I have some watering to do while it’s still light out. The new delphiniums from Snook’s were looking droopy today.”
She slipped into a pair of clogs by the French doors and headed for the flower bed, calling back over her shoulder, “Leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll take care of them later.”
He remained where he was, immersed in dreadful images raised by Thrasher’s comments on the “malignant synergy” between psychopathic obsessions and the availability of purchasable victims to satisfy them. There was a particular horror in the mundane practicality of buying human beings to torture or kill. He tried to imagine the unique terror experienced by those in that helpless position. The terror of being under the absolute control of another person.
His phone rang, a welcome distraction.
It was Hardwick.
“Shit, Gurney, I’m impressed that you took my call.”
Gurney sighed. “Why is that, Jack?”
“According to RAM-TV, you’re a man destined for greatness.”
“What are you talking about?”
“NewsBreakers just did an interview with Cory Payne. He told the world you saved his life. But that was nothing compared to what Stacey Kilbrick said about you.”
“What did she say?”
“I wouldn’t dream of spoiling the surprise. All I can say is that I feel privileged to be speaking with a man of your caliber.”
Gurney’s customary uneasiness at any public mention of his name was amplified by the fact of its occurring on RAM-TV. It certainly wasn’t something he could ignore, particularly after Marv Gelter’s comments at lunch. He went into the den, accessed the site on his laptop, and clicked on that day’s edition of NewsBreakers. He used the time slider on the video window to get past the promotional graphics to the point where Stacey Kilbrick and Rory Kronck, sitting at their studio news desk, frowning with concern, were addressing their top story. As the audio kicked in, Kilbrick was in the middle of a sentence.
“. . . learned today that there have been two more suspicious deaths in White River. The bodies of Blaze Lovely Jackson, a leader of the Black Defense Alliance, and her sister, Chalise Jackson Creel, were found in their apartment by detectives Mark Torres and David Gurney—someone we’ll have more to say about later in this program. The district attorney’s office, which is overseeing the investigation, is calling the deaths possible homicides.”
She turned toward Kronck. “The terrible carnage in White River just keeps going on. What do you think are the chances these ‘possible’ homicides turn out to be the real thing?”
“My guess would be ninety-nine percent. But so far the DA has released very little specific information. I suspect he wants to be absolutely certain before he has to acknowledge two more murders on his watch—two more murders in a case that was already bizarre.”
Kilbrick nodded grimly. “On the other hand, Cory Payne, son of the mysteriously missing police chief, was very forthcoming with his own view of the situation.”
“You can say that again, Stacey! I overheard your interview with him, and that young man certainly doesn’t pull his punches. Let’s show our viewers what we’re talking about.”
The scene shifted to the simple setting in which Gurney recalled seeing Kronck interviewing Kline. The most conspicuous difference now was the camera being positioned to include the interviewer’s short red skirt and long, shapely legs.
Payne appeared somewhat academic in a brown tweed sport jacket, a pale-blue shirt open at the neck, and tan slacks. His hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, but it looked more carefully combed than Gurney remembered. His face looked freshly shaved.
“What are you watching?”
Madeleine’s voice behind him at the den door surprised him. He hadn’t heard her come in.
“Cory Payne. Being interviewed. On that NewsBreakers program.”
She pulled a second chair over to the desk and peered intently at the screen.
Kilbrick was resting a clipboard and a pen on her crossed legs. She leaned forward with an expression of painful earnestness. “Welcome to NewsBreakers, Cory. I appreciate your coming here today. You’ve been at the center of the most disturbing criminal case I’ve ever encountered as a journalist. Among other horrible events, your own father accused you of murder on national television. I can’t imagine how that must have felt. We sometimes use the term ‘worst moment of my life’ loosely. But in this instance, would you say that was true?”
“No.”
“No?” Kilbrick blinked, evidently nonplussed.
“It was the most infuriating,” explained Payne, “but far from the worst.”
“Well . . . that does raise an obvious question.”
He waited for her to ask it.
“Tell us, Cory, what was the worst moment of your life?”
“The moment at boarding school when I was told that my mother had died. That was the worst. Nothing has ever come close to that.”
Kilbrick consulted her clipboard. “That was when you were fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Your father was already prominent in law enforcement at that time. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And he made a number of public statements blaming illegal drugs, specifically heroin, for her death.” She looked up from her clipboard. “Was that true?”
Payne’s gaze turned icy. “As true as blaming a rope for the death of a hanged man.”
Kilbrick looked excited. “Interesting answer. Could you expand on that?”
“Heroin is just a thing. Like a rope. O
r a bullet.”
“Are you saying there was more to your mother’s death than a simple overdose?”
Payne spoke softly. “I’m saying that he killed her.”
“Your father killed your mother?”
“Yes.”
“With drugs?”
“Yes.”
Kilbrick looked stunned. “Why?”
“For the same reason he killed John Steele, Rick Loomis, Marcel Jordan, Virgil Tooker, Blaze Jackson, Chalise Creel, and Judd Turlock.”
She stared at him.
“They threatened his future, the way he wanted things to turn out.”
“Threatened all of that . . . how?”
“They knew things about him.”
“What did they know?”
“That he wasn’t what he seemed to be. That he was dishonest, cruel, manipulative. That he extorted confessions, tampered with evidence, and destroyed people’s lives to build his own reputation. To ensure his own security. To prove to himself how powerful he was. He was a truly evil man. A killer. A monster.”
Kilbrick was staring at him now in amazement. She looked down at her clipboard, then back at him. “You said . . . I believe . . . that he killed Judd Turlock?”
“Yes.”
“The information we have from the DA’s office is that the Gort brothers are being sought in connection with the Turlock homicide.”
“My father has always used other people to do his dirty work. The Gorts were convenient tools for dealing with Turlock.”
“We were told that Judd Turlock was your father’s longtime friend. Why would—”
Payne cut her off. “Longtime tool and strong-arm man. Not friend. He had no friends. Friendship requires caring about another human being. My father never cared about anyone but himself. If you want to know why he would have arranged for Turlock to be killed, the answer is simple. He outlived his usefulness.”
Kilbrick nodded, glancing up out of the frame as though checking the time. “This has been . . . remarkable. I have no more questions. Is there anything you’d like to add before we wrap this up?”
“Yes.” He looked directly into the camera. “I want to thank Detective David Gurney with all my heart and soul. He was the one who saw through the framework of false evidence that made it look as though I’d killed those two police officers. Without his insight and persistence, the world might never have known the truth about Dell Beckert, the truth of what he is and what he always was. A destroyer of lives. A controlling monster, a corrupter, a killer. I want to thank Detective Gurney for the truth, and I want the world to know that I owe him my life.”
Gurney grimaced.
The scene shifted back to the studio news desk.
Kronck turned to Kilbrick. “Wow, Stacey, astounding interview!”
“Payne certainly had a lot to say, and he wasn’t shy about saying it.”
“I noticed the name David Gurney came up again—in a very favorable way—just like it did in my interview with Sheridan Kline.”
Kilbrick nodded. “I noticed that, too. And you know what I’m thinking right now? It’s kind of a wild possibility . . . but I’m thinking David Gurney might be a great choice for our next attorney general. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a fabulous idea!”
“Okay!” said Kilbrick, smiling, turning to the camera. “Stay with us. Our next guest—”
Gurney closed the video window and turned to Madeleine. “I have a creepy feeling that Gelter is using Kilbrick and Kronck to push his AG idea.”
“You think he has that kind of influence at RAM-TV?”
“I suspect he may own it.”
53
The weather the following morning matched Gurney’s mood—gray and unsettled. Restless breezes kept changing direction, pushing the asparagus ferns this way and that. Even Madeleine seemed at odds. A mottled overcast was obscuring the sun, and Gurney was surprised to see by the old regulator clock on the kitchen wall that it was already past nine. As they were finishing their oatmeal, Madeleine frowned and tilted her head toward the French doors.
“What is it?” he asked. His hearing was normal, but hers was extraordinary and she was usually aware of approaching sounds before he was.
“Someone’s coming.”
He opened the doors and soon he heard it—a vehicle coming up the town road. As he watched, a large SUV came into view. It slowed and came to a stop between the barn and the pond. When he went out on the patio for a clearer view he saw that it was a dark-green Range Rover, its polish glistening even in the sunless light.
The driver emerged, a solid-looking man in a blue blazer and gray slacks. He opened the rear door, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a khaki jacket, riding breeches, and knee-high boots. She stood there for a few moments, looking around at the fields and woods and up across the pasture to the Gurney house. After lighting a cigarette, she and her driver got back in the big green vehicle.
Gurney watched as it proceeded slowly up through the pasture to the house, where it stopped not far from his Outback, which by comparison seemed very small. Again the driver got out first and opened the rear door for the lady, who Gurney could now see was probably somewhere in her late forties. Her ash-blond hair was arranged in a short asymmetrical style that looked expensive and aggressive. After a final drag, she dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the ground with the tip of a boot that looked every bit as costly as her hairdo.
As she surveyed the property around her with a dour expression, her driver noticed Gurney standing on the patio. He said something to her, she glanced over, and then she nodded to him. She lit another cigarette.
He approached the patio. He had a hard, expressionless, ex-military look about him. For a heavy man his step was light and athletic.
“David Gurney?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Haley Beckert would like to speak with you.”
“Dell Beckert’s wife?”
“That’s correct.”
“Would she like to come into the house?”
“Mrs. Beckert would prefer to remain outdoors.”
“Fine. We can talk right here.” He gestured toward the two Adirondack chairs.
The driver returned to the Range Rover and spoke briefly to the woman. She nodded, crushed the second cigarette as she had the first, then made her way around the asparagus patch and flower bed to the patio. When they came face-to-face she looked at him with the same distaste with which she’d regarded the surrounding landscape, but with an added element of curiosity.
Neither offered to shake hands. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
She didn’t reply.
He waited.
“Who’s paying you, Mr. Gurney?” She had the syrupy voice and hard eyes of many a Southern politician.
He replied blandly, “I work for the district attorney.”
“Who else?”
“Nobody else.”
“So this story you’ve sold to Kline, this fantasy about the most respected police chief in America being a serial murderer—running around shooting people, beating people, God knows what else—all of that bilious nonsense is the product of an honest investigation?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s the product of evidence.”
She uttered a bark of a laugh. “Evidence no doubt discovered by you. I’ve been told that from day one you did everything you could to weaken the case against that little reptile Cory Payne—and you constantly tried to undermine my husband.”
“The evidence against Payne was questionable. The evidence that he was being framed was far more convincing.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Gurney. If anyone is being framed, it’s Dell Beckert. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. And you’ll regret your part in it. Deeply and permanently regret it.”
He didn’t react, just held her gaze. “Do you know where your husband is
?”
“If I did, you’d be the last person on earth I’d tell.”
“Doesn’t his running away strike you as peculiar?”
Her jaw muscles tightened. After regarding him venomously for a long moment she said, “I was told that a TV newsperson mentioned your name last night in connection with the election for attorney general. I don’t suppose your interest in that position would explain your attacks on my husband?”
“I have no interest in that position.”
“Because if that’s what this is all about, I will destroy you. There will nothing left of you or your so-called supercop reputation. Nothing!”
He saw no point in trying to explain his position to her.
She turned away and walked quickly to the big SUV. She got into the rear seat, and the driver closed the door. A few moments later the Range Rover was heading silently down the uneven path toward the barn and the town road beyond it.
Gurney stood for a while on the patio, replaying the scene in his mind—the strained expression, the rigid body language, the accusatory tone. Having conducted thousands of interviews over the years with the family members of fugitives and otherwise missing persons, he had gotten good at reading these situations. He was reasonably sure that the fury Haley Beckert expressed was the product of fear, and that her fear was the product of being blindsided by events she didn’t understand.
The cool, humid breezes, though still shifting direction, were growing stronger, creating the feeling of an impending thunderstorm. He went inside and closed the French doors.
Madeleine was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace reading a book. She’d started a small fire, which was flickering weakly. He was tempted to rearrange the logs but he knew his interference would not be appreciated. He sat in the armchair that faced hers.
“I assume you overheard all that?” he said.
Her eyes remained on her book. “Hard not to.”
“Any reaction?”
“She’s used to getting her way.”
He stared at the fire for a while, repressing the urge to fix it. “So. What do you think I should do?”
She looked up. “I guess that depends on whether you see the case as open or closed.”