Let the Devil Sleep (50 page)

The only reasonable chance of identifying him would be through a massive coordinated law-enforcement effort. It would require reevaluating every piece of data from the original case. Overwhelming manpower. A mandate to start over with a clean slate. But in the current atmosphere, there was no way that was going to happen. Neither the FBI nor BCI would be able to step far enough outside the box. It was a box they’d built themselves, a box they’d been reinforcing for ten years.

So what was he supposed to do?

Ostracized and demonized, with a possible felony charge hanging over him and a PTSD label slapped on his forehead, what the hell
could
he do?

Nothing came to mind.

Nothing but an irritatingly simplistic aphorism.

You play the hand you’ve been dealt.

What the hell was in that hand anyway?

He concluded that most of his cards were garbage. Or unplayable with the near-zero resources at his disposal.

But he had to admit that he did have one wild card.

It might be worth something, or it might be worth nothing.

• • •

T
he sun rose behind a morning haze. It was still low in the sky when the house phone rang. Gurney got up from the table and went into the den to answer it. It was someone from the clinic, asking for Madeleine.

As he was about to take the handset to her in the bedroom, she appeared at the den door in her pajamas, extending her hand for it as though it were a call she’d been expecting.

She glanced at the ID screen before she spoke—in a pleasantly professional tone that contrasted with the sleepy look on her face. “Good morning, this is Madeleine.”

She then listened quietly to what was evidently a long explanation of something—during which Gurney returned to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee.

He heard her voice again only briefly toward the end of the call, and only a few of her words clearly. It sounded to him as if she was agreeing to do something. A few moments later, she appeared at the kitchen doorway, regarding him with the previous night’s worry back in her eyes.

“How’s your hand?”

The lidocaine nerve block they’d given him prior to his nine stitches had worn off, and the lower half of his palm was throbbing.

“Not too bad,” he said. “What are they asking you to do now?”

She ignored the question. “You should be keeping it elevated. Like the doctor said.”

“Right.” He raised his hand a few inches above the sink island, where he was waiting for the coffee to brew. “Did they have another suicide?” he asked, rather too jokily.

“Carol Quilty resigned last night. They need someone to fill in today.”

“What time?”

“As soon as I can get there. I’m going to take a shower, have a piece of toast, and off I go. Will you be all right here alone?”

“Of course.”

She frowned and pointed at his hand. “Higher.”

He raised it to eye level.

She sighed, gave him a silly little “attaboy” wink, and headed for the shower.

He marveled for the thousandth time at her innate cheerfulness, her perennial ability to accept the reality of whatever had been placed in front of her and address it with an attitude far more positive than his own.

She faced life as it was and did the best she could.

She played the hand she’d been dealt.

Which made him think again about his wild card.

Whatever it might be worth, he needed to do something with it soon. He had to play it before the game was over.

He had the sinking feeling that it might not be worth a damn thing. But there was only one way to find out.

His “wild card” was his access to the eavesdropping equipment that had been installed in Kim’s apartment. 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.

S
hortly after Madeleine left for the clinic, the den phone rang again. The ID announced it was Hardwick. The raspy voice said, “Check the
Manchester Union Leader
’s online archives. They did a series on the White Mountain Strangler case back in ’91. Betcha find a shitload of what you want. Gotta go piss. Take care.”

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
Union Leader
but of other New England papers that had reported extensively on the Strangler’s crimes.

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
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.