Let the Devil Sleep (52 page)

“I don’t think we can stop Getz.”

“Oh, God …”

“But there might be a way to stop the Shepherd.”

“How?”

“It’s kind of a long shot.”

“Anything is better than nothing.”

“I may need your help.”

She turned to him. “I’ll do anything. Tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll—”

The car was drifting rapidly toward the guardrail.

“Jesus!” cried Gurney. “Watch the road!”

“Sorry. Sorry. But please—anything you want me to do, just tell me.”

He wondered about the wisdom of discussing it while she was driving. But he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. Time was the resource he was running out of quickest. He hoped his doubts and fears wouldn’t come through in a way that made his thinking sound as shaky to her as it had to Clinter. “This is all based on two things I believe about the Good Shepherd. First, he’ll gladly kill anyone who poses a threat to him, as long as he feels he can do it safely. Second, he has good reason to consider my interest in the case a threat.”

“So what do we do?”

“We take advantage of the bugging system in your apartment to allow him to overhear certain things—things that will motivate him to take action in a way that will expose him.”

“You think it’s the Good Shepherd who’s been eavesdropping on me? Not Robby?”

“It
could
be Robby. But my money would be on the Shepherd.”

She appeared troubled by this idea but then nodded gamely. “Okay. What are we going to say for him to overhear?”

“I want him to know that I’ll be in a very isolated place, in a very vulnerable position. I want him to believe that the situation offers him a unique chance to get rid of me and Max Clinter—that he
needs
to get rid of us, and there’ll never be a better time to do it.”

“So we’re going to sit in my apartment and you’re going to say stuff to me in the hope that he’s listening?”

“Or that he’ll be listening later. My guess is he’s recording the transmissions from those bugs on a voice-activated device that he probably checks once or twice a day. As for ‘saying stuff,’ the way we disclose the information will need to be subtler than my just telling it to you. There needs to be a cover story, an emotional dynamic, a reason we’re in the apartment, some tension. Ordinary, sloppy reality. He has to be made to feel that he’s hearing things he’s not supposed to be hearing.”

• • •

W
hen they arrived at Gurney’s farmhouse a little after three, Kyle was in the den at the computer, surrounded by printouts, a BlackBerry, an iPhone, and an iPad. He greeted them without looking away from the screen, which was filled by some sort of spreadsheet. “Hey, folks. Welcome back. Be right with you. I’m closing this down.”

There was no sign of Madeleine, who presumably was still at the clinic. While Kim went upstairs to change out of her business clothes, Gurney checked the landline’s voice mail. No messages. He used the bathroom, then went out to the kitchen. Remembering that he hadn’t had any lunch, he opened the refrigerator.

A minute or two later, when Kim came back downstairs, he was still staring at the shelves without really seeing anything. His mind was elsewhere—trying to get a grip on the elements of the drama he and Kim would be staging that evening, the drama on which so much depended.

Her arrival in the kitchen in a pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt brought him back to the present.

“You want something to eat?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

Kyle entered the room behind her. “I guess you guys heard the news.”

Kim’s expression froze. “What news?”

“Another murder—the wife of one of the people you were talking to. Lila Sterne.”

“Oh, God, no!” Kim grabbed the edge of the sink island.

“This was on the radio?” asked Gurney.

“On the Internet. Google News.”

“What did they say? Any details?”

“Just that she’d been stabbed to death with an ice pick sometime last night. ‘Police are at the scene, investigation ongoing. Monster on the loose.’ A lot of drama, not a lot of facts.”

“Shit,” Gurney muttered. Hearing the news a second time somehow made it worse, deepening his sense of the situation accelerating out of control.

Kim looked lost.

Gurney went over to her, put his arms around her. She hugged him with a fierceness that startled him. When she released him, she took a deep breath and stepped back.

“I’m okay,” she said, answering his unasked question.

“Good. Because later we both need to be fully functional.”

“I know.”

Kyle frowned. “Fully functional? For what?”

Gurney explained as calmly and reasonably as he could his general objective and its reliance on the eavesdropping equipment in Kim’s apartment. He was conscious of trying to make it sound like a more coherent strategy than it really was. He wondered whom he was trying to convince—Kyle or himself.

“Tonight?” said Kyle incredulously. “You plan on doing this tonight?”

“Actually,” said Gurney, feeling again the terrible pressure of time closing in on him, “we should be leaving for Syracuse as soon as we can.”

Kyle looked very worried. “Are you guys … prepared? I mean, this sounds like a huge deal. Do you have any idea what you’re actually going to be saying—what it is you want the Shepherd to overhear?”

Gurney tried again for a tone of reassurance. “The way I see it—and I admit that a lot will have to be improvised as we go along—we show up at Kim’s apartment in the middle of discussing the meeting we had today with Rudy Getz. Kim is telling me she wants to end the
Orphans
series on RAM. I’m arguing that maybe she shouldn’t be so quick to turn her back on it.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kyle. “Why would you say that?”

“I want the Shepherd to see
me
as the primary threat to him, not Kim. I want him to believe that she wants the series to be canceled and that I might get in the way of that decision.”

“That’s it? That’s the plan?”

“No, there’s more. What I’m thinking is that in the middle of this discussion we’re having about
The Orphans of Murder
, I get a phone call. A phone call supposedly from Max Clinter. And anyone listening to my side of the call—which is all that the bugs would be capable
of picking up—will be given the impression that Max has discovered some information pointing to the identity of the Good Shepherd. Maybe some information that fits in with a few things I’ve discovered myself. The takeaway will be that Max and I are pretty sure who the Shepherd is and we’re getting together at his cabin tomorrow night to compare notes and work out our next steps.”

Kyle was quiet for a long minute. “So … the idea is that he’ll … what? Come to Clinter’s cabin to … to try to kill you?”

“If I handle it right, he’ll see it as a low-risk way of eliminating a major threat.”

“And you guys …” He looked back and forth between Gurney and Kim. “You guys are going to … just make all this up as you go along?”

“At this point it’s the only way.” Gurney looked up at the clock on the wall. “We have to get going.”

Kim looked terrified. “I need my bag.”

When Gurney heard her footsteps going up the stairs, he turned to Kyle. “I want to show you something.” He led Kyle into the master bedroom and pulled out the bottom drawer of his bureau. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home tonight. In the event that anything unexpected happens—or any unwanted visitor arrives—I want you to know this is here.”

Kyle looked down into the open drawer. It contained a short-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun and a box of shells.

G
urney and Kim drove to Syracuse in separate cars. With so much yet to be determined, maximum flexibility seemed wise. Standing in front of the shabby little house that Kim’s apartment formed half of, Gurney went over the plan with her again. As he did so, its ad-hoc flimsiness seemed increasingly evident. In fact, it was hardly a “plan” at all—more like some ill-conceived theatrical improvisation. But he couldn’t let his growing doubts show, couldn’t let them infect Kim. Any more anxiety would paralyze her. And for better or worse, this hollow little scheme of his was all they had.

He concluded by saying, with the most confident smile he could muster, “Whatever I say to you up in your apartment, just react as though you really believe it. Stay as close to your real feelings as you can. Just relax and react. Okay?”

“I guess.”

“And just one more thing. Have your cell phone handy and ready to use. At some point I’ll signal you to call my number to make my phone ring, and then I’ll go through my fake conversation with Clinter. Whatever facts have to be invented, I’ll invent them. Afterwards, you just play yourself. React the way you normally would. That’s all there is to it.” He gave her a wink and a thumbs-up. Then he wished he hadn’t. He was embarrassed by the phony bravado.

She swallowed hard, opened the door into the tiny vestibule, then unlocked the door of her apartment. She led him down the narrow hall to the living room. He looked around at the futon couch, the cheap coffee table, the pair of worn armchairs, each partnered with a flimsy floor
lamp. It was all as he remembered it, right down to the dirt-colored rug that was frayed in the middle.

“Go ahead, have a seat, Dave. I’ll just be a minute,” said Kim, her voice only slightly strained, as it might be from a difficult day. She walked down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door loudly.

He paced around the room, cleared his throat a few times, sat down noisily on the couch. A few minutes later, she returned. They both laid their cell phones on the table.

“So … can I offer you a drink or something?”

“I
am
thirsty. What do you have?”

“Anything you want.”

“Uh, maybe just some juice or something. If you have it.”

“I think I can manage that. Give me a sec.” She went back down the hall to the kitchen. He heard glasses banging against each other, the sink tap going on and off.

She returned with two empty water glasses. She handed him one, clinked hers against it, and said, “Cheers.” She sat down on the couch, turning sideways to face him.

“Cheers to you, too. I see you’re drinking wine. Something to make you feel better about the RAM deal.”

She let out a loud sigh. “That whole situation is a nightmare.”

Gurney cleared his throat. “Television is television, I guess.”

“You saying I should be thrilled to work with Rudy, the slimebag?”

“Not necessarily thrilled,” said Gurney. “But there
is
your future to think about.”

“I’m not sure I want that kind of future. Why?” she said with a half-jesting edge in her voice. “Are you interested in chasing that opportunity Getz dangled to host your own show?”

“Not in this lifetime, at least not the way he described it,” said Dave. He coughed, cleared his throat. “Any chance I can get a refill?” As he spoke, he pointed at her cell phone.

She nodded and picked it up. “You
are
thirsty.” She stood noisily, giving her glass a sharp whack with her hand, knocking it over. “Shit! What a mess!” She stomped out of the room.

The glass was empty, there was no mess, but anyone listening in
would be picturing one of those awkward moments in unrehearsed real life. Gurney smiled. The young lady had real talent.

A few moments later his phone rang. He picked it up and began his fictitious conversation.

“Max? … Sure, go ahead.… What do you mean? … Why are you asking? … What? … You’re serious? … Yes, yes, of course.… Right.… No, no, the Facebook message was a fake.… Ah, good point.… How sure are you? … Look, what you’re saying makes perfect sense, but that ID needs to be nailed down—I mean nailed down one hundred percent, no loose ends.… That’s absolutely incredible, but, Jesus Christ, I think you’re right.… Sure.… When? … Yeah, I’ll bring everything.… All right.… Yeah.… Be very careful.… Midnight tomorrow night.… Absolutely!”

Gurney went through the motions of pressing the button to end the call, then laid his phone on the table.

Kim came back into the room. “Here’s your refill,” she said, as though she were handing him a glass. “Who was that call from? You look pretty excited about something.”

“That was Max Clinter. It seems that the Good Shepherd finally made a major mistake—in addition to the ones at Ruth Blum’s and at the auto-body shop up the road. Those I already knew about, but Max just made another discovery, and … now we know who he is.”

“Oh, my God! You’ve identified the Good Shepherd?”

“Yes. At least I’m about ninety percent sure. But I want to make it a hundred percent. It’s too big a thing for there to be any open question.”

“Who is it? Tell me!”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean,
not yet
?”

“I can’t take any chance of being wrong about it. Way too much at stake. I’m getting together with Clinter tomorrow night at his cabin. He has something I need to look at. If it matches what I’ve got, it’ll close the loop—and the Shepherd is history.”

“Why do you have to wait till tomorrow night? Why not right now?”

“Clinter’s been staying out of the area ever since he got a text
message from the Shepherd tricking him into driving around Ruth’s neighborhood in Aurora. He got spooked. Doesn’t even want to be in Cayuga County in the daylight. He said midnight tomorrow was the soonest he could get to his cabin.”

“Jeez, I can’t believe this! I can’t believe you know who the Shepherd is and you won’t tell me!” She sounded frightened, almost pathetic.

“It’s safer this way.” He waited a couple beats, as if mulling something. “I think, for now, you should check in to a hotel. Keep a low profile. Why don’t you pack a few things in an overnight bag, then let’s get out of here.”

T
hey didn’t speak again until their cars were parked in the lot of one of the big chain hotels on the I-88 service road.

It was nearly seven-thirty, and the late-March dusk had turned into night. The lot’s stark lights had come on, creating a visual atmosphere that was neither darkness nor daylight—perhaps what daylight might be like on a planet whose sun was a chilly blue and all the colors were faded and cold.