Besides, they hadn’t come down to the pond to debate the future of bulrushes or trellises or chickens. Gurney felt certain that she’d return to the matter of Jack Hardwick, and he began to prepare a line of argument defending his potential involvement in the case.
She’d ask if he was planning to take on yet another full-scale murder investigation in his so-called retirement, and if so, why had he bothered to retire?
He’d explain again that Hardwick had been forced out of the NYSP partly as a result of the assistance he’d provided at Gurney’s request on the Good Shepherd case, and providing assistance in return was a simple matter of justice. A debt incurred, a debt paid.
She’d point out that Hardwick had undermined himself—that it wasn’t the passing along of a few restricted files that got him fired; it was his long history of insubordination and disrespect, his adolescent relish in puncturing the egos of authority figures. That kind of behavior carried obvious risks, and the ax had finally fallen.
He’d counter with an argument about the fuzzier demands of friendship.
She’d claim that he and Hardwick had never really been friends, just uneasy colleagues with occasional common interests.
He’d remind her of the unique bond that was formed in their collaboration years earlier on the Peter Piggert case, when on the same day in jurisdictions a hundred miles apart they each found half of Mrs. Piggert’s body.
She’d shake her head and dismiss the “bond” as a grotesque coincidence in the past that was a poor reason for any present action.
Gurney leaned back against the bench slats and looked up at the slate sky. He felt ready, if not entirely eager, for the give-and-take that he expected would begin momentarily. A few small birds, singly and in loose pairs, passed high overhead, flying rapidly, as if late for their roosting commitments.
When Madeleine finally spoke, however, her tone and angle on the subject were not what he’d expected.
“You realize that he’s obsessed,” she said, looking out over the pond. Half a statement, half a question.
“Yes.”
“Obsessed with getting revenge.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“Okay. Probably.”
“It’s a horrible motive.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And you’re also aware that it makes his version of the facts unreliable?”
“I have no intention of accepting his version of anything. I’m not that naive.”
Madeleine looked over at him, then back out in the direction of the pond. They were silent for a while. Gurney felt a chill in the air, a damp, earthy-smelling chill.
“You need to talk to Malcolm Claret,” she said matter-of-factly.
He blinked, turned, and stared at her. “What?”
“Before you get involved in this, you need to talk to him.”
“What the hell for?” His feelings about Claret were mixed—not because he had anything against the man himself or doubted his professional abilities, but the memories of the occasions that prompted their past meetings were still full of pain and confusion.
“He might be able to help you … help you understand why you’re doing this.”
“Understand why I’m doing this? What’s that supposed to mean?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Nor did he press the question—taken aback momentarily by the sudden sharpness in his own voice.
They’d been through this before, more than once—this question of why he did what he did, why he’d become a detective in the first place, why he was drawn to homicide in particular, and why it continued to fascinate him. He wondered at the defensiveness of his reaction, given that this was well-trod ground.
Another pair of small birds, high in the darkening sky, were hurrying to some more familiar, perhaps safer, place—most likely the place they considered home.
He spoke in a softer voice. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘why you’re doing this.’ ”
“You’ve come too close to being killed too many times.”
He drew back a little. “When you’re dealing with murderers—”
“Please, not now,” she interrupted, raising her hand. “Not the Dangerous Job speech. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what—”
“You’re the smartest man I know. The smartest. All the angles, possibilities—nobody can figure it out better or faster than you can. And yet …” Her voice trailed off, suddenly shaky.
He waited a long ten seconds before prompting her gently. “And yet?”
It was another ten seconds before she went on. “And yet … somehow … you’ve ended up face-to-face with an armed lunatic on three separate occasions in the past two years. An inch from death each time.”
He said nothing.
She stared sadly out over the pond. “There’s something wrong with that picture.”
It took him a while to reply. “You think I want to die?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not.”
She continued looking straight ahead.
The hillside pasture and the woods beyond the pond were all growing darker. At the edge of the woods the gold patches of ragweed and lavender sprigs of grape-hyacinth had already faded to shades of gray. Madeleine gave a little shiver, zipped her windbreaker up to her chin, and folded her arms across her chest, pulling her elbows tightly against her.
They sat in silence for a long while. It was as if their conversation had come to a strange stopping place, a slippery declivity from which there was no clear way up and out.
As a quivering spot of silver light appeared in the center of the pond—a reflection of the moon, which had emerged at that moment through a break in the clouds—there was a sound deep in the woods behind the bench that made the hairs stand up on Gurney’s arms. A keening note, a not-quite-human cry of desolation.
“What the …?”
“I’ve heard it before,” said Madeleine. “On different nights it seems to come from different places.”
He listened, waiting. A minute later, it sounded again, weird and plaintive.
“Probably an owl,” he said, without having any reason to believe it.
What he avoided saying was that it sounded to him like a lost child.
Chapter 4. Pure Evil
It was past midnight, and Gurney’s efforts to fall asleep had been as unsuccessful as if he’d had half a dozen cups of coffee.
The moon, glimpsed briefly at the pond, had disappeared behind a thick new blanket of clouds. Both windows were open at the top, letting a humid chill into the room. The darkness and the touch of the damp night air on his skin formed a kind of enclosure, giving him a creeping sense of claustrophobia. In that small, oppressive place he found it impossible to put aside his uneasy thoughts about the suspended but hardly completed death-wish discussion with Madeleine. But the thoughts went nowhere, led to no conclusions. The frustration persuaded him to abandon the bed.
He got up and felt his way to the chair where he’d left his shirt and pants.
“As long as you’re up, you might want to close the upstairs windows.” Madeleine’s voice from the far side of the bed sounded surprisingly wide awake.
“Why?” he asked.
“The storm. Haven’t you heard the thunder getting closer?”