The Viper
(Dave Gurney #8)
by John Verdon
ALSO BY JOHN VERDON
Think of a Number
Shut Your Eyes Tight
Let the Devil Sleep
Peter Pan Must Die
Wolf Lake
White River Burning
On Harrow Hill
For Naomi
All that we forgot we saw forever lives in what we see.
PROLOGUE
HE WAS AFRAID TO GO NEAR THE BIG HOUSE AT THE END of the quiet, tree-lined street.
The stories whispered about the man who lived there kept people at a respectful distance. There was no doubt that he’d had men killed. The number was guessed at in hushed tones, as was the number he’d executed with his own hands. It was a known fact that people entered that house and were never seen again. But such was the man’s power—and the dread he inspired in potential witnesses—that he’d never been convicted of any crime at all.
Walking up the man’s driveway that day in the autumn chill would have been unthinkable a short time ago, but everything was different now. As the heavy front door swung open and an ageless, stone-faced woman led him down an unlit hall into a windowless den, his trepidation was suppressed by a desperate hope.
The man sat in semi-darkness behind an ebony desk, massaging his temples. It was rumored that he suffered from migraines. He wore tinted glasses, a sign of his sensitivity to light. His hair was gray and thinning, his skin sallow. The air in the room was humid with a faint odor of tropical decay. There was only one object on the ebony desk—a small gold sculpture of a coiled snake, head raised, fangs exposed.
“So,” the man said in a soft voice, lips hardly moving. “What can I do for you?”
The words came rushing out, not at all as he’d rehearsed them ever since calling for this appointment, this audience, but in a stuttering jumble. Even as he made his request with its peculiar requirement—especially with its peculiar requirement—he realized how idiotic it all sounded.
In a surge of regret, he wished to God he hadn’t come. It felt like the worst mistake he had ever made in a life full of mistakes. But it was too late. Fear grabbed his heart. His hands trembled.
The man regarded him through his tinted glasses with morose, unblinking eyes for what seemed like a very long time. He finally gestured toward the only other chair in the room.
“Sit down. Relax. Talk slow.”
He did as he was told. Afterward, he could remember almost nothing of what he said—only the man’s response and the look in his eyes.
“The story you tell me is full of misery. Your son’s disrespect has poisoned your life. What you want to do now is quite unusual. The favor you ask of me is something I would not normally grant. But because I know well the stabbing pain you have described, I will consider your request. If I agree to do what you ask, in return you must do what I ask. I will describe this to you when the time comes. But there is one thing you need to know from the beginning. If you accept my terms, there will be no turning back, no second thoughts. Our agreement will be unbreakable. You understand what this means?”
“I do.”
The man’s lips twitched in what appeared to be a fleeting smile. Behind the tinted glasses, his eyes, as impassive as death itself, were focused on a plan taking shape.
PART I
DAMNING EVIDENCE
1
SUMMER SLOWLY DECLINED AS IF IN THE GRIP OF A wasting disease, then the orange flare of autumn swept by in the blink of an eye, leaving the western Catskill Mountains a dull brown. November arrived with a windy chill that never let up and a long succession of shortening days that passed with no sign of the sun.
On a raw, gusty afternoon Dave and Madeleine Gurney were hard at work outside their farmhouse, high in the hills outside the village of Walnut Crossing. Autumn leaves skittered across the patio they were reshaping. Dave eased an unwieldy slab of bluestone into its new position. Still lean and strong in his early fifties, he welcomed the exercise.
Madeleine carefully set down a wheelbarrow full of fresh sod next to him. “Did you call your son?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Today is his birthday.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. I’ll give him a call after dinner.”
For the past week, they’d been changing the contours of the old stone patio that lay between the house and the chicken coop. The previous spring’s Harrow Hill murder case had reached its bloody conclusion on this patio, and the intervening months had done so little to free Madeleine from the images of that dreadful night that she still found it a challenge to step out through the French doors. The work they were engaged in was an attempt to alter the look of the place in the hope of diluting the memory of what occurred there. Gurney hoped it might also dissipate the hard-to-define strain present in her expression more often than not these days.
The project was almost finished. He had completed most of the stonework and had broken up the hard Catskill earth for new planting beds. Madeleine had painted the chicken coop and its attached shed a cheerful yellow and planted dozens of tulip bulbs around the reconfigured patio.
As he leaned on his crowbar to adjust the position of the final slab of bluestone, the wind rose, and the first flakes of a promised snow shower swirled around him.
“I think we’ve done enough for today,” said Madeleine, glancing at the slaty sky. “Besides, Emma should be arriving anytime now.” She looked at him. “David, you’re scowling.”
“Maybe because you seem to know more about her visit than you’re telling me.”
“All I know is, she wants to talk to you about a murder case.”
He laid his crowbar next to the wheelbarrow and took off his work gloves. “I doubt she’s coming here just to talk.”
Madeleine turned her strained face away from a gust of wind, started toward the French doors, and froze with a sharp little cry.
Gurney stepped quickly over to her. “What is it?”
She pointed at a spot on the ground just beyond the edge of the patio. He followed her terrified gaze.
“The leaves moved. A snake!”
Gurney approached the spot, his shovel at the ready. When he was within striking distance, a small gray creature darted from the leaves and disappeared under a nearby shrub.
“No snake,” said Gurney. “Just a vole.”
Madeleine breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
He was tempted to remind her that there were no snakes to be concerned about in their part of the Catskills. But he knew it would make no difference.
2
GURNEY STOOD WITH HIS BACK TO THE SHOWERHEAD. The warm, tingling spray massaged his neck and shoulders, gradually releasing the muscle tightness caused by hefting the patio stones, as well as the emotional tension of recalling what had happened on the patio six months earlier.
The soothing water was just beginning to accomplish its magic when Madeleine opened the bathroom door and announced Emma’s arrival.