A short male figure in ski pants, ski jacket, and a wool watch cap got out of the truck. Backlit by the headlights, he approached Gurney.
“Sorry I’m late. Fog, ice on the road. I am Ian Valdez.”
Gurney couldn’t place his mixed accent.
They shook hands as the beam of the pickup’s headlights went out.
Valdez started leading the way to the porch.
“Hold on a second,” said Gurney. “There’s a problem. I heard a scream in the woods a minute ago.”
“Yes. Common thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rabbit.”
“Sorry?”
“When caught by a fox, the rabbit screams. Like a small child. Always in the dusk or the night. You get used to it. Like many terrible things. Come.”
He opened the front door, flipped a switch on the inside wall, and the front room was flooded with amber light. They stepped inside, Valdez removed his hat and jacket, and Gurney got his first clear view of him. He was taken aback to see how much younger he looked than the tone of his comment suggested—perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. He had the broad face and prominent cheekbones of some Eastern Europeans, but the brown eyes and warmer skin color of a Southern European.
“I can make tea or coffee.”
“Coffee would be fine.”
“You like it strong?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“First, I must tell you. Ziko is very happy you are here.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Today, yes. I am returning now from seeing him.”
“How is he?”
“The same as always. He says worry is a waste of time. Maybe one day I will be so calm.” He gestured toward a seating area in front of a ceiling-high stone fireplace. “Please be comfortable while I make the coffee.”
Instead of sitting, Gurney walked around the large room. The decor suggested an upscale hunting lodge—polished pine paneling, exposed beams, wide-board flooring, oversized leather armchairs, rustic table lamps, colorful framed prints of upland game birds.
A long line of tennis trophies sat on the fireplace mantel. Lined up chronologically, they commemorated a series of victories in local, national, and international tournaments. From the trophy dates, Gurney calculated that Slade won them between the ages of fifteen and nineteen.
“Such a brilliant start.” Valdez returned with two mugs and handed one to Gurney. “So much success. So much love. Many people are killed by this. Almost Ziko, too. But God wants Ziko to live.” He pointed at two armchairs by the hearth. “Come, sit, tell me why you are here.”
They settled into their chairs.
“To see the actual murder scene.” Gurney sipped his coffee. It was very hot, very strong. “To visualize what happened here. Maybe to understand Ziko better.”
“He is the most amazing person.”
“What do you like best about him?”
“Best, I think, is the truth. When you speak, he listens, helps you see what is true, what is not true. He brings peace with him. This is why I have made him my father.”
“Your father?”
“My guide. This is what a father should be, yes?”
The question brought to mind memories of Gurney’s uncommunicative father and his meager childhood relationship with the man.
“Is he really that perfect?”
“He says he sometimes feels anger, fear, but this can be good—because what upsets us tells us what motivates us, and what motivates us tells us who we are.”
“This way of thinking made him a father figure for you?”
“No.” There was hard insistence in Valdez’s voice. “I have made him my father. Not father figure. Real. Not bullshit.”
Gurney paused, wondering if this sensitive issue should be pursued. He decided to take a chance. “Sometimes I wish I could have replaced my father with someone who talked to me, did more things with me, taught me things. But that’s not the kind of man he was. He never shared much of his life. Not with me, not with my mother.”
Valdez watched him intently.
Gurney took another sip of coffee. “Was your father like that?”
A long moment passed before Valdez answered in a tone that sounded purposely flat. “I never speak about him. He is dead.”
In another room, a device beeped.
Valdez set his coffee mug on a side table and stood up. “I set a timer for reminding me to leave to get propane tanks refilled before the hardware center closes tonight. They stay closed for all deer hunting season. Employees are all hunters. Please remain here as long as you wish. You are free to go through the lodge, inside, outside.”
“Thank you, Ian.”
He gave Gurney a long, questioning look. “Something I think is troubling you?”
“I’m wondering . . . if Ziko is innocent, why do you think there’s so much evidence against him?”
“It’s not a mystery, Mr. Gurney. It’s the power of evil.”
ONCE VALDEZ LOADED several portable propane tanks in the back of his truck and departed, Gurney examined the other rooms of the lodge. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but that was often the case when he explored the location of a crime.
An hour later, he entered the last of the lodge’s five bedrooms and saw something that got his attention—a pair of framed photographs on the wall facing the foot of the room’s single bed.
The photo on the left appeared to have been taken at a boozy party. Ziko Slade sat on a couch, shirt open, hair tousled. He had one arm around a barely clad young woman on his left, while exchanging an intense kiss with a similar young woman on his right. A third was kneeling on the floor in front of him with her head in his lap. It was the kind of louche disco scene the tabloids loved.
The photo on the right was riveting in a different way. It was an enlarged mugshot. This version of him was strikingly ugly. The features of the former Greek god radiated a dull menace that Gurney had seen in the eyes of hitmen. Together the images told a story a moralist might have titled “The Price of Sin.”
Gurney wondered if that was the point Slade was trying to make. Was the display a reminder to himself of where his egomania had led him, or was it the phony confession of an unrepentant con man?
He completed his examination of the house without making any more discoveries. Concluding that his visit had served its main purpose of acquainting him with the lodge and its immediate environs, and feeling no need to wait for Valdez’s return, he decided to set out for home. The weather would make it slow going, at least until he was out of the Adirondacks. He switched off the lights in the house, zipped up his jacket, and stepped out onto the porch.
There was a scent of pine in the cold air. The darkness was as deep as the mountain silence. He took out his phone and activated the flashlight app. In the plummeting temperature, the fog condensed into tiny ice crystals. He felt their pinpricks on his face as he made his way to the Outback, his steps crackling through the glaze that covered the ground.
He opened the car door and was starting to get in when he was stopped by the sight of something on the front seat. His first impression was some sort of fur hat, or muff, or . . .
As he looked closer, a grimace tightened his lips.
He was looking at the body of a rabbit.
A rabbit whose head was missing.
19
AFTER RETREATING INTO THE LODGE, GURNEY CALLED the Rexton Police Department and described the situation. The duty sergeant considered it no more than someone’s prank and suggested calling back in the morning.
Gurney explained that it could be connected to the Lerman murder case and suggested getting Scott Derlick out to the Slade lodge ASAP.