The ringing of his phone roused him from a dream that evaporated without a trace as he opened his eyes. The phone was on the edge of the bed. He just managed to reach it from his chair, his neck muscles rebelling at the effort. A glance at the screen told him it was Hardwick.
“Hello, Jack. Sorry about the Harbane inconvenience.”
“Damn near froze my balls off. But even if you came, it wouldn’t have mattered. Whoever you were supposed to meet never showed up. You found out yet who rammed you?”
“No. And the BCI guy who interviewed me was being weirdly cagey about it.”
“Who’d they put on it?”
It took Gurney a moment to recall the name. “Dale Magnussen. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but I know the guy he reports to—one of the few people in that organization I got along with. What do you mean by ‘weirdly cagey’?”
“Like he knew something I didn’t, and he wanted to keep it that way.”
“Could just be an attitude. Lot of them fuckers have attitudes.”
Gurney almost laughed out loud. It was Hardwick’s authority-be-damned attitude that had ended his state police career.
“I got the impression he thought I knew who the other driver was. And he wanted to know how many guns I owned. Makes me wonder what the hell’s going on.”
“You suggesting in your subtle way that I should do your snooping for you?”
“Only if the peculiarity of the situation interests you.”
“Peculiarity is not a major motivator in my life. But if you—”
Gurney’s attention was distracted by a nurse’s voice in the hallway.
“This is his room. You can go right in.”
He looked over and saw Madeleine in the doorway.
“Jack, I have a visitor. I’ll get back to you.”
As Madeleine came closer to him, the concern in her eyes increased.
“You look . . . awful.”
“I thought you were coming tomorrow morning.”
“There’s no way I could sleep tonight without seeing you first.”
“Sorry if I alarmed you that much on the phone.”
“What alarmed me was how hard you were trying not to. You had that minimizing strain in your voice. It’s a sound I’ve gotten very familiar with. You always make little of the bad things that—”
He interrupted her. “I’m basically alright. Bit of a knock on the head, that’s all.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Your face is pale, your eyes are glassy, I saw you wince with pain when you turned your head toward the door. So, you’re not ‘alright’ at all.”
“Look, I’ve had a mild concussion, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“When you pretend that everything’s fine, I get the impression that you just want to keep doing what you’re doing and you’d rather not think about the costs.”
“Or maybe I’m just trying to save you from unnecessary worry.”
“By lying to me?”
“Oh, Christ, it’s not lying, it’s a simple matter of perspective.” An arrow of pain shot through his head, causing a split-second grimace.
Madeleine’s expression switched from anger to fear. She took a quick step closer to his chair. “Should I call a nurse?”
“No need. I get these little jabs, but they pass as quickly as they come. Part of the territory with this sort of injury.”
Madeleine stood gazing down at him. The anger and fear had morphed into something softer. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“I just want to go home.”
There was a brief silence, broken by Madeleine. “Have the police caught the driver who sideswiped you?”
“They haven’t told me a damn thing.”
“I hope they get him and put him in prison for a good long time.”
“Fine with me.”
“Your eyelids are drooping.”
“All of a sudden . . . I’m sleepy.”
HE WAS AWAKENED by a rapping on his open door.
A sharp-featured woman in a fashionable leather jacket and pricey-looking jeans stepped into the room. Having seen her before only in conservative business attire, it took him a few seconds to recognize District Attorney Cam Stryker. She gave him a chilly once-over.
“I’ve been told you’re in good enough condition to talk. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
She moved an empty chair to a position facing Gurney’s, settled into it, and took out her phone. She tapped it several times and placed it on a small rolling table near her chair. “Everything said from now on will be recorded. Understood?”
“Understood.”
She smiled with all the warmth of a predatory fish. “So, David, I’d like to hear the full story of what happened on Blackmore Mountain.”
“Apart from someone running me off the road?”
“Let’s start with the reason you were there.”
“As I already told Investigator Magnussen, I was on my way to meet someone who claimed to have information that would exonerate Ziko Slade.”
“And who might this individual be?”
“I don’t know.”
“You thought it worth driving over a mountain in a snowstorm to meet someone who wouldn’t give you their name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have doubts about Slade’s guilt.”
She let out a harsh one-syllable laugh. “Because of that business with the rabbit?”
“Scott Derlick told you about that?”
“He told me that you were at the lodge with Slade’s creepy pal, and that you tried to turn a dead rabbit into a major crisis.”
“Not just dead. Decapitated. Placed in the front seat of my car, as I was looking into the decapitation death of Lenny Lerman. You’d have to be willfully blind not to see a connection.”
Stryker’s anger at the accusation was evident in the tightening of her jaw muscles.
“The placement of that mutilated animal in my vehicle should have been viewed as a threat. The failure of the Rexton police to investigate it, and the failure—”
“Stop right there! I’m not interested in your opinion of the Rexton police. I want to know exactly what happened this afternoon on Blackmore Mountain.”
“What happened on Blackmore Mountain is a direct escalation of the rabbit incident—a second warning to me to back away from the Lerman case. Whoever ran me off that road was sending a clear message—if not actually trying to kill me. Now, please answer a simple question. Do you have the driver in custody?”
“Do we have him in custody? That’s what you want to know?” She stared at him, anger mixed with disbelief. “Tell me the last thing you remember happening on that mountain.”
He repeated what he’d told the BCI investigator.
“That’s it?” said Stryker, leaning forward. “Hit the stump, knock on the head, lights out? No further recollection?”
“What am I supposed to be recollecting? And why the hell was Magnussen asking me how many guns I own?”
“The other driver is dead. Shot in the head. The evidence indicates you were the shooter.”
“What?!”
“No memory of that?”
“It’s absurd!”
“So, you’re claiming to have zero recollection of the shooting?”
“I didn’t shoot anyone. I have nothing to recollect.”
“The gun found in your hand says you did.”
“What gun?”
“A .38 special with the serial number filed off.”
“Christ, Cam, this reeks of a setup.”
“Our gunshot-residue test says you fired it.”
He spoke as calmly as he could with adrenaline flooding his brain. “Don’t you see it’s an obvious frame job? Someone doesn’t want me looking into the Lerman case. The rabbit warning didn’t stop me, so now I’m being framed for a homicide—just like Slade was. Think about that.”