“Something collided with it.”
She began stirring the contents of a black pot on the stove. “Considering the size of the bruise, I’m surprised you’re walking around.”
“When things need to be done, they need to be done.”
“Profound. So, what needs to be done?” She continued stirring the pot.
“We’re trying to find out as much as we can about that incident up on the road—by talking to people in the area while any memories are still fresh.” He knew his use of the word “we” was deceptive, since it implied that his inquiries were part of the official investigation, but it seemed justified by the fact that he intended to turn over whatever he discovered to BCI.
She turned down the gas under the pot. “I don’t know how I can help you. The thing is, I wasn’t actually here when it happened.”
“Not actually here?”
She grinned. “What I mean is, I’d gone down to Harbane on a little errand of mercy, and on my way back I discovered the police had closed off this part of the road. I asked a trooper what the problem was. He said there’d been a serious traffic incident and there could be a long wait before I could get through, but when I explained that I had a visitor who might be seriously ill, he let me pass. That’s all I know.”
“You haven’t heard any more about it since then? No news reports, nothing at all?”
She shook her head. “I have no radio, no TV, as little outside contact as possible. That’s the point of my being here. Peace. Meditation. Reevaluation.” She paused. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
Seeing little chance of getting any useful information, he was about to refuse her offer, then on an impulse accepted it. “Coffee would be great. No milk, no sugar.”
She popped a pod into a machine on the counter next to the stove, inserted a mug, and waited until, with much hissing and gurgling, the mug was filled. She brought it to Gurney and took a seat across the table from him, eyeing him with interest.
He broke the silence. “You were saying that the point of your being here is—”
“To take some time out. Escape from the hamster wheel of life. Reevaluate.”
“Reevaluate what?” He hoped his tone hadn’t revealed his reflexive contempt for New Age navel-gazing.
“The purpose of my life. My career. I’ve been a social worker for the past ten years. I have that gene—that deep-seated itch to make everyone okay, especially the ones who have the least chance of being okay. It can wear you down. At some point, if you have any sanity left, you have to back away. I saw an ad for a wilderness camp caretaker. I met with the owner, was offered the job, and took it. So here I am. In the middle of nowhere, battling the gene, which is still alive and well. In fact, it’s why I wasn’t here when that accident happened.”
“How so?” He sipped his coffee, looking forward to the effect of the caffeine.
“I was gone because of the guy who was here that day. He arrived that morning in a big black pickup truck with a motorcycle in the back—one of those off-road things with high fenders.” She shook her head. “I never cease to be amazed at how grown men can be so fond of noise and speed. Anyway, he paid fifty dollars cash for one of the campsites, then spent the rest of the morning sitting in his truck.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Jim Brown.”
“You said he was the reason you weren’t here?”
“About one o’clock that afternoon he knocked on my door and asked if I could go down to the drug store to pick up his angina prescription. He said he felt an attack coming on, but he’d forgotten to bring his pills with him, and he’d just called his doctor’s office to have them phone in a prescription to the CVS in Harbane. He said the way he was feeling made him afraid to drive there himself. I offered to drive him—either to the drugstore or the ER—but he said someone was coming here to see him, and he had to be here when he arrived. He looked terribly anxious, which put that fixer gene of mine in high gear. I told him to lie down on the couch while I went for his medicine.”
Gurney nodded, noting the leather couch at the far end of the room. “Let me guess what happened next. When you got to the CVS in Harbane, they told you they hadn’t received a prescription order for anyone named Brown, and when you got back here he was gone.”
She stared at Gurney, her mouth open. “How on earth . . . ?”
“Did I leave anything out?”
“Just that he left another fifty dollars on the table for my trouble, along with a note apologizing for the confusion and explaining that he’d just discovered that his doctor wasn’t able to phone the prescription in, that the friend he was supposed to meet couldn’t make it, and he had to leave. But . . . how did you know?”
“Long story. Do you still have that note he left for you?”
She thought about it for a moment. “I tossed it in the fireplace.”
“Do you remember where his truck was parked when you set out for Harbane?”
“I can show you.” She went to a row of pegs by the door, where some outdoor clothes were hanging, and slipped on a puffy blue ski jacket.
He zipped up his own jacket and followed her out across the chilly clearing to one of the tent platforms, shaded by the towering evergreens. The crow on the top of the tallest one watched in silence.
She pointed to the rutted, frosty ground next to the tent platform. “If you’re looking for his tire tracks, you’re in luck. He was here during that snow and sleet storm, but the temperature was barely below freezing, and the ground was still soft from the last rain. I know, because I almost got stuck on my way up to the road—on my pointless drugstore trip.”
Gurney studied the ground around the platform. The cold snap had hardened the earth and preserved the tread impressions of two vehicles—one with four wheels and one with two. The motorcycle she’d seen in the visitor’s truck bed had evidently been unloaded and ridden while she was in Harbane. Ridden where was the question.
Gurney guessed it was to the site of the ramming—which would square with the sequence of engine and gunshot sounds heard by Nora Rumsten. If so, it would suggest that the rider was involved in the shooting, either as triggerman or in some backup capacity. One possible scenario was that whoever shot Sonny arrived in the truck with him, and the motorcyclist’s job was to get the shooter away from the scene as quickly as possible. He could also have been responsible for the blow to the head Gurney received in the moments after his collision with the stump.
Tess Larson watched as Gurney walked in a widening circle around the tent platform, intent on the tire tracks. It appeared that the motorcycle had been offloaded from the truck and ridden into an adjoining area of the forest that was free of underbrush. If the intended destination had been the ramming site, the rider had decided not to take the easy route up the lane and along the road, possibly to avoid being seen by a passing driver.
Before following the motorcycle tracks into the woods, Gurney turned to Tess. “I need you to do one more thing. Go back in the house, get a sheet of paper, relax, and take yourself back to the day before yesterday, to your meeting with Jim Brown. Take your time and write down everything you can remember about him. Physical details, mannerisms, voice, accent—anything at all, no matter how trivial it seems. Can you do that?”
“Only if you tell me what this is all about.”
“What happened up the road while you were in Harbane wasn’t an accident. Two vehicles collided, the occupant of one of them was shot, and I think your visitor was involved.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean, that guy sent me to Harbane to get me out of the way?”