As the interior of his car began to warm up, Gurney unzipped his jacket, leaned back, and pondered what to do next. He considered driving on to the lodge—it was only a mile or so away. If Ian Valdez was there, he could have another talk with him. After giving it more thought, however, he opted to wait until he was better prepared for the interview. In the event that Ian’s role in what happened was deeper than it first appeared, gathering more information about the man was essential.
With a darkening sky promising snow, and nothing else to accomplish in the Adirondacks, he decided to head back to Walnut Crossing. He tossed the gas container into the back seat, put the car in drive, and his phone rang again. His first guess was Cam Stryker, and he was right. The fact that it was the day after Thanksgiving, when most elected officials would be enjoying the long weekend, would mean nothing to an obsessed workaholic like Stryker.
“David, where are you?”
Something in her tone told him that she knew he wasn’t at home. Might she have sent a trooper or one of her own investigators to follow him? The truth seemed the wisest response.
“At the quarry where Lerman’s car was burned.”
“You’re where?”
“It appears that Lerman himself bought the gas that was used in the fire—which Rexton PD could have discovered if they’d paid attention to his GPS route readout and Visa bills.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about an extremely complicated crime that was addressed by a half-assed investigation and cherry-picked evidence in pursuit of an easy conviction!”
The tone of Stryker’s response was artificially calm. It reminded Gurney of the way someone might speak while defusing a bomb. “It sounds like you may have made some substantive discoveries. We need to talk about them—in person. Based on your current location, you should be able to get to my office by two this afternoon. Can I depend on your being here by two o’clock?”
“Definitely,” he said with what he hoped sounded like determination.
He didn’t trust Stryker’s sudden pose of open-mindedness. He suspected that the proposed meeting might be a convenient way for her to take him into custody after discovering exactly how much he’d found out and how damaging it might be to her.
Ever since the Blackmore shooting, she’d made it clear that detaining him was an option. His fingerprints on the gun and the powder residue on his hands would give her enough probable cause, as well as a shield against a civil case for false arrest. He figured that her calculus was based on a simple risk analysis. As soon as his investigation posed a greater risk than arresting him, she’d have him arrested and later absorb whatever embarrassment might result from having to release him.
He suspected that his own comments moments earlier might have pushed her to that point. If so, he had no regrets. Their colliding objectives made it inevitable. Only the timing had been undecided.
If she was already seeking a warrant for his arrest, it would be prudent to take certain precautions immediately. He had no intention of being taken into custody, but leaving the upstate area wasn’t an option either. He had to be present to pursue his investigation—present, but not findable.
Stryker might be arranging for real-time surveillance of his position via the GPS locator on his phone. That function was easy enough to disable in the phone’s location settings, so he did so. It was also possible, if she suspected that he might skip the meeting and go straight home from the Adirondacks, that she’d have the approach road to his house watched. He brought up an area map on his phone screen and chose a route into Walnut Crossing that would bring him to an old farm lane a mile or so from the back end of his property, with only a forested stretch of state land intervening. He’d find an inconspicuous place to park and make his way to his home on foot. He entered the new route in the car’s GPS and set out with a reasonable sense of security.
About an hour into the trip, he passed an outdoor mall. A logo on the front of one of the stores caught his eye. The store’s name, Camper’s Paradise, set off a train of thought that prompted him, a few miles down the road, to turn around and go back.
He emerged from the store half an hour later—carrying a small tent, a propane tent heater, and a sleeping bag—and continued on his journey to Walnut Crossing.
THE BACK ROAD bordering the forest behind Gurney’s property provided access to several old logging trails. He chose the least overgrown one and drove in far enough that the car would no longer be visible from the road.
From there, he followed the trail on foot up a steep rise, lugging his purchases. Fallen trees repeatedly obstructed the way, forcing him to make detours over moss-covered rocks, slippery as if they’d been greased. It occurred to him that if Madeleine were with him, she’d be enthusing over the variety of the mosses and their palette of greens. His focus was on not getting another concussion.
Long after the trail had petered out, he reached the summit of a broad ridge-like hill. Through openings in the drooping branches of the hemlocks, he could see his house, most of the low pasture, and part of the barn. He checked his phone for the time. It was exactly 2:00 p.m. As he searched for a flat spot to erect his tent, he wondered how much longer Stryker would wait before calling him again.
The answer turned out to be nine minutes. He let her call go to voicemail.
“David, I need to speak to you. Urgently. You agreed to be in my office by two o’clock. Please call me the moment you get this message.”
He was in no rush to talk to her. He wanted to give his new status as someone outside the law, in spirit if not technically, some more thought.
He soon located a relatively level patch of ground, sheltered by dense evergreens on all sides, to set up his secret campsite. He didn’t know if he’d actually be spending time here, but given the volatility of the situation, having an emergency retreat seemed wise.
As he finished pitching the tent, he heard a vehicle approach from the direction of the town road. He moved to a spot that provided a better view. Soon a dark sedan appeared, driving quickly past the barn. Simultaneously, his phone produced its distinctive beeping notification that the security camera on the front of the barn had been activated.
The sedan continued up the pasture lane and came to a stop a short distance from the house. A murky midnight blue, it had the nondescript appearance of an unmarked police vehicle. Two occupants emerged—crew-cut men in dark windbreakers and dark pants. One remained by the car, phone to his ear, while the other approached the house. Because of Gurney’s angle of vision, he almost immediately lost sight of the man. A moment later, he heard loud knocking at the side door. Then silence. Then more knocking, accompanied by a raised voice, but he couldn’t make out the words.
After a quiet couple of minutes, during which Gurney pictured the man making his way around the house, he came back into sight, walked over to the car, and engaged in a short conversation with the phone holder—whose attention then returned to his phone, most likely to receive further instructions.
After the phone call ended, the pair got back in the car. They turned around and headed down through the pasture, but instead of continuing out onto the town road, they stopped at the side of the barn. Gurney noted the quick little taillight flash that occurs when a transmission passes through Reverse into Park—a sign they might be settling in for a while.