Payne looked agitated, running on nervous energy. “I got this weird message from my father. It sounds like he’s gone totally crazy.”
He showed Gurney the text on the screen of his iPhone, reading it aloud at the same time. “I’ve done what I’ve done for a greater good. Men of principle must act. I will surrender and explain everything on the top of Rapture Hill at 3:00 PM.”
Gurney found the message as disconcerting in its brevity as in its content. Before he could comment on it, Kline came striding over, demanding to know why Payne was there.
He showed him the text.
Kline read it twice and shook his head. His agitation level seemed to be rising by the minute. “Look, there’s obviously something going on with him. Mentally. Emotionally. Whatever. But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is he’s surrendering. That’s the part that matters. Let’s not get distracted. Cory, I’d advise you to stay back out of the way. In fact, that’s an order. I don’t want any surprises.” He took a deep breath and looked around the clearing. “The people Beckert requested have all arrived. In another few minutes we’ll be gathering them in front of the house. At that point he should present himself . . . and this goddamn nightmare will be over!”
He took another deep breath and headed over to the Range Rover to greet Beckert’s wife.
Kilbrick, meanwhile, was interviewing Dwayne Shucker in the area staked out by the TV crew about fifty feet from the house. Seeing Kline gesturing to her, Kilbrick concluded the interview and looked directly into the camera. “After these important announcements, we’ll be back with the event we’ve all been waiting for—the dramatic surrender of the White River killer.”
Kilbrick went to join Kline along with the three members of her crew. From their gestures and the way they were sizing up the large area in front of the house, Gurney concluded they were deciding on how the imminent appearance of Beckert, the positioning of the witnesses, and the actual movement of the man into Kline’s custody should be stage-managed for maximum clarity and dramatic impact. At one point he overheard the camera operator questioning how much screen space should be devoted to the floral display.
At the same time, Torres was talking to Beckert’s requested safe-passage committee—his wife, Haley; Sheriff Cloutz; Captain Beltz; Marv Gelter; and Mayor Shucker, fresh from his truncated interview with Kilbrick.
The four SWAT team members had come out of their unmarked van and were leaning against it with alert, impassive expressions. The sky was growing darker, and the petunia baskets were moving ever so slightly in the shifting breezes. The generator continued to hum in the background, nearly extinguishing that faint sound of a television voice.
There was something profoundly wrong about it all that had Gurney on edge.
The media aspect, of course, was surreal. But that was the least of it. The whole situation had a warped feeling about it—more like a bad dream than the culmination of a successful investigation.
Just then he overheard Kline telling Kilbrick and her crew that he was going to move his vehicle into a better position to receive Beckert when he was escorted from the front door of the house.
When Kline stepped away and headed for the Navigator, Gurney intercepted him. As disorganized as his thoughts were and as closed-minded as Kline had become, he felt compelled to share his concerns.
“Sheridan, we need to talk.”
Kline eyed him coldly. “What now?”
“Listen. Tell me what you hear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Two sounds. The generator. And a television.”
Kline looked furious. But he listened, then nodded impatiently. “Okay, I hear something. A radio, television, something. What of it?”
“I’m certain it’s the sound of a television. And it’s obviously coming from the house.”
“Fine. What’s your point?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Beckert would be spending the last few minutes of his life as a free man watching television?”
“Maybe he’s watching the news, seeing what’s being said about him.”
“That can’t be very pleasant. He’s being excoriated. Publicly ripped to pieces. Portrayed as a serial murderer, a self-righteous maniac, a framer of innocent people, a complete law-and-order fraud. The image that meant everything to him is being flushed down the toilet. The world is being told that Dell Beckert is a despicable criminal nutcase, and that his life was a total lie. You think that’s what he wants to listen to?”
“Jesus Christ, Gurney. How should I know what he wants to listen to? Maybe it’s a form of self-hatred. Self-punishment. Who the hell knows. I’m about to take this man into custody. End of story.”
Kline brushed past Gurney and got into the Navigator. Easing it out of its position in the row of vehicles, he moved it to a spot where the camera could follow Beckert’s progress from the front door through the floral area and across fifty or sixty feet of lawn to the Navigator’s open rear door.
As he watched Kline making his preparations for his moment of televised law-enforcement glory, Gurney’s uneasiness increased, and the what-ifs multiplied in his mind.
What if all this, including Beckert’s confession, was some sort of elaborate ruse?
What if Kline’s view of the case and Gurney’s own view of it were both wrong?
What if Beckert wasn’t even in that house?
As his list of what-ifs grew longer, he eventually came to a particularly troubling one that an early mentor in the NYPD had drilled into him. He could picture the man’s hard Irish face and bright-blue eyes. He could hear the ironic challenge in his voice:
What if the perp intended you to discover everything you’ve discovered in order to lead you to where you are right now?
As Kline was making his way back to Kilbrick, Gurney stopped him again with a rising sense of urgency. “Sheridan, you need to reconsider the level of risk here. It may be higher than you think.”
“If you’re worried about your safety, feel free to leave.”
“I’m worried about the safety of everyone here.”
As they were speaking, Torres was ushering the chosen five witnesses toward the house. A concerned backward glance from Haley Beckert suggested she’d heard Gurney’s comment.
“Christ,” muttered Kline, “keep your voice down.”
“Keeping my voice down won’t diminish the risk.”
Kline bridled visibly. “I have a fully equipped SWAT team here. Plus Captain Beltz. Plus Detective Torres. I have my own sidearm. I presume you do as well. I think we’re in a position to handle any surprises.” He started to walk away.
Gurney called after him. “Has it occurred to you that Beckert’s main supporters are all here?”
Kline stopped and turned. “So what?”
“Suppose they’re not here for the reason you think they are. Suppose you’re dead wrong about the whole point of this.”
Kline took a step toward Gurney and lowered his voice. “I’m warning you—if you sabotage our arrangements, if you do anything that impedes Beckert’s surrender, I’ll personally prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
“Sheridan, the confession makes no sense. The surrender makes no sense. Something god-awful is going on that we’re not seeing.”
“Damnit! One more word . . . one more syllable of this craziness . . . and I’ll have you removed.”
Gurney said nothing. He saw Haley Beckert watching him with an intensely curious frown. She detached herself from the group Torres had assembled in a semicircle around the entrance to the house and walked back across the lawn toward Gurney and Kline.