Kilbrick, who appeared frozen in place, let out another piteous mewling sound. Gurney stepped forward between her and the object of her terror, gripped her upper arms, turned her away, and led her firmly over to the RAM-TV van. He got her into the front passenger seat and told the two crew members who were standing by the door with terrified expressions to make sure the EMTs checked her out.
He moved farther down the row of vehicles to the black SWAT van and the four cops who were trying to regain their vision. He quickly introduced himself as a senior member of the district attorney’s investigative staff and announced that he and Detective Torres had assumed control of the site since they were both uninjured and the DA appeared disoriented as a result of the blast.
He told them he’d seen a garden hose and water spigot on the side of the shed. As soon as they could regain enough vision to function safely, they needed to take control of the house—and Beckert, if in fact he was there.
Nodding their agreement, they headed for the shed, led by the one whose vision was least impaired. Gurney then got on the phone to Hardwick, who answered immediately.
“What the goddamn hell is going on?”
“Good question. Where are you?”
“In the woods. I figured I’d stay out of sight. Element of surprise might turn out to be useful.”
“Good. The scene here is an absolute horror show. I’m thinking there’s only one way any of this makes any sense. The whole thing—from Steele’s murder right up through this explosion—has been a giant manipulation.”
Hardwick cleared his throat noisily. “Giant manipulations usually have giant goals. Any ideas about that?”
“Not yet, but—”
His comment was cut short by more howling in the woods, louder this time and more prolonged. Then it stopped as abruptly as it began.
As he ended the call, he felt a wave of jittery exhaustion pass through him. The cumulative horrors of the case were taking their toll. The widowed wives of Steele and Loomis. The gruesomely methodical murders of Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker. The ripped-apart body of Judd Turlock. Blaze Lovely Jackson and Chalise Creel, dressed for a night out, dead and rotting on their couch. And now this—this gory devastation on Rapture Hill.
Counting the latest, there were now ten dead in all.
For what?
When detectives looked for murder motives, they often settled on one of the big four: greed, power, lust, envy. One or more of those was almost always present. But there was a fifth motive that Gurney had come to believe was the most powerful of all. Hatred. Pure, raging, monomaniacal hatred.
That was the hidden force that he sensed was driving all this death and destruction.
This was not, however, the sort of practical insight that immediately identifies a prime suspect—since hatred at such a pathological level is often well concealed.
Looking for a simpler way forward, he decided to try a process of elimination. He began with a mental list of everyone who had a significant connection to the case. The first eliminations naturally were the ten murder victims themselves—plus Marvin Gelter, who was unlikely to have triggered the explosion that now had him close to death.
He was about to eliminate Haley Beckert for a similar reason, but he hesitated. Her stepping out of the fatal area of the explosion a moment before it occurred was probably just a lucky coincidence. However, at least for the moment, she should probably be left on the list.
Dell Beckert, as far as Gurney knew, was still alive. If the texted confession Kline had received was, in fact, from him, he was the prime suspect and then some. But that was a big if. Gurney still considered it quite possible that Beckert was being framed. And if he were guilty of the earlier murders, killing off the few people who might still be on his side would make no sense.
Cory was alive and at the scene, and the injury to his vision wouldn’t get him off the list of potential suspects. What did get him off the list was the fact that he’d been framed for the first two murders, and Gurney was convinced that the same mastermind behind those two was behind all those that followed.
Kline was alive and at the scene, but Gurney found it impossible to see the moderately dishonest, moderately intelligent, anxiety-prone DA as an evil genius.
Torres also was alive and at the scene. Gurney found him a more interesting potential suspect—but only because he seemed so honest, harmless, and naïve.
The Gort twins, on the other hand, would never be accused of being honest, harmless, or naïve. They had almost certainly been involved in the bloody demise of Turlock; they were the likely source of the dynamite; and that intermittent howling in the woods was likely from their dogs. But Gurney was reasonably certain they were acting as the instruments of the same unknown manipulator who had planted the KRS evidence in their compound in an effort to frame them for Jordan and Tooker, and at the same time set up Judd Turlock as the one who framed them. It was the only scenario that made sense.
Maynard Biggs, as Hardwick had pointed out, was the person who appeared to have the most to gain from the whole affair—especially if Beckert ended up being prosecuted for some or all of it. In fact, if there was one clear answer to the cui bono question, it was Maynard Biggs. However, Gurney resisted the possibility of the man’s guilt—probably because it would destroy whatever confidence he had in his ability to read character.
And, finally, there was the rector of Saint Thomas the Apostle Episcopal Church, the Reverend Whittaker Coolidge—the man who provided posthumous exonerations for Jordan and Tooker, who was a major defender of Cory Payne, an enemy of Dell Beckert, and a huge fan of Maynard Biggs. He was also the individual connected to the case who Gurney found the least knowable.
Having made his list, he discovered that it did little to illuminate the playing field. No one seemed to leap out in a clearly persuasive way. Perhaps the basic motive-means-opportunity screen could narrow it down a bit—especially the means and opportunity parts, since they were more easily discernible.
He had started to think about his list from that angle when he was interrupted by the return of the SWAT cops from the shed faucet, their faces and jacket fronts dripping wet. Red-eyed and squinting, they indicated they were ready.
Gurney hoped their vision had been sufficiently cleared. “Priorities right now are, one, making sure no one enters or leaves the site without my authorization; two, establishing a no-go zone around the immediate area of the explosion and casualties; three, searching and securing that house. That’s the tricky part. We don’t know if Beckert is in there or not, or what his intentions might be.”
The cop closest to Gurney replied, “The tricky part is what we’re good at.”
“Fine. Just let me know what you’re going to do before you do it.”
The four, conferring in low voices, went to their van.
Torres, frowning at his phone, approached Gurney.
“The phone company pinged Beckert’s phone. But I don’t know if we can trust the result. The ping coordinates show the phone being outside the house.”
Gurney was more excited than surprised. “Do you know what kind of phone he uses?”
“BlackBerry. Like everyone else in the department.”
“Where outside the house did the ping put the coordinates?”
“Pretty much where we’re standing.”
“Be more specific.”
“I can’t. Given the distance between cell towers out here, they said the placement resolution would be defined by a twenty-foot radius around the center point of the coordinates. So, a circle with a forty-foot diameter, which includes that whole row of vehicles and this area around us.”