The ugly truth that Gurney had assembled from a number of observations, including the brand-new satellite dish on the corner of the house, was that while Payne was holding Beckert captive on Rapture Hill, he was forcing him to watch RAM-TV and witness the spectacle of his own ruination.
“All for the best!” Payne repeated, his mouth in a rictus of a grin aimed at the camera, his gaze as dead and cold as a shark’s. “All for the best. That’s what you said after you killed my mother. You called her a worthless addict. You said that her death from the drugs you gave her was all for the best. Then you replaced her with this vile, stinking bitch. You dared to replace her with this—this rotten, cancerous whore. All for the best!”
He gave Haley’s head a vicious jerk before going on with his speech to the camera. “You framed weak, frightened people to get them off the streets. Your streets. You sent helpless people to die in prison. All for the best. You put the girlfriend I loved in a hellhole where she was raped and killed. All for the best. You had nickel-and-dime drug dealers shot on the street for ‘resisting arrest.’ All for the best.”
He looked into the camera with those inhuman eyes. “So I’m thinking that I’ll do the same. Like father, like son. I’ll put a bullet in this whore’s head. All for the best. Happy Mother’s Day, bitch!”
Gurney jumped out from behind the Camry, firing his Beretta in the air and shouting, “Over here, scumbag!”
As the Glock swung away from Haley’s temple toward Gurney, a hard metallic impact rang out almost simultaneously with the sharp report of a rifle shot from the woods across the clearing, and the Glock flew out of Payne’s hand. After an instant of surprise, he shoved Haley toward Gurney and with a sprinter’s speed disappeared among the dark hemlocks. Less than a minute later that sector of the forest was filled with an eerie howling that increased steadily in volume and ferocity, then devolved suddenly into deep savage growls—until a high-pitched whistle produced an absolute silence.
It was then that the SWAT team emerged from the house with a drawn, hollow-eyed Dell Beckert. He had three sticks of dynamite with a cell phone detonator duct-taped to his stomach. The team leader placed a call to the NYSP to make sure an explosives expert was among the troops on the way. In the meantime, Beckert’s semireunion with his wife was conducted at a distance with desperately fraught expressions on both faces.
Hardwick stepped into the clearing from the nearby woods, cradling his AK-47. When he got close enough, Gurney asked casually, “So what was that Western-movie show-off shit all about?”
Hardwick looked offended. “Beg pardon?”
“Shooting the gun out of Payne’s hand. Nobody does that.”
“I know.”
“So how come you tried it?”
“I didn’t. I was aiming for his head and I missed.”
Soon the sound of approaching sirens reached the clearing. They seemed to be coming from all directions. Hardwick grimaced. “The classic clusterfuck is about to begin.”
The sun had long since been blotted out by a lowering bank of clouds. There was a gust of cold air across the clearing, and then the rain began to fall, turning the pulverized petunia blossoms that covered the ground into a million crimson specks—as though the rain itself was turning to blood.
EPILOGUE
The classic clusterfuck predicted by Hardwick did indeed take place. In the narrative that subsequently took hold in the media, the White River case and its messy denouement had no clear heroes. “Colossal Law Enforcement Fiasco” was a typical headline. One of the punchier news blogs called it a “Fatal Fuckup.” Focusing on the bloody final events, the RAM-TV news shows spoke of “the Rapture Hill massacre.”
District Attorney Kline came out of it badly. He was widely portrayed as the man whose repeated mistakes led to the catastrophe. Uniformly negative press coverage, rumors that he’d suffered a breakdown at the crime scene, and a growing public outcry led to abandonment by his political allies and soon thereafter to his resignation.
Cory Payne’s ill-advised alliance with the Gort twins ended badly. His scattered remains, torn apart by the Gort pit bulls, were found in a pine thicket at the foot of Rapture Hill. In his manipulation of the twins to kill Turlock—and to provide him with the dynamite for his plan to blow his father and all his father’s enablers to kingdom come—he’d evidently overestimated the Gorts’ trust in him. Daytime TV psychologists opined for weeks on Payne’s wounded life and dark motivations. A book titled Blind Revenge was written about him. It was optioned for a film.
The Gorts and their dogs vanished. The unanswered questions surrounding their disappearance and their ill-fated relationship with Payne provided fodder for many tabloid articles. There were claims of occasional sightings by backwoods hikers, and stories about them could give overnight campers gooseflesh, but there was no tangible evidence of their presence. It was as though they had melded like a malignant force of nature into the wilderness that had always seemed so much a part of them.
The Rapture Hill death toll rose to four when Marvin Gelter died in the hospital a week later of a massive infection.
Members of the Black Defense Alliance, temporarily leaderless, declined to make any public statement. So did Carlton Flynn, who apparently couldn’t come up with a sufficiently provocative political slant on the case.
Gurney’s role in the affair was treated in a muted but generally positive way. His accurate final assessment of the situation and his fearless confrontation of Cory Payne were acknowledged. Haley Beckert in particular lauded his attempts to warn Kline of the truth of what was happening at Rapture Hill.
As Gurney was falling asleep one night, the déjà vu experience he’d had when he looked at Beckert’s CBIIWRPD license plate suddenly became clear. The CBII part, standing for Cordell Beckert II, had prompted the half-conscious recollection that Cory Payne’s real name was Cordell Beckert III. Which would make his equivalent initials CBIII. Which looked very much like “C13111.” A severely injured person on a stretcher trying to scribble a note might very well end up making a B that looked like 13. So Rick Loomis’s note, which said in its entirety “T O L D C 1 3 1 1 1,” was an effort to let Gurney know that he’d told Cory Payne something. It raised questions that Gurney knew he’d never get the answers to. But that wasn’t unusual in a murder case. Too often the only people who knew the entire truth were dead.
Lines of grief became a permanent part of Kim Steele’s face. The weight of sadness in her was palpable. But she kept functioning.
Heather Loomis, on the other hand, seemed more deeply damaged. After learning of her husband’s death, her condition declined from a depressed state to a near-catatonic one. She was transferred to a major New England mental hospital for long-term treatment. She gave birth prematurely, and the baby was put in the care of her brother and sister-in-law. She showed no interest in the baby or the arrangements made for it.
Mark Torres confided to Gurney that he intended to resign from the WRPD to pursue a degree in social work. Gurney suggested he give the department another year. He believed it was cops like Torres who could brighten the future of policing.
Tania Jordan left White River without a word to anyone.