“Okay,” said Hardwick, beginning to sound exasperated. “Once again we circle back to the key question. If Hammond didn’t give them their nightmares, who did? That’s the only question that matters. Am I right?”
If Hammond didn’t give them their nightmares, who did?
If Hammond didn’t give . . .
Holy Christ!
For the second time that morning, Gurney almost stopped breathing. He stared straight ahead but saw nothing. His focus was entirely on the significance of what Hardwick had just said. He repeated it to himself.
If Hammond didn’t give them their nightmares, who did?
“Hey, Sherlock, you still there?”
He began to laugh.
“What the hell’s so funny?”
“Your question. It only sounds like a question. It’s really an answer. In fact, it may be the key to the whole damn case.”
CHAPTER 47
Hardwick drove into a cell-service dead zone before Gurney could elaborate on his sudden insight. It gave him an opportunity to test it from different angles to be sure it felt solid.
Twenty minutes later Hardwick called back. “Glad you think I’m so fucking brilliant. But what exactly is this ‘key’ I gave you?”
“The wording of your original question. You asked, if it wasn’t Hammond, then who gave the victims their nightmares.”
“So?”
“So that’s the solution to the problem we’ve been banging our heads against from the beginning. The victims were given those nightmares. I mean, they were literally handed to them.” Gurney paused, waiting for a reaction.
“Keep talking.”
“Okay. Let’s leave Ethan out of it for the moment, because something different was going on with him. As for the other three, I believe each one was given a description of the nightmare. They never had the nightmares they complained about, never actually dreamt those things. They just memorized the details they were given and recounted them later as if they’d experienced them.”
“Why the hell would they do that?”
“Because that’s what they were being paid to do. We already saw evidence that there was some financial benefit connected with their coming to Wolf Lake—that things suddenly appeared to be looking up for all three of them. We didn’t know why. But this would explain it. I’m pretty sure that they were paid for coming to the lodge, having a session with Hammond, and then complaining about bizarre dreams. Not only complaining, but reporting the inflammatory details to reliable witnesses—Wenzel to a high-profile evangelical minister, Balzac to a therapist, Pardosa to his chiropractor.”
“Sounds like a hell of a scheme. But what was the end game?”
“It could have been a number of things. Maybe they were setting up the basis for taking some kind of bogus legal action against Hammond? A malpractice suit? Phony sexual assault charges? Maybe the whole thing was a plot to destroy his therapy practice? If Bowman Cox’s comments were any indication, Hammond stirred up enough animosity in certain circles to make something like that credible. In fact, as I think about it now, I wonder if the Reverend Cox might have played a bigger role than he admits to.”
“Christ, Davey, I need a minute to get my head around this. I mean, if nobody dreamt anything, then—”
“Wait—hold on second.”
Madeleine, bundled up in ski pants, jacket, scarf, and hat, was heading out through the reception area.
“Jack, I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
He caught up with Madeleine at the lodge door.
“What’s up?”
“I want to get some air. It stopped snowing.”
“You could just step out on our balcony.”
She shook her head. “I want to be outside. Really outside. I’m sure the snow is going to start again, so this is my chance.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“No. You do what you’re doing. I know it’s important. And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going to fall apart. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded. “I’ll be here . . . if you need anything.”
“Good.” She pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the frigid air.
With some reluctance Gurney returned to his leather chair by the hearth. He got Hardwick back on the phone. “Sorry for the interruption. So what do you think of the new theory?”
“Part of it I like a lot. I love getting rid of the idea that somebody made somebody else dream something, and the dream made them kill themselves.”
“What part don’t you like?”
“You’re saying there was a carefully worked-out plan involving three gay-hating creeps, possibly the same gay-hating creeps who killed the kid at Brightwater. And they came to Wolf Lake to meet with Hammond so they could later claim that he fucked with their minds, giving them horrible, sickening dreams. And their secret goal was to destroy Hammond’s reputation . . . or sue him . . . or build a criminal case against him . . . or maybe blackmail him into paying them to shut up and go away. Am I on track?”
“Better than that, Jack. I think you just hit the bull’s-eye. Blackmail. I think that’s what it was all about. It’s a perfect fit. They’d love the idea of extorting big bucks from a gay doctor, a known aider and a better of perverts. They could even view their get-rich plan as the work of the Lord. I bet just thinking about it would have given them a power rush.”
Hardwick was silent for a long moment. “But here’s what I don’t get. How come these ruthless, gay-hating bastards are now all dead, while their intended victim is alive and well?”
“An interesting question. Almost as interesting as . . .” Gurney’s voice trailed off.
Austen Steckle, in an arctic fur hat and heavy coat, was coming in through the lodge door, pulling a two-wheeled cart full of split logs. He pulled it across the reception area, into the Hearth Room, and over to the log rack near Gurney’s chair.
He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of a heavily gloved hand. “My friend, you need to talk to your wife out there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your wife. I warned her about that ice.”
Gurney didn’t wait to hear the rest. Coatless, he hurried out of the lodge and across the lake road. Although no snow was falling at that moment, gusts of wind were kicking up powdery whirlwinds from the lake surface, making it hard to see very far.
“Maddie!” he called, listening for a reply.
All he heard was the wind.
He shouted her name.
Again there was no reply.
Feeling a touch of panic, he was about to shout her name again when the snowy gusts abated and he saw her—standing still, her back to him, about a hundred yards out on the snow-covered ice.
He called to her again.
She neither moved nor answered.
He stepped out onto the lake surface.
He’d taken only a few steps when a movement in the sky caught his eye.
It was a hawk—presumably the same hawk he’d seen on several occasions circling above the lake, over the sharp peak of Devil’s Fang, along the length of Cemetery Ridge. But this time it was circling lower—at an altitude of perhaps two hundred feet.
As he watched, the next circle appeared to be lower.
And the next still lower.
Her face tilted upward, Madeleine was evidently watching it as well.
Gurney was sure now that the bird was gliding in a gradually tightening spiral—the radius shrinking with each successive orbit. It was a behavior he’d observed in raptors above the fields back in Walnut Crossing. In those cases, the purpose of the behavior seemed to be the closer evaluation of prey in preparation for an attack. The iced-over lake, however, seemed an unlikely hunting ground. In fact, with the exception of Madeleine herself, there was nothing visible to Gurney anywhere on the smooth white surface.