“Meaning?”
“Pardosa.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That was the species. The name of the spider. It was a Pardosa spider.”
Gurney thought about it for a moment. “So you figure that Steven found out that his last name was the name of a spider species, so he adopted ‘Spider’ as a nickname?”
“Or one of his Brightwater buddies knew it and gave him the label. Or some jerk-off in junior high started calling him Stevie Spider. Who the fuck knows? Point is, it’s got to be more than a coincidence.”
“Leo the Lion, Wenzel the Weasel, Pardosa the Spider . . .”
“Just one more shithead to go. The Wolf.”
“Yes.”
“Too bad it’s not Ethan. That would’ve wrapped things up neatly.”
“It would have.”
“With some luck the Wolf’s identity will fall into our lap like the Spider’s.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, Sherlock, keep your fingers crossed. We might be in line for some more good luck. I’ll get back to you after I see Wigg.”
Gurney was pleased with the Pardosa discovery. Keeping his fingers crossed, however, was not something he ever did. He didn’t like the concept of luck. It was, after all, nothing but a misunderstanding of statistical probability and randomness. Or a silly term one applied to the occurrence of a desired event. And even for the people who believed in it, there was an unpleasant truth about luck.
It inevitably ran out.
DURING GURNEY’S CALL WITH HARDWICK, MADELEINE HAD GOTTEN dressed. Now she came back to the couch so he could hear what she was saying under the music.
“It sounds like you’re making real progress.”
“We may be getting closer.”
“You’re not happy about that?”
“I need it to happen faster.”
“You said before you want to make the killer feel . . . what, threatened?”
“Yes. By giving him the idea that I know his secrets. That’s why I made my lists—to help me decide how much I can say without risking a mistake. A mistake would let him know I’m on the wrong path and kill the whole effect.”
She frowned. “Instead of wondering how much you can say, maybe you should be figuring out how little you can say.”
“Why?”
“Fear grows in the dark. Why not just open the door a crack? Let him imagine what might be on the other side.”
Gurney was no stranger to the what-ifs that thrive in darkness. “I like that.”
“Your plan is to let him overhear something through one of the bugs—something that will disturb him?”
“Yes. If someone thinks they’re overhearing something you wouldn’t want them to hear, it carries enormous credibility. A trick of the mind tells us that anything someone is trying to keep secret from us must be true. That’s why I’ve left the bugs in place. They’re the best weapons in the world to use against the bug planter.”
“When are you going to do this?”
“As soon as I can. I have a feeling that Fenton is on the verge of arresting me for obstruction of justice.”
The tic in her cheek was now plainly visible. “Can he do that?”
“He can. It wouldn’t stick, but it would be a giant inconvenience. The only way I can neutralize him now is to prove that his ‘fatal nightmare’ theory is nonsense. And the only way I can do that is to ID the real killer and his real motive. Or, I should say, motives, plural.”
“Like Devon Santos?”
“Very much like Devon Santos.”
CHAPTER 52
Gurney was no fan of rapid decisions. He generally preferred to sleep on his ideas and see if they made sense in the light of a new day.
But there was no time for that now.
With the music on Madeleine’s tablet playing loudly in the background, he outlined his plan to her, putting it together as he spoke.
Half an hour later they were sitting, bundled in their ski clothes, in the front seats of the Outback—ready to act out and record a prepared scene for later playback in their suite. Gurney put his smartphone in “Record” mode and placed it on the console.
Sounding tired and stressed (at Gurney’s suggestion), Madeleine was the first to speak. “Do you want a fire?”
“What?” Gurney sounded preoccupied, annoyed to have his thoughts interrupted.
“A fire.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, then. Do you want to get one started?”
“Yes. All right. I will. Just not this second.”
“When?”
“For Christ’s sake, I’ve got something else on my mind.”
There was a silence. Madeleine again spoke first.
“Do you want me to start the fire?”
“I’ll do it, okay? I’m just going over something in my mind . . . making sure I’m right.”
“Right about what?”
“The whole motive thing.”
“You think you know why they were killed? And who killed them?”
“They were all killed by the same person, but not all for the same reason.”
“You know now who’s behind it all?”
“I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Who?”
“Before I tell you, or anyone else, I need to do one more thing.”
“I don’t understand. If you know who the killer is, tell me.”
“I need to run my logic by Hardwick. Tonight. When he gets back from Albany.”
There was another silence.
“David, it’s absurd that you’re not telling me who it is.”
“I need to bounce it off Jack first. I have to be sure the links in my head make sense to him. I’ll tell you tonight. Another four or five hours, that’s all.”
“THIS IS STUPID! IF YOU KNOW, TELL ME NOW!”
“For God’s sake, Maddie. Be patient. A few more hours.”
“Shouldn’t you call the police?”
“That’s the last thing I’d want to do. Anything related to the murders would be funneled directly to Fenton. And that’s a complicated situation.”
“I hate when you do things like this.” Her voice was full of quiet anger. “Don’t you know how it makes me feel?” She paused. “So what if it’s ‘a complicated situation’? I think you should call BCI headquarters in Albany right now and tell them everything you know.” She paused. “Why don’t you do that? Why do these things have to end up with you facing off against the bad guy? We’ve been through this before, David. God knows we’ve been through it before. Too damn many times. You always have to turn an investigation into the Gunfight at the OK Corral.”
“I don’t want the BCI cavalry rolling in here with a fleet of cruisers and helicopters. The truth is I want to take this scumbag down by myself.”
Gurney was afraid he might have stepped too far out of character with that last comment, but then he decided it was just right—the sort of braggadocio the argument they were supposedly having might provoke. And it might in turn nudge his opponent into reacting with more emotion than intelligence.
He wondered for a moment if he should mention Brightwater or the Lion, Spider, Wolf, and Weasel nicknames; but he decided to follow Madeleine’s advice and minimize the content of their conversation. To leave whoever might be listening with more questions than answers. To let fear grow in the dark.
As he began thinking about the best way to end their exchange, Madeleine added in an angry voice, “Same old story, again and again. It’s always what you want—your goals, your commitments, your priorities. It’s never about us. What about our life? Does our life occupy any space in your mind at all?”
He was nonplussed for a moment by her tone and choice of words, perhaps because they expressed so harshly the issue that existed in their real lives. The “detective versus husband” dichotomy in his own life. He hoped to God that the fury he just heard was mostly playacting. If it was, it was exactly that kind of spontaneous-sounding emotion that would make their conversation instantly credible to any listener. And it gave him an idea for a good way to conclude the recording.