CHAPTER 54
In darkness and silence, Gurney’s mind often drifted toward unanswered questions.
That afternoon, sitting next to Madeleine in the silent gloom of the attic staircase, he was considering a question that had been lurking at the edge of his consciousness ever since he’d examined the joist space over the bathroom.
Might the unidentified little device that had been installed there, and was now in Hardwick’s possession, be some sort of miniaturized projector?
Discounting the significant size problem, it would make sense. The reflective inner surface of the tub would make a serviceable screen. The subtle distortion created by the concavity of the tub bottom, by the water itself, and by the rising wisps of steam might actually enhance the “reality” of a projected image. More credibility would be added by the specific physical environment—i.e., people were accustomed to seeing bodies (live ones) in tubs. The mind would tend to accept such an illusion as real.
But what would be the purpose of such a cruel trick? To push Madeleine into an emotional breakdown? Gurney wondered if Fenton could be that obsessively determined to get rid of him. Who besides Fenton might find it worth the trouble? The killer? One of Fenton’s anonymous overlords? How would they know about Colin Bantry? How would they know that Madeleine would be so vulnerable to that issue at that time?
Then a truly uncomfortable personal question occurred to Gurney: Which explanation would he prefer to be true? That Madeleine’s experience had been assembled in the smoke and mirrors of her own mind? Or that it had been the product of sophisticated technology?
He wondered if he’d been focusing on the first possibility because the second had about it such a strong whiff of paranoia. Or perhaps because it brought so many additional complications to a case that he feared might be already be beyond his abilities.
He felt anger rising in him.
Anger at his own apparent inadequacy.
Anger at the endless accumulation of questions.
Anger at the possibility of someone damaging Madeleine’s mental balance.
Her voice broke into his private purgatory. “Are you okay?”
“I was thinking about what you saw in the tub. I was thinking it might—”
His comment was cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps hurrying up the front staircase from the reception area.
“This could be what we’ve been waiting for. Stay here. Don’t make a sound.” Gurney quietly left the stairwell, moving out to a point from which he could see down the length of the corridor. He checked his watch. He could barely make out the time, but he judged that the recording he’d set to play back in the suite would have ended just a few minutes earlier.
A short, thickset figure, breathing heavily, approached the suite door and knocked. “Mr. Gurney?” The voice was Steckle’s. He knocked a second time.
Gurney waited and watched.
Steckle knocked a third time, waited, then opened the door with a key. He called out, “Hello? Anybody here?” After a brief hesitation, he went inside and closed the door behind him.
Gurney returned to Madeleine. “It’s Austen Steckle. In our suite.”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“I’ll find out. But I’d like you to be a little further out of sight. Maybe at the top of these stairs? He took out his flashlight and pointed at the attic door on the top landing. “See that? If you hear any commotion down here, just step into the attic and shut the door behind you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out if Steckle is one of our hornets.” He pointed up the stairwell again with his flashlight.
She headed up the stairs. When she reached the top, he went out into the corridor and moved quickly to the suite door.
It wasn’t locked. He eased it open and stepped inside.
In the cold, gray light Steckle was moving across the sitting room. There was something in his hand.
Gurney gripped the Beretta in his jacket pocket. “You looking for me?”
Steckle spun around, his eyes widening. “Mr. Gurney. I thought . . . I mean . . . are you all right?”
“Fine. What are you doing?”
“I came to warn you.” He held out the object in his hand. “Look at this.”
“Do me a favor. Turn on that lamp by the couch.”
“Right. Sure.”
The lamplight illuminated a brightly honed hatchet.
“Tarr was chopping the battery cables on your Outback. Just finished doing the same to the Jeeps. And Norris’s Land Rover. When I went out to stop him, he threw this damn thing at me. Could have taken my head off. Son of a bitch ran off into the storm. Christ! I wanted to make sure you and Mrs. Gurney were all right.”
“We’re fine.”
Steckle glanced toward the alcove. “I knew we shouldn’t have kept that son of a bitch around.”
“Any idea where he went?”
“Who the hell knows? He ran into the snow, into the woods, like an animal.” He held up the hatchet.
“Lay it on the coffee table.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at it, but I don’t want to touch it.”
He laid it next to Madeleine’s tablet. “That’s some goddamn weapon, eh?”
Gurney took a few steps closer, his hand still on the Beretta in his pocket. “You said he was chopping my battery cables?”
“Was giving them a whack just as I came out.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“How the hell would I know what goes on in that lunatic’s head?”
More interesting to Gurney than Steckle’s story about the severing of the battery cables was the unlikelihood of it having occurred the way he claimed. And it seemed inconceivable that Barlow Tarr was the hornet aroused by the bugged conversation, much less the mastermind of the most complex murder plot Gurney had ever encountered.
“You’re the detective. What do you think’s going on?” asked Steckle.
“Let’s take a minute and talk about that. Maybe we can figure it out together. I have some questions I think you can help me with. Have a seat.”
Steckle hesitated, seemed about to object, then sat down with obvious reluctance.
Gurney perched on the arm of the couch opposite him. “First, before I forget . . . what kind of name is Alfonz Volk?”
“That’s not my name. Volk was the guy my mother married.”
“So you told me. But what nationality was he?”
“I don’t know. Slovenian maybe. Something like that. Why do you want to know?”
“Just curiosity.” In Gurney’s long experience with interrogation, jarring changes of subject often produced good results. “So what do you really think that business with Tarr was all about—assuming he’s not just a lunatic doing things that make no sense at all.”
“I don’t know. You cut battery cables, cars don’t run. Maybe he doesn’t want any of us to leave.”
“What do you think his reason would be for keeping us here?”
Steckle shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You think he might have killed Ethan?”
“I guess it’s possible, right?”
“Why would he have done it?”
“Maybe he figured Ethan was finally going to get rid of him.”
“You think he killed him to keep from being fired?”
“It’s possible.”
“Except Tarr was never at Camp Brightwater. And the killer was.”
For a split second Steckle’s expression froze.
“Where Scott Fallon was killed. Where this whole mess began.”