In the reception area, Gurney went behind the main desk to the old-fashioned pigeonhole compartments built into the wall and took the key from the compartment labeled “Universal”—which he hoped would open all the guest-room doors. The idea of keeping Steckle in their suite with them overnight did not appeal to him. He was thinking the best solution would be to keep the man securely immobilized in a neighboring room.
In the upstairs corridor, instead of going directly to the suite, Gurney stopped at the door next to it and tried the key. It worked. He explained his plan to Madeleine, and they went into the room to look it over.
In the beam of his flashlight Gurney spotted two kerosene lamps on the fireplace mantle along with a propane igniter—which he used to light both lamps, turning up the wicks for as much brightness as they could offer. Although the room was smaller than the suite, it had similar features and furnishings.
With the central heating out of commission with the failed generator system, there was already a noticeable chill in the room—which prompted Gurney to set about building a fire. He wasn’t particularly concerned about Steckle’s comfort, but letting the man freeze to death overnight would create unnecessary problems.
Madeleine watched anxiously as he bent over the hearth, arranging a pyramid of split logs over a bed of kindling. “Shouldn’t you be calling someone? The state police? The sheriff’s department?”
“I can’t. The generator powers the cell tower.”
“Aren’t there any landlines?”
“The nearest would be in Bearston. Might as well be on the moon.”
“What are you going to do about Tarr?”
“There’s not much I can do—not at the moment.”
“What about everyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Norris? Richard? Jane? Shouldn’t you tell them about Steckle? And warn them to be on the lookout for Tarr—in case he’s the one who wants to trap us all here?”
The overload was starting to get the best of him. “I should. Of course. He straightened up from his fire-making and took a deep breath. “But there’s something important I need to tell you first. Something we discovered with the help of Robin Wigg. I got a text from Jack while I was with Steckle. It’s about what you saw in the tub.”
She stood very still.
“What you saw may have been a projected image—projected into the tub from the space above the ceiling.”
She blinked in bewilderment.
“Wigg gave us access to a password-protected website. There was a picture there of one of the devices that I believe was in the attic, over our bathroom—a very high-tech projector.”
Madeleine blinked, looked stunned.
“There’s a good chance that what appeared to be an actual body was a manipulated image. Probably an old photograph of Colin Bantry that had been digitized, sharpened, colorized . . . then altered in ways consistent with the effects of drowning.”
“But what I saw didn’t look anything like a photograph.”
“It wouldn’t have. It would have looked very real. Very convincing.”
Her appalled gaze seemed fixed not on him but on her memory of what she’d seen. “My God, who would do such a thing?”
“Someone hell-bent to get what he wants at any cost.”
“Someone? You mean someone other than Austen Steckle?”
“Steckle is certainly clever and ruthless and willing to kill to get what he wants—but this projection thing has a different feel to it. Maybe it’s the restricted technology angle, maybe it’s the fact that it doesn’t quite fit with the other things he’s done. Steckle is a practical man, and I don’t see a practical relationship between the trouble he’d have setting that up and any benefit to him. And there’s the knowledge question—how could he possibly know about you and Colin Bantry?”
Madeleine nodded. “Okay. I see that. But where does that take you?”
“In the direction of a hidden manipulator. One with unlimited resources. Someone willing to use those resources to get us to leave Wolf Lake immediately.”
“By terrorizing me?”
“Yes. By creating that godawful bathtub illusion.”
She shook her head, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to the truth of it sooner.”
“But you’re sure now? You’re sure that’s what it was?”
“Yes.”
“My God, I’m so . . . so . . . I don’t know what. Confused? Furious? Relieved?” She let out a small nervous laugh. “So I’m not crazy after all, am I?”
“No, Maddie, you’re perfectly sane.”
“We have to get him. We have to get that rotten bastard.”
“We have to. And we will.”
She nodded, her eyes alive with a new focus.
WITH THE BLAZE IN THE FIREPLACE WELL ESTABLISHED AND BANKED with enough logs to keep it going through the night, Gurney decided it was time to move Steckle in there from the suite.
He was stopped by the slam of a door at the far end of the corridor, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. The footsteps came to a halt some distance away, and there was a sharp rapping at what he guessed to be the suite door.
Gurney stepped out into the corridor. In the rising beam of his flashlight, he registered a now-familiar pair of Wellington boots, Barbour storm coat, and tartan scarf.
Norris Landon had a flashlight in one hand and a rifle in the other. “Gurney? What the hell?”
“Long story. What are you doing?”
“Our vehicles were sabotaged. Batteries whacked out of commission with an axe or some such thing. I tried to find Austen, but he’s nowhere to be found. I did find some footprints leading away from the destruction—which I intend to follow to get some answers. I figured a bit of armament might be in order.” He nodded toward his rifle. “Thought I’d knock on your door before I headed out, see what you knew about the state of things.”
Gurney saw no reason to conceal the facts. He gave Landon a somewhat abbreviated but largely accurate version of the interview in which Steckle had all but admitted his guilt. He included Steckle’s own account of his encounter with Barlow Tarr and the hatchet. He added that, while Tarr may indeed have been the culprit, it was possible that Steckle himself had done the damage. He concluded by explaining that Steckle was currently under restraint in the suite, in a kind of emergency custody, and would remain so until appropriate authorities could be brought into the picture.
Landon appeared dumbfounded. “Bloody hell. Austen. The whole nightmare business was just a ploy, then?”
“It would seem so.”
“Christ, you’re saying he took Fenton in completely? Made an absolute fool of him? The press conferences, news reports—they were all wrong?”
“Apparently.”
“Devilishly clever.”
“Yes.”
He paused, shaking his head. “What now?”
“Depends on how soon there’s a break in the weather. Speaking of which, are you really serious about going out to follow footprints? In the dark? In a snowstorm?”
“I’m a hunter, Mr. Gurney. I’d like to get to the bottom of the mess someone made of those vehicles. You say it might’ve been Steckle. But my money’d be on Tarr—just from the appearance of things. Gut feeling. The chaos down there. The wreckage. Work of a madman.” He paused. “I’d also like to take a look at the generators. Might just’ve been snow in the ventilation intakes that triggered a shutdown.”
“Be careful. You might be running into a man with a very sharp hatchet.”
Landon smiled. “Have you ever hunted wild boar in the underbrush at dusk?”
Gurney said nothing, waited for the punch line.
“I have. So, believe me, I can handle Barlow Tarr.” The smile disappeared, and the man turned away into the dark corridor.