“There’s a good chance he does. I ought to get hold of them for our own defense—and to keep Tarr or anyone else from getting them.”
“Anyone else?”
“It seems pretty likely that Tarr killed Landon and Steckle, but we don’t know that for sure. There’s always Peyton, or someone working for Peyton. These two new murders aren’t making much sense to me yet.”
CHAPTER 58
In addition to locating and retrieving any other guns Landon may have brought to the lodge, Gurney was hoping he might find among the man’s things some clue to the reason for his death—and possibly for Steckle’s death as well.
The timing of the murders suggested that the killer may have had access to the transmissions of one of the audio bugs and was aware not only of what Steckle had admitted to, but of Gurney’s temporary absence from the suite. That made Gurney wonder if they’d been grossly underestimating Tarr all along.
To his surprise, Madeleine insisted on remaining in their new room while he conducted the search of Landon’s possessions.
Before going down the hall, he made a final security check of their windows and balcony. Two differences from the suite—positive differences, under the circumstances—were that the balcony door in this room was solid wood with no glass panel, and the windows were significantly smaller. Breaking in here would be a lot more difficult.
He checked the Beretta to confirm there was a round in the chamber and that the magazine was filled to its fifteen-round capacity. He considered putting the pistol down in his ankle holster, then decided to keep it in his jacket pocket—a bit closer to hand.
He picked up the large Maglite and the master room key and stepped out into the dark corridor. He waited until he heard Madeleine double-lock the door behind him, then proceeded to Landon’s room.
He tried the door. It was locked, as he expected it would be. He inserted the key, turned it, and the door opened.
He stepped inside and swept his flashlight beam around the space, which appeared to be a smaller version of the suite, similar to the room they were now occupying. The same kinds of furnishings were arranged in the same way. He saw a kerosene lamp at each end of the fireplace mantle. There was a propane igniter on the log rack, and he used it to light the lamps.
On the coffee table between the couch and the hearth there were three laptops, three smartphones, a scanner, and a locked metal file box—unusual equipment for a vacationing hunter.
He explored the bedroom alcove. The bed was neatly made. There was a closet full of expensive-looking sports clothes. Behind the hanging shirts and jackets was a portable walnut gun cabinet with a combination lock. The overall impression was very refined, very upscale.
Except for the smell.
It was faint but repulsive.
Like sour sweat. With a hint of decay.
Mindful of his reason for being there, he removed the gun cabinet from the closet and brought it out into the main room. He laid it on the floor and got an iron poker from the hearth. As he was about to pry the lock off, one of the laptops on the coffee table caught his eye. A small pulsing light indicated it hadn’t been shut down, only closed and put to sleep.
He lifted the lid. The screen lit up. There were twenty or so folders as well as dozens of document icons—mostly photo and video files.
Before clicking on any of them, he opened the other two laptops and pressed their power buttons. After a few seconds each displayed a screen asking for an ID and a password. Within a few seconds of his failure to enter anything, both screens went blank and both computers shut down completely. He was unable to restart them.
That level of security was interesting, to say the least.
He went back to the first laptop. He wondered if it was more accessible than the other two because its files didn’t matter, or because Landon had left the room in such a hurry he’d neglected to shut it down properly. Hoping it was the latter reason, he began opening the photo files.
The first nine were aerial images of rural roads. Examining the images closely, he saw that there was a common factor among them. The presence of his Outback.
The next half dozen showed the Outback in various locations at Wolf Lake: emerging from under the lodge portico, on the lake road going toward the chalet, parked at the chalet, returning from the chalet.
As he was about to go to the next image, the date on one of the other folders caught his eye. It was that very day. He opened the folder and in it was one audio file. He opened it and clicked on the “Play” icon. He immediately recognized his own voice and Steckle’s—the confrontation they’d had in the suite. Steckle’s self-incriminating statements. His Brightwater admissions. His history with Wenzel, Pardosa, and Balzac. All bugged and recorded by Landon.
Gurney went back to the remaining icons on the screen and began opening them. There were three aerial videos he could see were taken at Grayson Lake: he and Madeleine emerging from the Outback, then standing in front of a tumbledown house, then standing by the lake itself.
Next was an aerial video that appeared to have been taken from the perspective of a rapidly moving, swooping camera—a video of Madeleine, turning, running, terrified out on the middle of Wolf Lake. Plus a quick passing shot of himself, Beretta pointing at the camera.
Lastly, there was a folder containing a series of Photoshopped images of a young man with a crooked smile and a scar through one eyebrow, wearing a leather jacket. The series started with an image that might have appeared in a school yearbook and, step by digital step, ended with an image that looked very much like a bloated corpse.
Gurney’s jaw muscles tightened as he gazed in quiet anger at this final proof.
Proof that it was Norris Landon who was responsible for the sophisticated surveillance. Proof that it was Norris Landon who had inflicted all that pain on Madeleine. He wished that the man could be brought back to life—so he could have the pleasure of killing him.
So he could wield that fatal hatchet himself.
Then, when his visceral reaction to what Landon had done subsided sufficiently for him to think clearly, a more complicated thought process took over. He began to wonder about Landon’s overall role in the affair.
What was his relationship with the other players? With Steckle? With Fenton? With Hammond? With the four dead men?
What, ultimately, was the game that involved them all?
And then a more immediate question intruded into Gurney’s consciousness: What the hell was that odor?
Its source was proving elusive. It seemed to be everywhere. He checked the closet, the drawers in the bureau, the bed, the chairs, the couch, the end tables, the wet bar, the bathroom, the shower stall—even the floors, the walls, the windows.
He looked under the bed, under the armchairs, under the couch, under the coffee table, under the throw rugs. Unable to locate the source, he focused on trying to identify the smell itself. It was acrid, faintly rotten . . . and slightly familiar. Like an elusive word or name, it was more likely to come to him once he stopped chasing it. To change his focus, he sat on the couch in front of Landon’s laptops and once again went through the accessible photo and video files.
They only confirmed Gurney’s growing certainty that Landon was a representative of the anonymous “national security” interests that Fenton and Wigg had alluded to. If so, then he may well have been the force endorsing Fenton’s view of the case and promoting the importance of securing a confession from Hammond.
It reminded Gurney of the New York Times story about the CIA leaker, Sylvan Marschalk, and his claim that a clandestine group at the agency was researching ways of inducing suicide through hypnosis. Marschalk’s nasty demise within days of making his allegations gave them a disturbing credibility.