Other bits of information began stirring in Gurney’s memory. The fact that Richard had been at Wolf Lake Lodge for two years, and that Landon had been making visits to the lodge for the same two years. The fact that Richard had written papers that pushed the boundaries of hypnotic technique. The fact of his expertise in the fatal psychology of voodoo. Jane’s mention that Richard had been approached several times by research entities whose structure and goals were less than transparent.
Those little dots were certainly not conclusive individually, but they could be connected in a way that suggested Richard’s expertise had for some time been on the radar screen of a clandestine group not unlike the one Sylvan Marschalk had tried to expose. Landon would fit into that scenario as their undercover representative on the scene, the man whose original purpose would have been to monitor Richard’s “cutting edge” progress in hypnotherapy and ultimately to draw him into their orbit.
As Gurney sat there on Landon’s couch, his mind racing through the possibilities, he began to see how the case elements arose from two wholly separate interests. Steckle’s interest in the Gall fortune. And the government’s interest in Richard Hammond.
Those interests might never have intersected—if only Austen Steckle hadn’t made it seem that Hammond was responsible for four suicides, and if only Norris Landon had been less eager to believe it.
Gurney was confident that he understood what Steckle had done, and why. The man had been remarkably clever and successful, up to a point. What he couldn’t have anticipated, however, was the intense interest the “fatal nightmare” aspect of the case would attract in that shadowy corner of the government represented by Landon. And how that interest would influence the investigation.
Something else occurred to him there on the couch with the coffee table and laptops in front of him. The room’s unpleasant odor seemed to be the strongest in that very area.
He stood up and removed the cushions. As he was examining them individually, he heard something behind him that sounded like a drop of water striking a hard surface. He turned toward the fireplace.
When he was about to attribute it to his imagination, he heard it again.
He stepped over to the hearth, aiming his flashlight into the big sooty firebox, then down at the iron grate designed to support the logs. There was a dark shiny spot on one of the dusty bars in the grate. As he bent over for a better look, another drop descended onto that same spot.
He assumed the chimney was leaking. A bit of melting ice, perhaps.
But when he moved the flashlight closer to the dark spot for a final check, he discovered that the liquid on the grate was actually dark red. He touched it lightly with his forefinger.
It had the unmistakable stickiness of blood.
He lowered himself to his knees, and, with gritted teeth, pointed the beam of the Maglite up into the flue.
It was hard to tell what he looking at. It appeared to be something with matted hair. In the midst of the hair there was an irregular splotch of wet blood.
The first chilling thought that came to mind was that he was looking at the top of a human head—which would mean that someone’s head or, improbably, their entire body had been jammed upside down into the chimney.
That seemed impossible.
As he leaned in for a closer examination, the odor became more repellant.
Reluctantly he lay down on the hearthstone in front of the firebox for the best viewing angle and aimed the flashlight directly up at the hairy, bloody thing.
It was plainly larger than a human head. Perhaps it was an animal. If so, it was a large one. The matted hair was gray.
Could it be a gray timber wolf?
Wolves had been circling around the case from the beginning.
He retrieved a pair of tongs from the iron stand by the log rack and used them to get a solid grip on the object.
When he pulled down sharply, it came loose, dropping down into the firebox and seeming for a moment to be alive and expanding. Gurney recoiled, then realized what he was staring at was a rolled-up pile of rough winter clothing—a stained fur hat, a dirty canvas coat, battered leather boots. With the help of the tongs he dragged the fur hat from the ashy firebox out onto the floor. The back half of the hat was saturated with half-congealed blood.
Next he pulled out the canvas coat and the boots.
It didn’t take long for him to conclude that these were the garments worn by Barlow Tarr.
So why the hell were they hidden in Norris Landon’s fireplace?
And where was Tarr?
Had he been killed, too?
The amount of blood on the hat would make it more than a possibility.
But who could have killed him?
Gurney recalled his own comment to Madeleine: I think Tarr found Landon before Landon found Tarr.
But suppose it was the other way around.
Suppose that bloody scene by the generator wasn’t what it appeared to be.
As the new scenario dawned on Gurney, bringing with it a surge of fear for Madeleine’s safety, there was a small sound behind him—the tiniest squeaking of a hinge. Gurney stood quickly, turning toward the suite door.
Half in the darkness of the corridor, half in the low amber light cast by the kerosene lamps, the face of Norris Landon was just barely discernible.
The man took a step forward into the doorway. He had a sleek small-caliber pistol in his hand with a miniature suppressor, an up-close assassin’s gun—light, quiet, easily concealable. His gaze moved slowly from Gurney to the open laptop on the coffee table, then to the bloodied coyote-pelt hat on the floor, then back to Gurney.
His eyes were full of cold hatred.
Gurney met his gaze. He said nothing. He needed to get a clearer sense of the moment before deciding on the best approach to save his life.
Landon spoke. “In an ideal world, I’d have you prosecuted for treason.”
“For solving four murders and saving an innocent man?”
“Hell, Gurney, you have no idea what problems you’re causing—the wreckage I’m trying to fix. You have no idea what’s at stake. You’re worse than that lunatic, Tarr.”
“The lunatic who gave me your projector?”
Landon paused, giving Gurney a long appraising look. “People like Tarr are sand in the gears. It’s people like you that create real problems.”
Gurney picked that moment to cast a split-second glance down at his right ankle, then blinked a few times as if in an effort to hide the movement of his eyes. He wanted to convey the impression of a man thinking about a gun in his ankle holster.
The Beretta was at that moment in Gurney’s jacket pocket, a fact he didn’t want Landon to suspect. He hoped the slight downward glance had been seen as something not intended to be seen. It was a subtle game.
“What do you mean, people like me?”
“People wearing blinders,” said Landon. “People who refuse to see the reality of the world we live in.”
Echoes of Fenton, thought Gurney. Or Fenton echoing Landon.
“It’s a war, Gurney, the largest and deadliest war of all time. Our enemy is determined, obsessed, driven by the hope of destroying us. We need every advantage we can lay our hands on.”
“Like TIS?” As Gurney spoke, he moved his right ankle ever so slightly forward. He saw the movement register in Landon’s eyes just before he blinked at the mention of the acronym for the CIA’s suicide-research program.
Landon raised his pistol, pointing it at the center of Gurney’s chest. “Sit down.”
“Where?”
“On the floor. Facing me. Next to the coffee table. Keep your hands above your waist. Well above your waist. I hate firing a gun in an enclosed space. It leaves a ringing in my ears.”