He’d hardly finished when the lodge door opened and Fenton himself walked into the reception area, followed by a uniformed trooper. The trooper took up a position at the door as Fenton strode over to the Hearth Room, stopping in the archway entrance.
His gaze moved from face to face, then came to rest on Hardwick’s. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Well, well. I’d heard a nasty rumor that my old buddy Jack was trying to screw up an important case of mine. And then, just this morning, I get a call from the Highway Department about someone who claimed to be from BCI commandeering a major piece of highway equipment. I thought I ought to look into it myself. And look who I find in possession of that stolen equipment. Sorry to say, it appears to me that everyone in this room may be implicated.”
The smirk stretched into a sadistic grin. “This is a serious matter. I’m afraid I can’t let a past friendship get in the way of my present duty.”
Hardwick smiled. His voice was cordial. “You know, Gil, you never did have much of a brain. But right now you’re setting a new record for shitheadedness.”
Perhaps because of the disconnect between the tone and the words, it took a moment for the comment to register. When it did, Fenton started moving toward Hardwick, and the trooper by the outer door started moving toward the Hearth Room with his hand on his holstered Glock.
Seeing disaster seconds away, Gurney intervened the only way he was sure would work. He said, loud and clear, “Austen Steckle is dead. Norris Landon killed him.”
Fenton’s forward movement ceased.
The trooper came to a halt in the middle of the reception area.
Both looked as bewildered as if Gurney had announced the arrival of space aliens.
FOR THE NEXT TEN MINUTES FENTON LISTENED STONE-FACED—except for an occasional twitch at the corner of his eye—to a detailed narrative of Austen Steckle’s diabolical plot with its core illusion of induced suicides; the reverberations of that notion in a dark corner of the national security world; and Landon’s desperate cover-up attempt.
At length Fenton muttered a single-word question. “Steckle?”
Gurney nodded. “A very intelligent man. Maybe the only murderer in history clever enough to persuade his intended victims to publicly announce they were feeling suicidal.”
“And you shot Landon?”
“I had to. He was in the process of trying to kill everyone here, including me, who could reveal his misinterpretation of the suicides. In his world, gullibility is an unforgivable sin.”
Fenton nodded like a man suffering from a concussion. The silence ended a few seconds later with a commotion in the reception area—which he seemed hardly to notice.
A burly man in a leather jacket had burst in through the front door and was speaking to the trooper in a loud voice—demanding a police escort to the regional hospital in Plattsburgh.
Gurney’s first thought was that it might have something to do with Landon. But when the trooper questioned the man further, he explained that he had Peyton Gall “and a lady” in Gall’s Mercedes, and that Peyton and the lady might or might not be frozen to death, having “dozed off after a few drinks” in a hot tub that turned into a container of ice water during the blackout. That, in Gurney’s opinion, was just outlandish enough to be true.
When the trooper came to ask how Fenton wanted it handled, he stared at him uncomprehendingly and muttered, “Do whatever you want.”
The trooper went back and told the man—who Gurney now recognized as the unfriendly guard at Peyton’s gate—to get his frozen passengers to Plattsburgh as best he could. The man complained loudly, swore, and left.
Gurney suggested to the trooper that he call for reinforcements to begin the search for Landon, for a crime-scene team to deal with the body out by the generators and the one tied to a chair upstairs in the suite, for an electrician to restore power, and for another BCI senior investigator to provide whatever assistance might be needed under the circumstances. He made these suggestions clearly enough for everyone to hear them—so the trooper could interpret the lack of objection from Fenton as approval to proceed.
Explaining that his radio was more reliable on the ridge than in the lodge, the trooper headed out on his communications mission. Fenton followed him from the lodge to the cruiser, but didn’t get in. When the cruiser departed, Fenton remained under the portico, gazing after it.
“He’s completely fucked,” said Hardwick.
“Yes.”
Hardwick coughed into a filthy handkerchief. “I better return the borrowed snow blower to the Highway Department yard and put that bullshit stolen-equipment issue to rest.”
“Good idea.”
“I left Esti’s truck there when I took the snow blower, so I’ll get that and come back.”
“When you’re out there passing through live cell country, get the word to our contacts in Palm Beach, Teaneck, and New Jersey. Tell Esti. Tell Robin Wigg. Tell anyone you feel like telling. I want to be sure there’s no way anyone can roll this up and make it disappear.”
Hardwick zipped up his jacket and headed out to the giant machine.
Neither he nor Fenton acknowledged the other.
CHAPTER 60
Shortly after Hardwick departed, the Hammonds announced their intention to return to the chalet and begin the process of sorting and packing their belongings. Although nothing was certain and the timing was yet to be determined, they imagined they would be returning soon to Mill Valley.
In addition to his share of the estate’s liquid assets, Peyton’s inheritance would include the lodge, the lake, and a few thousand acres of Adirondack wilderness. There was no way of knowing what his plans for it might be; but if Richard was sure of anything, it would be that he personally would have no place—nor would he want one—under the new regime.
By the time the Hammonds were pulling out onto the lake road, the sun had risen well above the eastern ridge, turning the ice crystals in the air into shimmering points of light. Madeleine was eager to get out of the gloom of the lodge into the brightness of the day. Gurney got their heavy jackets, scarves, gloves, and hats from the room. They bundled themselves up and stepped outside into the cold, clear air.
Evidently wanting to avoid any personal contact, Fenton moved away from the portico and began trudging slowly along the lake road in the direction opposite the one the Hammonds had taken.
“I suppose I should feel sorry for him,” said Madeleine. “But when I think of what he did to Richard . . .” She shook her head. “What a horror it all was.”
“It was all wishful thinking.”
“On Fenton’s part?”
“On everyone’s part. Ethan wanted to believe that his rehabilitation program had transformed the sociopathic Alfonz Volk into the straight-arrow Austen Steckle. Landon wanted to believe that the secret mind-control technique he’d been pursuing for years was finally within his grasp, if only he could force Hammond to divulge it. Fenton wanted to believe that he was a good soldier on the right side of a just war.”
“And Steckle?”
“Steckle wanted to believe that achieving total control of everything, and eliminating anyone who might take it away, would finally make him perfectly happy.”
“And what about me?”
“You?”
“I was no slouch at wishful thinking. I really did believe that I’d dealt with that terrible teenage mess—just because I’d told a therapist about it. I wanted to believe I’d put it all aside. And I think she wanted to believe that her therapeutic skills had worked wonders. God, it’s not the lies people tell us that do the real damage. It’s the lies we tell ourselves—the ones we’re desperate to believe.”