by John Verdon
There was a small eat-in kitchen, a small living room, and a small bedroom and a closet-sized bathroom—all looking out over a weedy vacant lot. There was no furniture nor any other sign of habitation. And yet Blaze Jackson, supposedly acting for Jordan, had paid cash for a yearlong lease.
Had the place already served some purpose and been abandoned? Or was it intended for some future use? He stood at the living room window pondering the situation. The view from that window included some of Grinton, some of Bluestone, a narrow slice of Willard Park, and—he’d almost missed it through the hazy glass—the front of the police headquarters building. As he watched, a uniformed cop came out the main door, got into a squad car in the parking lot, and drove off.
His mind jumped to the obvious explanation that the apartment had been leased as a third potential sniper site. Why the other two had been used instead was a question that would need more thought. At the moment, however, it was outweighed by his desire to visit Rapture Hill. Perhaps when they were considered together the purpose of each location would become clearer.
57
Gurney by nature tended to go where his curiosity drew him without being overly concerned about backup. Oddities and discrepancies attracted his attention, arousing a desire to examine them more closely, even under conditions that might give others pause. In fact, it was his intention to proceed directly to the house at the end of Rapture Hill Road and no doubt that’s what he would have done, if Madeleine had not called while he was on his way.
She said she had no special reason for calling him, just a free moment and was wondering what he was doing. As he answered in some detail she was silent; he sensed the situation he was describing was making her uncomfortable.
Finally she said, “I don’t think you should go there alone. It’s too isolated. You don’t know what you could be walking into.”
She was right, of course. And while at another time he might have dismissed her concern, he was now inclined to be guided by it. At the next intersection he pulled over in front of an abandoned farm stand. The faded word “Pumpkins” appeared on a deteriorating sign.
He thought about the possibilities for backup. Any solution involving Kline, the WRPD, or the sheriff’s department would create its own set of problems. He decided to try Hardwick.
“Rapture Hill? The fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a house in the middle of nowhere, where Dell Beckert might possibly be holed up.”
“What makes this a possibility?”
“The house was leased by Blaze Jackson, who almost certainly had some sort of relationship with Beckert. She paid the eighteen-thousand-dollar annual rent in advance. I doubt she had access to that kind of money herself, but I’m sure Beckert did. And the house is just a few miles from the gas station where his Durango was sighted a day or so after he disappeared. So it’s worth a look.”
“If you don’t mind wasting your time, go look.”
“I intend to.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“A possible welcoming committee.”
Hardwick paused for a moment. “You want Uncle Jack to ride shotgun again to cover your cowardly ass.”
“Something like that.”
“If the son of a bitch is there, maybe I could find a reason to pop him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re taking the joy out of this. The only upside of riding shotgun is getting to fire the fucking thing.”
“Well, there’s a chance we might run into the Gorts.”
“Okay. Where do I find you?”
The meeting place Gurney chose, after consulting Google Maps on his phone, was the intersection of a winding wilderness lane called Rockton Way and the starting point of Rapture Hill Road. When he got there he parked in a weedy space between the road surface and the evergreen woods.
According to his dashboard clock, a quarter of an hour had now passed since his call with Hardwick. He figured it would take Jack another half hour to make the trip from Dillweed. He fought an urge to proceed at least part of the way up Rapture Hill on his own. Not only would that defeat the purpose of having called Hardwick, it would increase the level of risk in return for no benefit other than learning thirty minutes sooner whatever there was to be learned.
He tilted his seat back and waited, occupying his mind with various permutations of who might have set up whom for each of the seven murders and why. He kept coming back to the question that had been haunting him for some time. Did the murders necessitate the apparent frame jobs, or were the frame jobs the goal that necessitated the murders? And did the same answer apply to each case?
After twenty-five minutes, he heard the welcome rumble of Hardwick’s GTO pulling in behind him. He got out to meet him.
The man’s favorite weapon, his Sig Sauer, was strapped on over the black tee shirt that had become as characteristic a part of him as those unsettling pale-blue eyes. In his left hand he carried a scoped AK-47 assault rifle.
“Just in case things get interesting,” he said with a manic gleam in his eye that might have unnerved someone who didn’t know him as well as Gurney did.
“Thanks for coming.”
He coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit it onto the dirt road. “Before I forget to mention it—I got in touch with that boarding school Cory got sent to in Virginia, plus Beckert’s old prep school. Nobody at either place had any idea if Beckert owned any property down there. I spoke to half a dozen county clerks in the areas around those schools and the areas around the Beauville family tobacco farms, but none of them would give me the time of day. So much for that—unless you want to spend the next week of your life in the ass end of that state going over tax rolls. Which I think would be an incredibly stupid idea.”
“Nobody would tell you anything?”
“The psychologist at Cory’s boarding school told me Cory was a lot like his father.”
“In what way?”
“Strong-willed. Determined. Precise. Controlling.”
“No details?”
“Confidentiality laws. Closest she came to anything specific was to say that his mother’s death had a major impact on him.”
“Nothing we didn’t know already. Right now I’m more interested in Beckert. I presume he was involved in his son’s intake interview. She say anything about him?”
“Strong-willed. Determined. Precise. Controlling.”
“Okay. So much for that. Hopefully our visit here isn’t another dead end.”
Hardwick peered up the rutted road leading into the pine forest. “How far’s the house?”
“Little over a mile, according to the satellite map. All uphill.”
“We walk or drive?”
“Walk. Less chance of getting stuck, and it’ll give whoever might be there less notice of our—” He stopped as his eye caught a tiny glint of reflected light in a tree not far up the road. “If that’s what I think it is, we can forget about the element of surprise.”
Hardwick followed Gurney’s gaze. “Security camera?”
“Looks like it.”
They soon discovered that the reflection had indeed come from a security camera—a sophisticated model mounted about twelve feet off the ground on the trunk of a giant hemlock.
Hardwick peered up at it. “Axion Five Hundred,” he said with a combination of admiration and concern. “Motion-activated recording, satellite-based transmission. You want me to put a bullet in it?”
“No point. I drove into its field of view at least half an hour ago. If Beckert or anyone else is at the house, they already know we’re here.”
Hardwick nodded unhappily, and they continued moving forward.
As the ascent grew steeper and their progress slowed, a new theory began to take shape in Gurney’s mind. He decided to talk it out with Hardwick as they trudged along.
“Suppose that Beckert was the target from the beginning.”
Hardwick made a face. “You mean everyone was killed just so the sainted police chief could be framed for their murders?”
“I don’t know about everybody. Let’s say Steele, Loomis, Jordan, and Tooker. It may be that Turlock, Jackson, and Creel were just loose ends that needed to be cleaned up.”
“If Beckert was the target, what about Payne? Why was he framed first?”
“Maybe the ultimate purpose of that had nothing to do with Payne himself. Maybe it was just a way of damaging his father.”
“Damaging him how?”
“Politically. In that world, having a cop-killer son would seem to be a career-ender. Whoever engineered it couldn’t have anticipated Beckert turning it around into a plus.”
Hardwick looked unconvinced. “So what then?”
“Then, when the killer realizes the evil-son angle isn’t working out as planned, he takes all the physical evidence related to the first four murders and plants it out at the cabin, making it seem not only that Beckert was the murderer, but that he’d attempted to frame his own son for Steele and Loomis and the Gort brothers for Jordan and Tooker.”
Hardwick broke out in a sharp laugh. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”
“I’m just saying maybe that’s what happened. I have no proof.”
Hardwick grimaced. “Seems . . . diabolical. If you’re right, whoever set it up had no qualms about the murders and no qualms about the possibility of Cory spending the rest of his life in jail. All that just to mess up Beckert’s life? Seems out of proportion.”
“Even if I’m wrong about the motive, or about Beckert being the ultimate intended victim, the fact is that at least seven people have ended up dead, and some evil bastard killed them.”
A silence fell between them, broken by the ringing of Gurney’s phone.
The screen said it was Torres.
Gurney stopped where he was to take the call.
Torres’s voice was low and rushed. “New ball game. Kline just heard from Beckert. He wants to turn himself in.”
“When?”
“Today. The exact time depends on how soon we can make the arrangements he wants.”
“Arrangements?”
“Beckert wants certain people to be present, people he considers trustworthy witnesses. He says he doesn’t want what happened to Turlock to happen to him.”
“Who are these witnesses?”
“His wife, Haley; a wealthy political donor by the name of Marvin Gelter; Sheriff Cloutz; Mayor Shucker; and the WRPD captain you asked me about.”
“Quite a committee. Where is this surrender supposed to occur?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “At the location where he’s been staying since he dropped out of sight.”
“That’s not exactly an answer.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that. Kline briefed a few of us and said it was confidential and that absolutely no details were to go to anyone else. He mentioned you, specifically.”
Gurney saw an opportunity to find out if he was in the right place. “Kline doesn’t want me to know about the house on Rapture Hill Road?”
There was a moment of dead silence. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“But . . . how . . . how did you know . . .”
“Doesn’t matter. The thing is, I’m approaching the house right now. Tell Kline I’m here—and that I want to know what his plan is, so I don’t louse it up.”
“Jesus. Let me go find him. I’ll ask him to call you.”
Gurney turned to Hardwick and filled him in on the situation.
“Beckert wants to turn himself in? And then what? Confess to seven murders, then run for AG anyway, based on the impressive honesty of his confession?”
“At this point, who the hell knows—”
His phone rang, Kline’s name was on the screen.
“Gurney here.”
Kline was nearly shouting. “How the hell did you know where Beckert was? And why didn’t you notify me the instant you found out?”
“I didn’t know where he was. I was following a hunch.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“On Rapture Hill Road, not far from the house.”
“Don’t get any closer. In fact, don’t do a goddamn thing. This surrender is a big deal. As big as they come. I’m running the operation personally. Nothing happens before I get there. You read me?”
“Things may happen that require a response.”
“That’s not what I mean. You are to take no initiatives. None. You understand?”
“I do.”
“That’s good. I repeat, do nothing. I’m on my way.”
58
Gurney passed Kline’s comments along to Hardwick.
He bared his teeth in disgust. “Kline’s a pathetic little shit.”
“But he’s right about this being a big deal,” said Gurney. “Especially if the surrender is accompanied by a confession.”
“Which would knock your Beckert-as-victim theory on its ass.”
“If it gets us to the truth, that’s fine with me.”
“So what do we do until the cavalry arrives? Stand here holding our dicks?”
“We get off this road, stay out of sight, get closer to the house. After that . . . we’ll see.”
As they made their way up through the woods, the terrain began to level out. Soon they were able to glimpse through the hemlocks what appeared to be a mowed clearing. Using the drooping branches as a screen, they moved forward until they had a good view of a plain white farmhouse in the middle of a bright-green lawn. Next to the house was a garage-sized shed. Almost all the space in front of the house was filled with mulched beds and hanging baskets of red petunias.
“So what now?” muttered Hardwick.
“We treat this as a stakeout. See if anyone enters or leaves.”
“What if they do?”
“That depends on who they are.”
“That’s clear as mud.”
“Like life. Let’s take diagonal positions out of sight where we can watch the house without any cameras watching us.” Gurney pointed through the woods. “You go around that way to a point where you can see the left side of the house and the back. I’ll keep an eye on the front and right side. Give me a call when you’ve picked your spot.”
He put his phone on Vibrate so there’d be no chance of the ring giving away his location. Hardwick did the same.
Gurney made his way through the trees to a place that gave him good cover while affording decent views of the house and the shed. From his position he could see a small, very new-looking satellite dish mounted on the corner of the house. He also became aware of the muffled drone of a generator. As his ears became accustomed to the hum, he realized that he was also hearing a voice. It was too faint to identify any words, but as he listened he concluded that what he was hearing was the cadence of a TV newscaster. Under the intense circumstances, it seemed odd that Beckert would be watching television—unless, perhaps, he was expecting some announcement of his impending surrender.
Gurney’s phone vibrated. It was Hardwick.
“Reporting as requested. I just breathed in a goddamn gnat. Fucking thing is in my lungs.”
“At least it wasn’t a wasp.”
“Or a bird. Anyway, I’m in position. Now what?”
“Tell me something. If you listen carefully, can you hear something that sounds like a TV news show?”
“I hear a generator.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. But I do have a thought about your double-frame theory. Your idea that all this White River shit was ultimately devised to destroy Beckert raises a big cui bono question.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You also aware of the answer?”
“No. But it sounds like you are.”
Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause before replying. “Maynard Biggs.
”
Gurney was unimpressed. His recollection of Biggs as an honest, smart, compassionate man made him an unlikely multiple murderer. “Why Biggs?”
“He’s the only one who seems to benefit in any practical way from the destruction of Beckert. Remove the famous law-and-order police chief, and Biggs wins the AG election without breaking a sweat.”
It didn’t feel right, but he was determined to keep an open mind. “It’s a possibility. The problem is—”
He stopped speaking at the sound of a vehicle, maybe more than one, coming up the dirt road. “Hang on, Jack, we have visitors.”
He shifted his position in the woods for a better view of the opening where the road entered the clearing. The first vehicle to appear was Mark Torres’s Crown Victoria. The second was an unmarked black van, and that was followed by a dark nondescript SUV. They parked in a row at the edge of the clearing, facing the house. No one got out.
Gurney got back on the phone with Hardwick. “Can you see them from where you are?”
“Yeah. The van looks like SWAT. What do you think they’re planning to do?”
“Not much until Kline arrives. And there are other invitees coming to this party, assuming he got in touch with them. Let me check with Torres and get back to you.”
Torres picked up on the first ring.
“Dave? Where are you?”
“Nearby, but out of sight, which is the way I’d like to keep it for a while. Do you guys have a plan?”
“Kline’s calling the shots. Nothing happens until everyone gets here.”
“Who’s with you now?”
“SWAT and Captain Beltz. The mayor and the sheriff are being driven by a deputy in the sheriff’s car. Mr. Gelter is coming separately. Mrs. Beckert’s chauffeur is bringing her.”
“What about Kline?”
“He’s on his way. By himself, far as I know.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way. The RAM-TV people.”
“What?”
“Another of Beckert’s conditions. More witnesses.”
“Kline agreed to that?”
