by John Verdon
“No, sorry about that. My plan was to go straight to the fair. Then, when I was passing through the village, I got the idea to stop for a quick shower and change my clothes. Hope you don’t mind.”
“It was just … unexpected. I’m more focused than usual on anything out of the ordinary.”
“Hey, speaking of that, is your neighbor down the road some kind of hunter or something?”
“Hunter?”
“When I was coming up the road, there was a guy down in the pines by the next house, maybe half a mile down from your barn—with a rifle, I think?”
“When was this?”
“Maybe half an hour ago?” Kyle’s eyes widened as he spoke. “Shit, you don’t think …”
“How big a guy?”
“How big? I don’t know … maybe bigger than average. I mean, he was way back from the road, so I’m not sure. And he was definitely down on your neighbor’s property, not yours.”
“With a rifle?”
“Or maybe a shotgun. I only saw it for a second, as I was riding by.”
“You didn’t notice anything special about the gun? Anything unusual about the barrel?”
“Jesus, Dad, I don’t know. I should have paid more attention. I guess I figured everyone up here in the country is some kind of hunter.” He paused, looking increasingly like he was in pain. “You don’t think it was your neighbor?”
Gurney pointed to the light switch by the doorway. “Turn that off for a second.”
With the light off, Gurney lowered the blinds on both of the den windows. “Okay, you can switch it back on.”
“Jesus. What’s going on?”
“Just another precaution.”
“Against what?”
“Probably nothing tonight. Don’t worry about it.”
“So, who … who was that guy in the woods?”
“Most likely my neighbor, like you said.”
“But this isn’t hunting season, is it?”
“No, but if someone is having coyote problems, or woodchuck problems, or possum problems, or porcupine problems, the season doesn’t matter.”
“A second ago you said there probably would be nothing to worry about tonight. When are you thinking there will be something to worry about?”
Gurney hadn’t intended to do this, but explaining the whole situation seemed now to be the only honest approach. “It’s a complicated story. Have a seat.”
They sat together on the den couch and Gurney spent the next twenty minutes filling Kyle in on the parts of the Spalter case background he wasn’t yet aware of, the current status of things, and the plan being launched the following day.
As he listened, Kyle’s expression grew confused. “Wait a second. What do you mean when you say that RAM-TV is going to run these program announcements starting tomorrow morning?”
“Just that. Starting with the Sunday-morning talk shows, and running through the day.”
“You mean the announcements saying that you’re going to be making big revelations about the case and about the shooter?”
“Right.”
“They’re supposed to run tomorrow?”
“Yes. Why are you—”
“You don’t know? You don’t know that those announcements started running yesterday afternoon? And that they’ve been running all day today?”
“What?”
“The announcements you’re describing—they’ve been on RAM-TV for at least the past twenty-four hours.”
“How do you know this?”
“Kim has her friggin’ TV on all the time. Jeez, I didn’t realize … I’m sorry … I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be happening. I should’ve called you.”
“There’s no way you could have known.” Gurney felt sick, absorbing the shock, thinking his way through the implications.
Then he called Hardwick and told him what he’d just learned.
Hardwick, still stuck in his traffic jam, made a sound between gagging and growling. “Yesterday? They started running the fucking thing yesterday?”
“Yesterday, and last night, and all day today.”
“That fucking Bork! That scum-sucking fuck! That rotten piece of shit! I’ll tear that putrid little fucker’s head off and shove it up his ass!”
“Sounds good to me, Jack, but we need to deal with a few practical issues first.”
“I told that little Bork bastard that the timing of the plan was crucial—that people’s lives were at stake—that the timing was a fucking life-or-death issue! I made that perfectly clear to that shit-eating slimebag!”
“Glad to hear it. But right now we need to make some adjustments in the plan.”
“First thing you need to do is adjust yourself the fuck out of there. Go! Like, now!”
“I agree the situation requires urgent action. But before we jump overboard—”
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE! Or at least do what Esti wanted to do from the start—call in the fucking cavalry!”
“It sounds to me like we’re about to do what we want Panikos to do—panic and make a mistake.”
“Look, I admire all this cool-under-pressure shit, but it’s time to admit that the plan is fucked, toss in the cards, and leave the table.”
“Where are you?”
“What?”
“Where are you, exactly?”
“Where am I? I’m still in Pennsylvania, maybe thirty miles from Hancock. What the hell difference does it make where I am?”
“I don’t know yet. I just want to give this whole thing a little more thought before I go screaming down the hill.”
“Davey, for Christ’s sake, either go down that goddamn hill now, or call in the fucking troops.”
“I appreciate the concern, Jack. I really do. Do me a favor and let Esti know about our new situation. I’ll get back to you in a little while.” Gurney ended the call over a final shouted objection. Thirty seconds later, his phone rang, but he let it go into voice mail.
Kyle was staring at him, wide-eyed. “That was that Hardwick guy on the phone, right?”
“Yes.”
“He was shouting so loud at you, I could hear everything he said.”
Gurney nodded. “He was a little disturbed.”
“You’re not?”
“Of course I am. But going nuts over it is a waste of time. Like most situations in life, there’s only one question that matters: What do we do now?”
Kyle watched him, waiting for him to go on.
“I guess one thing we could do now is turn off as many inside lights as we can, and lower the blinds in any room where we want to keep a light on. I’ll check the bathrooms and bedrooms. You turn off the kitchen and mudroom lights.”
Kyle went out through the kitchen to the mudroom, while Gurney headed for the staircase. Before he got to it, Kyle called to him.
“Hey, Dad, come here a minute.”
“What is it?”
“Come here, look at this.”
Gurney found Kyle in the hallway by the side door, pointing through the glass at something outside.
“You have a flat tire. Did you know that?”
Gurney looked out. Even in the dim light cast by the forty-watt bulb over the door, there was no doubt that the front tire on the driver’s side was dead flat. And there was no doubt in his mind that the tire had been perfectly okay when he drove up to the house half an hour earlier.
“You have a jack and a spare in the trunk?” Kyle asked.
“Yes, but we’re not going to use them.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think the tire is flat?”
“Because you ran over a nail?”
“That’s possible. Another possibility is that it was punctured by a bullet while it was parked there. And if that’s the case, the question is why?”
Kyle’s eyes widened again. “To keep us from driving away?”
“Maybe. But if I were a sniper and my goal was to keep someone from driving away, I’d shoot out as many ti
res as I could—not just one.”
“Then why …?”
“Maybe because one flat can be dealt with—with a jack and a spare, like you said.”
“So …?”
“A jack, a spare, and one of us kneeling out there for five or ten minutes to do the job.”
“You mean, like a sitting duck?”
“Yes. Speaking of which, let’s kill the mudroom light and get away from the door.”
Kyle swallowed. “Because that weird little hit man you just told me about might be out there … waiting?”
“It’s possible.”
“The guy I saw with the rifle down in the pine woods—he wasn’t that small. Maybe it was your neighbor after all?”
“I’m not sure. What I do know is that a very provocative message has been running on TV, a message designed to get Peter Pan to come after me. I have to assume that it might have worked. It would also be smart to assume—”
He was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in the den.
It was Esti. She sounded stressed. “Where are you?”
He told her.
“Why are you still there? You better get the hell out before something happens.”
“You sound like Jack.”
“I sound like Jack because he’s right. You have to get out now. I called you twice today after I found out about the screwup on TV. I called to tell you to get out.”
“It might be a little late for that now.”
“Why?”
“Someone may have put a bullet in my front tire.”
“Oh, shit. This is true? If this is true, you got to bring in some help. Right now. You want me to come, I can be there in maybe forty-five minutes.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Okay, then call 911.”
“Like I said, you sound like Jack.”
“Who the hell cares what I sound like? The point is, you need help now.”
“I need to think it through.”
“Think? That’s what you’re going to do? Think? While somebody’s shooting at you?”
“At my tire.”
“David, you are a crazy person. Do you know that? Crazy! The man is shooting, and you’re thinking.”
“I have to go, Esti. I’ll call you back in a little while.” He ended the call the same way as he had with Hardwick—breaking the connection in the middle of a cry of protest.
That’s when he remembered the message that had come in right after he’d broken off his conversation with Hardwick. He’d assumed it was the man trying to finish what he had to say, but now, as he checked, he saw that the call’s origin wasn’t Hardwick’s phone but an unknown number.
He played the message back.
As he listened to it, a chill crept up his back, raising the hairs on his neck.
A falsetto voice, shrill and metallic, a voice not quite human, was singing the most bizarre and least-understood of all children’s nursery rhymes—an inanely lilting allusion to the roseate skin sores, the flowers used to stifle the stench of rotting flesh, and the ashes of burnt corpses during one of Europe’s deadliest plagues.
Ring around the rosies,
Pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes,
All fall down.
Chapter 56
A Fatal Rage
“Dad?”
Kyle and his father were standing uneasily near the fireplace end of the living room—the end farthest from the kitchen area, and well away from the doors. The blinds were lowered at all the windows. The only light came from a small table lamp.
“Yes?”
“Before the phone rang, you were starting to say that we should assume that the Peter Pan guy might be out there somewhere?” Kyle shot a nervous glance at the glass doors.
Gurney took a long moment to answer. His mind kept going back to the creepy, singsong nursery-rhyme message—and how its words reflected not only its grotesque bubonic plague origins but also the Flowers by Florence and arson elements, Panikos’s own MO.
“He might be out there, yes.”
“You have any idea where out there?”
“If I’m right about the flat tire, he’d be on the west side of us, and Barrow Hill would be his likely choice.”
“You think maybe he’ll sneak down here by the house?”
“I doubt it. If I’m right about the tire, he has a sniper rifle with him. In that game, distance gives him a major advantage. My best guess is that he’ll stay—”
There was a startling flash of light, a sharp explosion, and something came smashing through one of the kitchen windows, flinging shards of glass everywhere.
Kyle cried out, “What the fuck …?”
Gurney grabbed him and pulled him to the floor, then drew the Beretta from his ankle holster, extinguished the lamp by yanking the cord out of the wall socket, and scrambled across the floor to the nearest window. He waited a moment, listening, then parted the bottom two slats of the blinds and peered out. It took him several seconds to comprehend what he was looking at. Scattered over a broad area out beyond the patio were the remains of the henhouse materials, many of the pieces burning.
Kyle’s voice behind him was a rasping whisper. “What the hell …?”
“The lumber pile … it’s … blown up.”
“Blown … what … how?”
“Some kind of … I don’t know … incendiary device?”
“Incendiary? What the hell …?”
Gurney was absorbed in scanning the area as best he could in the near-darkness.
“Dad?”
“Just a minute.” Adrenaline surging, he was squinting out at the perimeter of the area, checking for any movement. Also checking the little fires, many of which now seemed to be dying out in the damp treated lumber almost as quickly as they were ignited.
“Why?” There was a desperation in Kyle’s question that made Gurney respond.
“I don’t know. Same purpose as the flat tire, maybe? He wants me out there? He seems to be in a hurry.”
“Jesus! You mean he was just … just out there himself … planting a bomb?”
“Maybe earlier, while I was at the Winklers’, before you got back from Syracuse.”
“Jesus. A bomb? With a timer?”
“More likely a cell phone detonator. More controllable, more precise.”
“So … what now?”
“Where are the keys to your motorcycle?”
“In the ignition. Why?”
“Follow me.”
Crawling, he led Kyle across the floor and out of the room—now flickeringly illuminated through the glass doors by the burning lumber strewn outside—down the back hallway into the dark den. He felt his way around the furniture to the north window, lifted the blinds, opened it, and, with the Beretta still in his hand, eased himself carefully out onto the ground.
Kyle did the same.
Fifty feet ahead of them, between the house and the high pasture, there was a small hardwood thicket, just barely visible at the outer edge of the faint light cast by the fire, where Gurney sometimes parked his rider mower. He pointed at the black bulk of a giant oak. “Directly behind that tree there are two boulders, with some space between them. Slip into that space and stay there until I call you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to neutralize the problem.”
“What?”
“No time to explain. Just do as I say. Please.” He pointed again, more urgently. “Over there. Behind the tree. Between the boulders. We’re running out of time. Now!”
Kyle hurried toward the thicket and disappeared out of the wavering firelight into the darkness. Then Gurney made his way around to the corner of the house where the BSA was parked. He was fairly sure that in that position it would be out of sight from the top of Barrow Hill. He hoped Kyle was right about the key. If it wasn’t in the ignition … But it was.
He slipped the Beretta back in his ankle holster and straddled the bike. It had been
more than twenty-five years since he’d been on a similar motorcycle—the old Triumph 650 he rode in his college days. He quickly familiarized himself with the positions of brakes, clutch, shift lever. Looking down at the gas tank, the handlebars, the chrome headlight, the front fender, the front tire—it all began to come back to him. Even the physical sensation, the recollection of balance and momentum—it was all there, as though it had been preserved in some airtight container of memory, alive and undiminished.
He grasped the throttle ends of the handlebars and started easing the bike up from its leaning position, when a momentary surge of flame from the burning lumber illuminated something dark and bulky on the ground by the asparagus patch. He let the bike settle back on its kickstand, slowly reached down and got the pistol back in his hand. As best he could tell in the fluctuating light, the object on the ground wasn’t moving. It was about the right size for a human body. Something on the near side looked like it might be an extended arm.
Gurney raised his weapon, stepped carefully off the bike, and moved forward as far as the corner of the house. He was sure now that he was looking at the prone body of a man, and at the end of that putative outstretched arm he could make out roughly the shape of a rifle.
He got down on his knees and took a quick glance around the side of the house—confirming that his car was blocking the line of sight between Barrow Hill and the space he’d have to cross to reach the figure on the ground. Without any further delay, he crept quickly ahead, Beretta ready, eyes fixed on the rifle. With about three feet to go, his free hand landed on a wet, sticky patch of earth.
By its subtle but distinctive odor, he realized he was crawling into a pool of blood.
“Ach!” His whispered exclamation was as reflexive as his recoiling from the contact. Having begun his NYPD career at the height of the AIDS terror, he’d been indoctrinated to regard blood as a deadly toxin until proven otherwise. That feeling was still with him. Miserably regretting the lack of gloves, but desperately needing to understand the situation, he forced himself forward. On a scale of zero to ten, the dying light from the scattered debris still burning near the asparagus patch was varying from zero to two.
He reached the rifle first, grasping it tightly and pulling it from the hand that held it. It was a common lever-action deer rifle. But deer season was four months away. Sliding the rifle behind him, he moved closer to the body, close enough to see that the source of the blood on the ground was an ugly wound in the side of the neck—a wound so deep, ripping completely through the carotid artery, that death would have occurred within seconds.
