On Harrow Hill

His route took him through a landscape that was by turns picturesque and depressing. There were expanses of bucolic countryside—glorious green fields and red silos, meandering streams and century-old fieldstone walls, hillsides covered with wildflowers. And there were sad emblems of economic decline—the broken windows and creeper-covered walls of once-thriving dairy plants, barns and farmhouses gone to ruin, bleak villages where even the FOR SALE signs were disintegrating.

As he approached the foothills of the Adirondacks, the old pastures and maple groves were overtaken by thickets of pine and hemlock, the land gradually becoming more forested. The scattered businesses included small motels, campgrounds, gun stores, rod-and-bait stores. All appeared in need of refurbishing.

Eventually his GPS directed him off the state route onto Skeel Swamp Road, a winding byway through a lowland of tree trunks standing in the shallow beaver ponds that had rotted their roots. A little beyond the beaver ponds a faded sign announced that he was entering Cemetery Flats. The only visible structure in the next mile was Dick & Della’s Place—an old-time diner, surrounded by pickup trucks. A mile past that a sign welcomed him to Bastenburg.

Where it entered the town’s commercial strip, Skeel Swamp Road was renamed Center Street, and its speed limit was reduced to twenty-five, giving Gurney ample time to observe the defining elements of the place.

In addition to two fast-food franchises, he passed a Quick Cash soda-can redemption center, a Hardly Used clothing store, a Thirsty Boys Beer Emporium, Maria’s Pizza and Laundromat, Smoker’s Heaven, Dark Moon Potions and Lotions, Golden Dragon Takeout, Iron Man Martial Arts, a pawn shop, a bail bondsman, a no-name gas station, two tattoo parlors, and a hair and nail salon.

There was a memorable sign in the window of the last storefront he passed on the strip.

CHURCH OF THE PATRIARCHS

FOR GOD, COUNTRY, AND THE RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS

Leaving the commercial area, the road rose gradually toward a distant ridge. When he was about halfway to the top, a dark blue BMW sped past him, going at least twice the speed limit, despite the poor condition of the road surface and the presence of a Bastenburg police cruiser parked on the shoulder. The BMW flew by it, but the police vehicle stayed where it was. As Gurney drove by, he noted that the officer appeared alert but showed no indication of initiating a pursuit.

When Gurney finally arrived at the crest of the hill and could see down into the next valley, he was amazed at how different it was from the one he’d just driven through. In place of the desolate beaver ponds, a glistening stream meandered through emerald meadows. In the middle of the valley the stream widened into a sky-blue lake with chartreuse willows on its banks. The end of the lake was bordered by a postcard fantasy of a New England village, complete with a white church spire.

Halfway through the gentle descent into this postcard world, a small sign on the mowed grass verge of the road bore the word LARCHFIELD in polished copper letters on a dark blue background. Even the surface of the road was different here—smoother, quieter, free of the cracks and patched potholes on the Bastenburg side of the hill.

As he was passing through an intersection at the near end of the lake, Gurney noted that Skeel Swamp Road was now called Waterview Drive. It led him along the manicured edge of the lake, past the willows he’d observed from the rise, to the edge of the village square. His GPS directed him onto Cotswold Lane—and announced immediately that he’d reached his destination. His dashboard clock read 8:59 a.m.

He pulled over to the curb under a giant maple just coming into leaf. Looking around, he thought perhaps there’d been a mapping error or that Morgan had given him the wrong address. On his left was the square itself—a parklike rectangle of perfect grass, gravel paths, stone benches, and flower beds with boxwood borders. On his right was a shaded sidewalk and a row of three large Victorian homes whose wide porches were surrounded by lilacs. Nowhere was there anything resembling a police station.

He could just make out the address on the porch post of the home he was closest to. He recognized it as the number he’d entered in his GPS. He headed up the bluestone path that led to the porch steps. There was a discreet plaque mounted on the clapboard siding beside the front door. Just as he got close enough to read the words on it—LARCHFIELD POLICE HQ—the door opened and Mike Morgan stepped out.

“You’re here! I was starting to worry!”

Gurney gestured toward the house. “This is your police station?”

“Yes. I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get to the Russell estate.” He pointed to a driveway beside the house. “Bring your car around back. We’ll go together in mine.”