On Harrow Hill

“It avoids a complicated trial, legal challenges, defense attorneys picking our procedures apart, turning everything inside out.”

“True.”

“But you think there’s a loose end somewhere?”

“I have no idea.”

Morgan nodded meaninglessly.

Then Gurney asked, “How’s Selena?”

“I don’t know. We can check.”

“Good idea.”

Morgan changed the subject. “You told Barstow to check for beer cans or bottles out on the road by the Cursen place?”

“Her idea, as I recall.”

“The thing is, her people found a can with a clear thumbprint belonging to a guy by the name of Randall Fleck. Long rap sheet. Drunk and disorderly, harassment, assault, et cetera. Since the can was beside a public road, and the soil traces in the tires of his motorcycle weren’t unique to the Cursen property, we couldn’t link him directly the attack on the house, but we did manage to nail him with felony possession of three unregistered handguns and a fully automatic Uzi. We also confiscated a flamethrower. Hell of a thing! But they’re perfectly legal, no paperwork required, so he’ll eventually be able to get it back. In the meantime, I’m keeping it with his guns in our evidence locker.”

“Does he have any known connection to Gant?”

“The address on his license is the address of the storefront in Bastenburg that’s leased to the Church of the Patriarchs. And Gant himself bailed him out the minute the judge set the amount yesterday afternoon. Fleck was supposed to return for a court appearance this morning, but I got a message on my phone saying he didn’t show up.”

“Sounds like the Reverend was in a big hurry to spring him.”

Morgan nodded. “Bastenburg PD’s on the lookout for him. Once we’ve put this Aspern-Tate nightmare behind us, we can put more resources against Fleck and the Cursen thing.”

Gurney felt a flash of anger. “What you’re calling ‘the Cursen thing’ could also be described as two counts of attempted murder.”

Morgan looked like he’d been slapped. “You’re right—if the idiots knew the house was occupied. Otherwise, they could end up pleading out to aggravated vandalism or reckless endangerment.”

Gurney restrained an urge to argue the point. He realized that he was in a combative mood—and that getting out of Morgan’s office might be a good idea. In fact, getting out of Larchfield, at least for the rest of the day, might be an even better idea.

When his homeward route took him through the main street of Bastenburg, he saw a row of black motorcycles at the curb by the Church of the Patriarchs storefront. He parked a block past the storefront and walked back.

The front door was obstructed by a burly man in motorcycle leathers with weathered yellow skin and a rust-colored beard.

Gurney held up his police ID. “Detective Gurney—here to see Silas Gant. Please ask him to step out on the street.”

“The Reverend is busy.”

“This is police business. I need to speak to him now.”

The man didn’t move.

“Do you understand what I just said?”

“It’s you that needs to understand.”

“Step away from the door, sir.”

The man stayed where he was.

Gurney moved forward at an angle, as if to get around him. The man sidestepped and began shoving him back away from the door. Gurney bent his knees to lower his center of gravity, set one foot firmly behind him, and drove his right elbow forward into the man’s solar plexus, causing him to crash into the door, gasping.

The door was yanked open from the inside. Another large bearded man stepped out—with two more in the doorway behind him. He glanced back and forth between Gurney and the fellow sagging against the doorjamb. He slowly balled his hands into fists.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Police business. Step back inside. Now!”

The man stayed where he was until a soft voice behind him said, “It’s okay, Deke, I’ll take care of it.” Then he and the others in the doorway backed away, taking their limp associate with them.

Silas Gant stepped forward, his gray pompadour as unruffled as his tone. His eyes were fixed on Gurney. He showed no emotion beyond a mild curiosity.

“Can I be of some assistance?” He sounded almost paternal.

“Gurney, Larchfield Police.” He held up his ID. “I’m looking for Randall Fleck.”

“He’s not here, as I’ve already explained to the appropriate authorities. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The question brought Gurney face-to-face with the fact that, uncharacteristically, he’d given no thought to what he wanted to accomplish. The impulse to stop there had come from another part of him, the part that had responded with pain to the attack on Selena Cursen—the part of him that was full of the equally uncharacteristic anger that had driven his elbow into the stomach of the man guarding the door.

He spoke now with a calm emphasis on every word. “You’re an impressive speaker, sir. The things you say, people take them to heart. So the next time you make a speech to your congregation, you might want to include a clear condemnation of the attack on the Cursen house by a pack of ignorant, drunken slimebags.”