On Harrow Hill

“We should assume Lorinda, until we find out otherwise. Also, I counted seven motorcycles in back of the house, but only six bodies on the ground, in addition to Morgan’s. So the seventh rider may be in the house. Beyond that, I have no idea. I looked for a way in, but the ground floor access points are all blocked by the fire.”

Slovak now was staring openmouthed at the bodies, repeating “Jesus” to himself and rubbing his scalp with both hands.

Gurney put a steadying hand on Slovak’s shoulder. “Look, Brad, you’re the ranking officer here. You need to take charge of the scene. If all those sirens I hear are any indication, this place is going to be an operational madhouse in a few minutes. I suggest you cordon off the area around the bodies and keep the fire engines to either side. Be sure to station one of your guys at the gate to keep a record of who enters and leaves. You’ve got a huge crime scene here and you can’t let it get out of control.”

“Right. Okay. Right. But . . . Chief Morgan? In a shoot-out? With Gant’s Patriarchs?”

“That’s the way it looks. I was over in Aspern’s house when I heard gunfire coming from this direction. I called headquarters, then got over here as fast as I could. What I saw when I arrived is what you see now.”

“He had a flamethrower?”

“Yes. Maybe the one confiscated from Randall Fleck.”

Soon the other vehicles began arriving, sirens blaring—Bastenburg, state police, and sheriff’s department cruisers; two EMT ambulances; another Larchfield cruiser; and finally a thousand-gallon pumper truck from the Larchfield Fire Department and another from Bastenburg.

Gurney remained at the periphery of the action, occasionally making sure that Slovak’s grasp of the situation was entirely consistent with the facts conveyed by the drone, without including anything beyond what could be seen or inferred from the evidence in front of them. It was a tricky balancing act.

He was pleased to see that one of the officers had found the phone on the ground and brought it to the attention of Slovak—who then mentioned it to Gurney, who agreed that it could be important.

Gurney was starting to ask if Barstow’s forensic team had been called in yet when he was stopped dead by a wavering scream piercing through the roar of the fire. He turned toward the house just as a second-floor casement window came flying open.

Lorinda Russell, the fire at her back and the sleeves of her cream-white jacket in flames, was trying to climb through the opening. She had one leg out when her hair went up in a sudden blaze. With a strangled screech of pain, she toppled back into the burning room. That final, dying cry was so dreadful—so razor-sharp in its agony—he feared he would never be free of it.

54

The unnatural May weather went overnight from merely dismal to raw and blustery.

“It’s more like winter than spring,” muttered Gurney, gazing out through the tightly shut French doors toward the old apple tree, whose few remaining blossoms were disintegrating in the wind.

Madeleine was looking at him over the rim of her coffee mug, which she was holding in both hands to warm them. “You want to talk about it?”

“The weather?”

“Last night’s insanity. Isn’t that what’s on your mind?”

It was, of course, very much on his mind, as it had been all through a restless night and into the morning.

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

She lowered her mug to the table. “With what’s bothering you the most.”

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I had a bright idea for discovering how Lorinda Russell would react to an extortion attempt by someone claiming to know that the shooting of Chandler Aspern wasn’t what it appeared to be. My idea turned into a nightmare.”

“I know. You told me all about it at two o’clock this morning.”

“I just can’t get it out of my head that I concocted this plan, and nine people ended up dead.”

“Was that your goal?”

“Of course not.”

“Was it something you imagined could happen?”

“No.”

“Why did it happen?”

“Morgan hijacked the plan for his own purpose.”

“What purpose was that?”

Gurney looked back out at the swaying branches of the apple tree. “My guess is that he wanted to make up for his own selfish behavior, his own mistakes, by killing the bad guys and going out in a blaze of glory. Or maybe he was feeling trapped and angry at himself and wanted to commit suicide in the most destructive way possible. Who the hell knows?”

“Do you feel responsible for his actions?”

“No.”

“Then what part of it can’t you let go of?”

He lifted his coffee mug, then put it down.

“Maybe I’m uncomfortable with the way I’m finessing the facts. At the scene last night, I avoided disclosing that I set up the trap. I shifted responsibility for the idea to Morgan by dropping the phone I used for my text to Lorinda near his vehicle. I told myself that raising my hand and claiming credit for the idea would only suck me into the murderous mess Morgan created—without my admission adding any clarity to the investigation.”

“And that has you tied up in knots?”

“Yes.”