On Harrow Hill

“Honestly? Like a fifth wheel. I know you want help, but an outsider in an undefined position with no legal standing doesn’t strike me as the kind of help you need. You and your people know Larchfield better than any outsider ever could.”

The tic was back at the corner of Morgan’s mouth. “There’s something I haven’t told you. About my personal situation here. A complication. When I was heading up security at Russell College, I did some extra jobs for the Russells. Private investigations. Background checks on people Angus was doing business with. Things like that.”

“For which you were paid?”

“Generously. Which is part of the problem.”

“Oh?”

“What I mean is, a previous relationship like that . . .’’

His voice trailed off. He started over, addressing his comment to the ceiling as if it were a softening filter between himself and Gurney. “In a high-profile case like this, a previous relationship can bite you in the ass. So, I’m trying to insert some distance. Establish a framework of objectivity. You get what I’m saying?”

“I get that things here are more tangled up than you told me.”

Morgan nodded, now looking at the floor. “I don’t know why I didn’t mention it before. Compared to everything else going on . . . I guess it didn’t seem that urgent. And there’s something else—I might as well lay it all out. A situation with my wife is occupying a lot of my brain. I didn’t want to dump this on you. But I guess you have a right to know. So there are no secrets between us.”

Gurney waited for him to go on.

“After the city, the job at Russell College felt like a gift. It headed off any speculation or questions about my exit, because ‘Director of Security’ at a classy private college sounded like a step up. I didn’t just land on my feet, I landed in Shangri-La. I barely noticed that Carol wasn’t all that thrilled. I figured with her social work and nursing degrees she could find a job up here, no problem. The only thing that mattered to me was my opportunity. My career.” He paused, shaking his head.

When he continued, his voice was thick with regret. “So we made the move. But once we got here, reality set in. Things weren’t as perfect as I’d imagined. We couldn’t afford to live in the village, so we ended up out in the sticks, where we discovered all the rural pleasures—poison sumac, snakes, carpenter ants, septic-system backups. It took Carol longer to get a job than I’d imagined. When she finally did, it was for half of what she got paid in the city. And right off the bat she got involved in a battle with a pack of fundamentalist fanatics in Bastenburg—lunatics living in an armed camp they called a church—with rumors of polygamy, child marriage, sex abuse, violence. Carol became a thorn in their side. She used every criminal and civil lever to drag the leader into court and make his life miserable. But, as vile as he was—and still is—he had money and connections. When I was made police chief, her activism started making things dicey for me.” He rubbed his hands hard on his thighs, as if trying to warm them.

“I’ve had to bend over backward to avoid creating any impression that I was involved in her private war. In my paranoia, I even avoided having conversations with her about it. She was totally obsessed, and I stopped listening to her. I became extremely protective of my job. I was turning my back on everything that mattered to her. That crusade of hers had become her life, and I was ignoring her life to protect my job. I was acting as if she didn’t exist.” Morgan was leaning over the table, his forehead in his hands, staring into a private abyss.

Gurney wondered if that was the end of his story. Was the estrangement from his wife occupying his mind so completely that he’d become unable to do his job?

“Carol is dying,” Morgan said softly.

Gurney blinked. “What?”

“She has terminal cancer. Brain, heart, lung. Treatment has been discontinued.”

“Jesus, Mike. I’m sorry.”

“So, that’s it. That’s my situation.”

In the silence that followed, Gurney had the disquieting feeling that Morgan’s marriage was, in its own way, a darker echo of his own. There were major differences, certainly, but the similarities were clear enough to bring to mind that time-worn saying:

There, but for the grace of God . . .

And clear enough to soften his antipathy to Morgan’s neediness.

It was in this frame of mind that he found himself listening more openly when, a little while later, Morgan proposed an arrangement for Gurney’s continuing involvement in the case.

And it was in this frame of mind that he accepted.

With the privileged enclave of Larchfield in his rearview mirror, Gurney passed over the crest of the ridge that separated the emerald valley behind him from the grim expanse of Bastenburg in the flatlands ahead of him.