On Harrow Hill

“His father shooting him five times?”

“That, and the man himself. Elroy ‘Smoky’ Tate. A mob-connected arsonist, or so the news stories intimated. And Billy’s birth mother was no prize, either—an ‘exotic dancer’ who OD’d on heroin when he was in kindergarten. Maybe it’s understandable how he turned out.”

Mason’s tone was about as understanding as a hammer.

“I was told Billy recovered completely from the shooting. Is that right?”

“Physically, yes. But mentally and emotionally, no. He was worse than ever. I hate to say this about another human being, but I thank God he’s no longer among us.”

Mason unclasped his hands, stretching his fingers, then slapped his palms lightly on the desktop, as if to suggest that there was no more to be said.

Gurney had no objection. Letting the man end the interview on his own terms would make it easier to meet with him again if the need arose.

They both stood up. Gurney extended his hand, and Mason reached across the desk and shook it. “Will someone be getting in touch with my ex-wife regarding the vandalism?”

“I’ll check when I get back to headquarters. What sort of vandalism are we talking about?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Linda lives in the house. I live in a condo out at the end of the lake. I still take care of the property, mowing and so forth, but that’s just once a week. She no longer works here, but we stay in touch, particularly with any issues concerning the house.”

“Like this incident of vandalism?”

“She has a private therapy practice in the village, and when she arrived home last evening, she called to say that the front door of the house had been defaced. I told her to report it to you folks. That’s what I thought you were responding to.”

“Did she say what she meant by ‘defaced’?”

“Some kind of design scratched into the paint. Hopefully not into the wood.”

“Design?”

“That’s all she said.”

“Could you call her, please?”

“Now?”

“It could be important.”

Sighing impatiently, Mason took out his phone and placed the call. After a long moment, he looked at Gurney. “It’s going to her voicemail. Shall I leave a message?”

Gurney ignored the question. “Where’s the house located?”

“At the end of Skinner Hollow.”

“Where’s that?”

“Out past the north side of Harrow Hill. Middle of nowhere, really.”

“Is that the side of the hill facing away from the lake?”

“Yes.”

“Did your wife call you before or after she entered the house?”

“I have no idea. Why does it matter?”

“It may not matter at all. I’m going to drive out there now and take a look. I’ll let you know what I find, okay?”

Skinner Hollow consisted of a narrow, two-mile-long dirt road running by a stream in a ravine with sides too steep to accommodate any structures. At the end the ravine broadened suddenly into a pine forest, which in turn gave way to a mowed field. In the middle of the field stood a white farmhouse with blue shutters and a blue door. Behind it was a classic red barn. Unlike Ruby-June Hooper’s house on the lake, to which it was similar in size and structure, this house was as neat and crisp as Greg Mason. Even the gravel driveway was spotless.

The driveway widened to form a parking area in front of the house, partly occupied by a dusty white Corolla. As soon as Gurney pulled in next to it, he could see the nature of the “vandalism” on the front door. A chillingly familiar figure eight with a vertical slash through the middle had been scraped into the door’s blue paint by something with a very sharp point.

He lowered the Outback windows and listened. He peered at the windows of the house, then scanned as much of the surrounding field as he could see from the car. He opened his glove compartment and took out his ankle holster and 9mm Beretta. He strapped on the ankle holster. Beretta in hand, he stepped out of the car. His level of alertness amplified the crunch of the gravel underfoot.

As he approached the defaced door, he noticed that it was slightly ajar. That, even more than the scratched symbol, was disturbing.

He called out, “Mrs. Mason!”

A flock of yellow finches took flight from a large viburnum at the corner of the house. He called out her name two more times.

Silence.

He stepped up to the door and rapped on it sharply, calling out her name one more time.

Silence.

Clicking off the Beretta’s safety, he pushed the door open with his foot.

Silence.

He stepped inside and found himself at the front end of a center hall that ran back to a glass-paneled rear door. Through the rear door he could see a stretch of bright green lawn and the corner of the red barn. On his right was a small dining room; on his left a living room.

From an abundance of caution, he announced his presence loudly one more time. “Larchfield police! Anyone in the house, show yourself now!”

Silence.

He stepped into the living room.