On Harrow Hill

Barstow had followed him. “I’m thinking we should start our site processing inside the house, then work our way out here. That okay with you?”

He nodded his assent. “The blood spot on the kitchen rug suggests the killer made initial contact with the victim inside the house, knocked her unconscious, then dragged her out here. So it would make sense to start there.”

“You just referred to ‘the killer.’ Does that mean you’re not sure it was Billy Tate?”

“I’m not sure of anything. I’ve discovered that being sure this early in a murder case is a sure way of being wrong.”

Gurney then heard sharply raised voices and noticed men jostling out by the opening in the perimeter tape. Heading that way, he could see that the two patrol officers charged with securing the restricted area were struggling to restrain a man trying to enter. He got a clear line of sight to the man’s face.

Greg Mason, eyes wide and voice ragged, demanded to be allowed onto his property. Behind him on the lawn, alongside the official vehicles, was the car Gurney assumed he’d arrived in—a blue Prius, with its driver’s-side door hanging open.

One of the cops barring Mason’s entry was repeating, like an automatic tape loop, “Just calm down, sir. Just calm down, sir. Everything will be explained. Just calm down.”

“Mr. Mason,” said Gurney, walking up to him.

Mason blinked several times and stared at him. “You said you’d call me as soon as you got here. That was a goddamn hour ago. What the hell is going on here?”

“Can we sit down?”

“What?”

“Let’s go sit in your car.”

Apparently content to let Gurney deal with the problem, the two cops backed away.

Gurney led Mason toward the Prius. Gurney directed him to the car’s passenger side and took the driver’s seat himself. This seemed to confuse Mason, but he made no objection.

“A hard day,” said Gurney softly.

Mason stared at him. “What is it? What happened?”

The fear in the man’s voice told Gurney that he might be guessing at the truth.

“We found the body of a woman on your property.”

Mason blinked, his mouth opening slowly. “A woman?”

“Yes.”

Mason’s lips moved for a few seconds before he spoke and his voice contracted to little more than a whisper. “Do you mean my wife?”

“Can you describe her to me?”

Mason looked lost.

“Her age?”

“Fifty . . . fifty-one. Yes. Fifty-one.”

“Her hair?”

He sounded as if his mouth had gone dry. “Brown. Mostly brown. A little gray. Here and there.”

“Long or short?”

“Long. She . . . likes it long.”

“Did she ever braid it?”

“Sometimes. A single braid. Down the back.” He began breathing heavily. “Oh, God. What happened to her?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“Where is she?”

“In the barn.”

“She never went into the barn.”

Gurney hesitated. “She may have been placed there.”

“Placed there?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“Are you saying she was killed?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it appears that way.”

“She was killed? You mean murdered?”

“It appears that way.”

“How? Why?”

“Those are the questions we hope to find answers to.”

“You’re positive that the . . . the body you found . . . is Linda?”

“We’ll be asking you to confirm the identification, when you feel able.”

A silence fell between them, broken finally by Mason.

“Do you know things . . . things that you’re not telling me?”

“I’m afraid, sir, that right now we don’t know very much at all.”

Mason nodded in a way that appeared more like a mindless rocking motion than a cogent response. “Can I see her?”

“Soon. The medical examiner is . . . here now.”

“Where?”

“In the barn.”

“Where in the barn?”

Gurney wanted to be reasonably truthful, without being too specific. “By your tractor. I assume it’s your tractor?”

“That’s where you found her?”

“Yes.”

Mason let out a sharp little sound, halfway between a stifled whimper and a laugh.

“She hated that tractor.” He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were full of tears. He lowered his head and slowly bent forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

Gurney was tempted to reach out and put a consoling hand on the man’s shoulder but instead maintained, as he normally did in situations of crime-scene grief, a professional distance. It wasn’t a difficult decision, since he found emotional detachment in general to be a comfortable state of mind.

Mason straightened himself in the seat, gazing blankly for a while in the direction of the barn, then turning to Gurney with a look of perplexity.

“Why were you asking about Billy Tate?”

When Gurney didn’t answer, Mason’s eyes widened. “Tate is dead . . . isn’t he?”

Again Gurney said nothing.

“My God! He’s not alive, is he? How could he be alive?”

“Good question.”

“Do you . . . are you saying . . . my God, is he involved in this?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I don’t understand. He was struck by lightning. It was in the news.”

“Some new evidence has come to light. It’s possible that Tate survived.”

“What? How could that—”