On Harrow Hill

As Gurney was watching their departure, Morgan came over. He looked around and lowered his voice. “Did you detect any odor?”

“Odor?”

“From Fallow. Alcohol.”

“No.”

“Good.” He checked his watch and added, “I need to get back to headquarters and start preparing a statement. Press conference this evening at seven o’clock. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to—”

“Don’t even think of it.”

Morgan nodded. “Right. So . . . what are your thoughts about this business here?”

“Apart from its being horrendous, I’d say it adds at least three troubling data points to the puzzle. First, the timing. Unlike the Kane murder, this one isn’t a direct by-product of the Russell murder, with Tate eliminating someone who recognized him on his way to Harrow Hill. This is about something else. Second, the missing blood. It seems to have been drained from the body and taken away. One wonders for what purpose. And finally, something you haven’t seen yet—a message in blood inside the house. It gives the impression of something beginning rather than ending. On the wall at the top of the stairs.”

Morgan hesitated, then made his way reluctantly across the parking area toward the house.

Gurney went to his Outback, took out his phone, and called Madeleine.

He was half hoping that the call would go to voicemail, but she answered it.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Something’s come up, and you won’t be home for dinner.”

“I have a difficult situation here.”

She waited for him to go on.

“Two more bodies were found today. Women whose throats were cut.”

She let out a sharp little groan.

“And it may not be over.”

“What do you mean?”

“The killer left a message, but I don’t want to get into that now—”

“You don’t need to explain. I’ll talk to the Winklers. Call me when you can.”

“I will.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He checked the time on his phone, took a long, slow breath, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes—to withdraw, if just for a moment, into a place of peace—before what he was sure would be an emotionally draining conversation with Greg Mason.

A rapping on the window next to his head jarred Gurney back into the world. He opened the window and found Morgan staring down at him.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” said Gurney. His mouth was dry. He hadn’t eaten anything since the coffee and toast he’d had for breakfast.

“A hell of a thing, that writing on the wall,” said Morgan.

“Yes, a hell of a thing.”

“Look, I’ve got to get back to headquarters and get ready for that damn press conference. Situation here seems under control. Barstow’s got the evidence-­collection process moving along. Body’s gone for autopsy. Patrol team’s keeping an eye on the perimeter. You plan on spending some time with Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If you need to reach me . . .” He ended the sentence with a vague gesture and headed for his Tahoe.

Gurney rooted through the storage compartment between his front seats. He came up with a small bottle of water. He drank it all and tossed the plastic bottle on the floor behind his seat.

He got out of the car and made his way over to the Prius. As soon as he got in next to Mason, he could see that the man’s earlier expression of desolation had tightened into something more like anger. He was nodding to himself, as if affirming some private conviction.

Gurney watched and waited.

“It’s the only explanation. What you said. About Tate being alive. The evil son of a bitch is alive!”

“What makes you so sure?”

“No one else would do such a thing. Everyone loved her. Everyone in that school loved her. Everyone except Billy Tate.”

“Because she reported his behavior to the police?”

Mason seemed not to hear the question. “When they graduated, kids kept in touch with her. They adored her. And not just kids. She had a way with people.” He made a way with people sound like a mysterious gift. “She was an amazing person. Full of interest in everything and everybody. She cared. People were drawn to her. She had no enemies. Only Tate.”

Gurney wondered why Mason’s relationship with his wonderful wife had ended in divorce, but that was too sharp a question for the mood of the moment.

In a softer tone he asked instead, “What was it she didn’t like about your tractor?”

Mason blinked in confusion. “What?”

“You told me that Linda hated your tractor. I was wondering why.”

Mason raised his hand as if to brush the question aside, then lowered it without completing the gesture. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

As Gurney watched, he could see the man’s assertiveness dissolve back into a weary sadness. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“She didn’t really hate the tractor.”

Gurney gave him a gently questioning look.

“Sometimes things stand for other things. Do you understand?”

“What did the tractor stand for?”

Mason sighed. “Our differences. What I focused on, spent my time on. I like order, precision, proportion.” He uttered a dismal little laugh. “The tyranny of perfectionism.”

“The tractor stood for all that?”