On Harrow Hill

He led Gurney through the dark hallway to the windowless embalming room and switched on the lights. Gurney’s gaze moved slowly around the room. It was as he remembered it, except that the door of the cadaver storage unit, which had been open, was now closed.

“Is that being used?” he asked, pointing to it.

“No. It’s hardly a time for business as usual.”

“What I’d like to do,” said Gurney, “is step inside the storage unit—to begin where Tate began. It may be useful to follow his movements, to see things from his point of view.”

“If you think it will help, go right ahead.”

Gurney checked the operation of the emergency release lever on the inside of the door. It worked smoothly. He stepped into the unit and closed the door behind him. He tried to imagine himself lying in a closed casket, consciousness gradually returning, consciousness first of severe pain—pain in his head, neck, chest, back, arms, legs, everywhere—then the consciousness of being trapped in some sort of elongated box with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Then the inevitable panic, the stale air, the dead silence, perhaps even the dawning suspicion that the box might be a coffin. Terror. Total terror. Then the frantic battle to break out of it. The straining effort against the inside of the lid. And finally the indescribable relief of the lid breaking open. Then climbing out of the box, only to discover being in a larger box. The panic returning. The search for an exit, a seam, a crack, anything. Eventually his searching hands would come upon the lever, and the door would open.

All of this, Gurney realized as he stepped out into the light, was consistent with what he’d seen and heard on the video. He moved around the room, duplicating Tate’s progress as best he could, seeing what Tate would have seen.

“Is this doing you any good?” Peale asked.

“Putting myself in someone else’s position usually helps. How well did you know Tate?”

“No one really knew him. Certainly not me. Why would I?”

“You’re around the same age. You both grew up in this area. Maybe in elementary school? Or high school?”

The suggestion spread a look of disdain across Peale’s face. “I attended Dalrymple Day School through the eighth grade, hardly the sort of place that would tolerate anyone like Billy Tate. Larchfield Academy was, by its unfortunate charter, more inclusive.” He articulated the word as though it signified something repellent. “I believe Tate entered Larchfield a year or two before I graduated.”

“So, no contact of any kind?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“What can you tell me about Lori Strane?”

“She was an object of universal desire.”

“Any close friends?”

“She inspired awe, envy, lust. Those are not feelings compatible with friendship.”

“Was her marriage to a man fifty years older than her a shock?”

Peale shook his head. “Bit of a scandal, perhaps. Focus of intense gossip. Subject of salacious jokes. But not really a shock.”

“Why not?”

“Because under all that startling beauty there was a core of selfish practicality. Her marriage to Angus Russell revealed it clearly.”

“Interesting observation. What can you tell me about Selena Cursen?”

“Hard to keep up with Selena. If she didn’t have so much money, she’d probably be residing in the Wiccan Weirdo Nuthouse.” His little joke had the stale tone of something he’d said before.

“I understand she and Tate had a relationship.”

Peale sniffed. “I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

“Do you believe it?”

“It’s not hard to believe that two antisocial lunatics would find common ground.”

Gurney heard the rumble of a truck passing, probably on the cross street behind the building’s parking area. It reminded him that Peale had mentioned that outside noise was the problem that caused him to disable the link between the room’s security camera and his computer’s recording function. He asked Peale if the Tate incident had motivated him to turn it back on.

“No need to, now that I know the cloud system has it covered. But whether I still have a business here to protect is doubtful at best.” He sighed impatiently. “Are you finished here?”

“For now, anyway. Thank you for your patience.”

Peale led him through the hallway and stepped out into the parking area with him. He gestured toward the media vehicles behind police headquarters. “Mind if I ask you . . . what’s going on over there?”

“Press conference about Tate and other matters. Chief Morgan is handling it.”

“I hope to God he knows what he’s doing.” Peale hesitated. “Might those ‘other matters’ be related to Mary Kane?”

“What do you know about Mary Kane?”

“There’s a rumor flying around the village that she was killed. Is that true?”

“I heard the same rumor. The chief will probably address it. Keep an eye on the news.”

“You don’t part with information easily, do you?”

Gurney shrugged. “I just gather it. Folks up the ladder from me decide how much of it to share.”

Gurney got in his Outback and headed down the driveway with Peale’s unhappy gaze following him all the way.

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