On Harrow Hill

That brought to Gurney’s mind an image of Esti Moreno, Hardwick’s live-in girlfriend. If one were going to have an exclusive relationship, one could do a hell of a lot worse than Esti. He took a long sip of his strong coffee. “How about the Reverend Silas Gant? You know anything about him?”

“Vile son of a bitch. Figured out that religion is the perfect shield from the law. The conclusion at BCI was that he had income streams from a gun business, a conspiracy-theory website, and evangelical money-grubbing. Amazing the phony shit you can sell for real money if you call it religion. Basically, a total scumbag with bought-and-paid-for politicians in his pocket.”

“Is that Church of the Patriarchs storefront in Bastenburg his headquarters?”

“Sort of. He’s also got a twenty-five-acre fortified compound in the woods outside town. Registered as tax-free church property. It’s really an armed-to-the-teeth loony bin—and a harem for the polygamous patriarchs.”

It struck Gurney that Gant’s compound must be the entity Mike Morgan’s wife had been trying to shut down before she fell ill. He was trying to remember exactly what Morgan had told him when he noticed Hardwick studying him with a sardonic little tilt of his head.

“Something on your mind, Jack?”

“A few minutes ago you said what you wanted from me was mainly information.”

“So?”

“So, that’s got me wondering . . . what else do you want?”

Gurney saw no reason to tiptoe around the scenario lurking in the back of his mind, however remote it might be. Better to just say it. “Backup. Just in case I need it.”

“You mean in case Larchfield PD isn’t up to providing it?”

“Like I said, just in case.”

Hardwick reacted with a cool smile. “Light or heavy artillery?”

“Too early to say. I just have an uncomfortable feeling that whatever is going on in that fancy little village might be worse than it seems.”

“Worse than a zombie running around cutting people’s throats?” Hardwick’s smile broadened. There was a glint in the ice-blue eyes. The man had a natural hunger for a challenge.

25

During the hour-long drive to Larchfield, the rain, which had stopped shortly after dawn, began again. Gurney’s thoughts wandered between the disquieting information Hardwick had given him about Angus Russell’s business dealings and his own concerns about Morgan’s reasons for drawing him into the case.

It was probable that Morgan’s motivation was more or less as he had described it, but Gurney couldn’t help wondering if the man might, in some as-yet-­undisclosed way, be planning to collect on the debt incurred in the Bronx shoot-out.

Is there some aspect of the case he’s expecting me to approach in a way favorable to him because of what I owe him? Am I supposed to extricate him from a tangle he’s gotten himself into? Am I getting sucked into a cover-up? Or am I being as paranoid as he seems to be?

Convinced that questions about Morgan’s motives were, for the present, unanswerable, he finally managed to push them aside.

By the time he arrived in Larchfield, the rain had stopped but dark clouds remained. In his dour mood, they reminded him of wads of dirty cotton.

There were two media vans in front of police headquarters. He found a third in the rear parking area, along with several private cars. Among them was Mayor Aspern’s dark blue BMW.

As soon as Gurney opened the door of the Outback, a blond woman in a red blazer came hurrying toward him from the van, followed by a video tech.

“Can I ask you just one question?”

It was by her sharply distinctive voice—as much as by the blazer and mass of blond hair—that he recognized RAM’s Kelly Tremain. He smiled at the “just one question” gambit. It provoked curiosity, seemed easy to deal with, and was hard to say no to.

“No,” said Gurney pleasantly.

“Just one quick question, David!” she called after him as he was walking out of the parking area.

He wondered for a moment how she’d gotten his name, but it wasn’t worth asking. His involvement could have been leaked by whoever had leaked the mortuary video. Or by someone else. RAM might even have rapid facial recognition software on their satellite vans. It didn’t really matter. The notion that one’s identity could be kept secret was, like most forms of personal privacy, a relic of a departed era.

The headquarters desk sergeant—an overweight man with a shaved head, walrus mustache, and uniform buttons strained to the popping point—directed him to Morgan’s office.

A discreet brass plate on the door bore the words CHIEF OF POLICE.

Gurney knocked, and Morgan’s voice replied, “Come in.”