On Harrow Hill

Carmody nodded. “All part of the same cloth, Gifford. The solution depends on tone and vocabulary. The thing is, we should never use any big, fuzzy, mystical words in public. Stick to hard, small, simple terms. The suspected perp is an ex-con from a bad neighborhood, with a history of threats and assaults. The police are tracking him down. Emphasize practical procedure. The witchcraft angle should be positioned as a silly distraction, not worth discussing. Underscore the point that irrational speculation always aids the criminal. Show a high school photo of the suspect, preferably looking weak and awkward—obviously with no magic powers—a low-grade criminal whose capture is only a matter of time.”

Aspern looked down the length of the table at Morgan. “You on board with this?”

Morgan cleared his throat. “No disagreement.”

“How about you, Detective Gurney? Anything to say?”

“Be careful you don’t minimize the danger. There’s a killer on the loose. He’s dangerous, clever, efficient, and cold-blooded. And probably not finished.”

Aspern blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I think he has plans for more murders.”

Several voices were raised at the same time. “How do you know that?”

Gurney didn’t want to divulge sensitive facts in what might be a leaky environment. “I can’t be specific at this point, but some evidence suggests that Tate has made preparations for additional attacks.”

“My God,” said Styles. “What sort of preparations? Shouldn’t we be told, as a matter of personal safety?”

“Sharing what I’m referring to wouldn’t be helpful in that way.” He turned his attention to Aspern. “But there is something that should be added to any public information statements from your office or from the department—a request for anyone who was ever threatened by Tate to come forward.”

Aspern looked alarmed. “Why do you say that?”

“Tate threatened to kill Angus Russell, and Angus Russell is dead. He threatened to kill Linda Mason, and Linda Mason is dead. His past threats should not be ignored.”

Aspern’s small eyes widened. “He threatened me.”

“When?”

“Not too long after he got out of prison. Right after Selena Cursen bought him that orange Jeep. I caught him driving it on my trails.”

“What happened?”

“I told him to get the hell off my property. He said anyone who claimed to own Harrow Hill deserved to die.”

“Did you report that to the police?”

Aspern shook his head. “I assumed it was just talk.”

As the meeting broke up, Carmody left with Aspern. Gurney approached Hilda Russell—who hadn’t said a word at the meeting—as she was preparing to leave. A sturdy woman with short white hair clinging closely to her large head, she was wearing a plain gray suit over a black turtleneck. The suit accentuated the squareness of her physical presence.

“Reverend Russell?”

“Hello, Detective Gurney.” There was intelligence in her bright blue eyes.

They smiled and shook hands. Hers was strong and surprisingly rough.

“I was wondering—” he began.

“If you could speak with me later today? Pick a time.”

“Half an hour from now?”

“Here or at the parsonage?”

“The parsonage sounds more interesting.”

“See you then.” She walked out of the conference room, light on her feet for a woman of such solidity.

Besides Morgan and Gurney, the only other attendee still present was Dr. Ronald Fallow. He was wearing the same blue blazer he’d worn at the Kane crime scene. He was standing by his chair, swiping through a series of screens on his phone. The general resentment that had been on his face for most of the meeting had changed to an emotion Gurney couldn’t readily label.

Morgan turned to Gurney. “That business about your finding evidence that Tate is planning more murders—what on earth was that all about?”

“What I found is purely suggestive. But it’s nagging at me. Tate used Linda Morgan’s blood to leave that Dark Angel message on the wall. That message required at the most two ounces of blood. But more than ten times that amount was drained from her body and removed from the site. It doesn’t prove anything, but it does suggest a forward-looking plan of some sort.”

“So you think we’re just at the beginning of—”

He was interrupted by Fallow, who was approaching them, phone in hand.

“Chief, I found something that may be of interest. Something that’s been bothering me ever since the Russell autopsy. The placement of the severed finger. Something about it was tugging at a memory.”

He held up the phone. The screen showed a photo of a gray-haired, stone-jawed man in a courtroom witness chair, his forefinger pointing dramatically at someone or something.

“Angus,” muttered Morgan, half to himself, half to Gurney.

“Yes,” said Fallow. “When Billy Tate was on trial for making threats. Russell was asked by the prosecutor if he could identify the individual who had threatened him. Angus pointed directly at Tate. Do you know what happened next?”

Morgan shook his head.

“When Angus pointed at him, Tate shouted, ‘How about I rip that finger off and shove it up your ass?’ Interesting coincidence, is it not?”

27