On Harrow Hill

He was not a believer in the progress of the human species. Centuries of wars were proof enough of humanity’s moral stagnation. But he did hang on to the notion that one could strive for moments of kindness, generosity, love, and tolerance.

The successes he had personally managed to achieve in those areas were limited, especially when it came to his animus toward the hate-mongers—the rage-­merchants who ruled the echo chambers of cable news and the internet, who nurtured discontent and division, who marketed resentment for power and profit. They were, in Gurney’s opinion, the scum of the earth. And the worst of the lot were the hypocrites who wrapped themselves in the banners of God and Country.

He was pulled out of this dark train of thought by the ringing of his phone.

The screen told him it was Morgan.

“Gurney here.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“You checked out the Cursen house, right?”

“Right.”

“You discover anything useful?”

“Nothing specific—just the feeling that Cursen’s and Tate’s evil-witch and killer-­zombie reputations may be a bit exaggerated.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rooms of the people living in that house did not strike me as the dens of monsters. If it turned out we were wrong about the evidence, I wouldn’t be shocked.”

“What?” Morgan’s voice on the phone rose suddenly in volume and sharpness. “You’re making it sound like we’re sliding backward!”

“Backward may be the right direction, if we’re on the wrong path.”

“Great. Perfect.” Morgan’s tone was between petulance and panic. “I can hear myself announcing that at my next media briefing. It’ll sound like I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Gurney took a new tack. “How’s the Harrow Hill search going?”

Morgan took a few seconds to refocus. “We’ve got every available pair of feet out there. Slovak figures they’ve covered about a third of it. The trails are a damn maze. If we don’t get another downpour, within the next twenty-four hours they should find whatever—or whoever—is there to be found. But if, God forbid, we come up empty . . .”

Gurney could picture the man shaking his head in desperation.

“On top of everything else,” Morgan went on, “Gant is tweeting all kinds of nonsense about Tate and Cursen, the murders, the defacing of the churches in Bastenburg, even about your barn. I’ll email you the links. Let me know how you think we should respond.”

“If you’re thinking about accusing him of libel or inciting violence, you need to have Harmon Gossett review his statements. But Gant’s probably smart enough to make sure his comments are protected by the First Amendment.”

Morgan’s tone turned sour. “You sound like you don’t want anything to do with this.”

“Mike, I’d love to see Gant in court, in prison, or worse. But there are people better equipped than I am to evaluate the legal possibilities.”

“Will you at least take a look at the things he’s saying?”

“Okay, sure.”

Morgan breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you. So . . . where do you think we need to focus our efforts now?”

“That depends on what the Harrow Hill dragnet produces.”

“Let’s hope it produces Billy Tate—and your doubts about him evaporate.”

“Have you gotten the expanded warrant for his phone records?”

“We should have it by noon. But if this is about trying to establish a link between him and Chandler Aspern, it seems like a waste of time. Like focusing on that BMW coincidence.”

“It would be nice to know where Aspern was at five o’clock yesterday morning.”

“Christ, we can’t interrogate the mayor like he’s a suspect.”

“If his phone’s location feature was enabled, there could be a record of—”

“Jesus, Dave, could we please explore some other avenues first, before we create a powerful enemy in our own camp?”

Gurney said nothing.

Morgan took a deep, noisy breath. “Look, I’ve been working here all night. I’m running out of steam. I have to go check on Carol. Whatever news I get from the Harrow Hill sweep, I’ll let you know. Take a look at the Gant video, okay?”

“Okay.”

As he ended the call, Gurney noticed that he had a phone message from the night before that he hadn’t listened to. A bad feeling tightened his chest as he stared at the caller’s name and the time of the call.

Selena Cursen, 9:05 p.m.

He played the message.

It took him a second or two to realize he was hearing an erratic series of gunshots.

Then, combined with the gunshots, a female voice:

“It’s Lena. They’re shooting at us. Help! Oh, God—”

Her voice broke into a sudden scream. Then the scream was cut off, along with the sound of the gunshots, as if something had happened to the phone.

Gurney felt sick.

He listened to the message twice, to be sure he wasn’t missing details that could tell him more about the attack or the attackers.

He found nothing helpful.

He just felt more pain.

And fury.

38

Gurney called the Larchfield hospital, also known as the Russell Medical Center, to learn what he could about the conditions of Selena and Raven. He was blocked by HIPAA privacy regulations.