The Viper

The Viper (Dave Gurney #8) by John Verdon

ALSO BY JOHN VERDON

Think of a Number

Shut Your Eyes Tight

Let the Devil Sleep

Peter Pan Must Die

Wolf Lake

White River Burning

On Harrow Hill

For Naomi

All that we forgot we saw forever lives in what we see.

—ANONYMOUS

PROLOGUE

HE WAS AFRAID TO GO NEAR THE BIG HOUSE AT THE END of the quiet, tree-lined street.

The stories whispered about the man who lived there kept people at a respectful distance. There was no doubt that he’d had men killed. The number was guessed at in hushed tones, as was the number he’d executed with his own hands. It was a known fact that people entered that house and were never seen again. But such was the man’s power—and the dread he inspired in potential witnesses—that he’d never been convicted of any crime at all.

Walking up the man’s driveway that day in the autumn chill would have been unthinkable a short time ago, but everything was different now. As the heavy front door swung open and an ageless, stone-faced woman led him down an unlit hall into a windowless den, his trepidation was suppressed by a desperate hope.

The man sat in semi-darkness behind an ebony desk, massaging his temples. It was rumored that he suffered from migraines. He wore tinted glasses, a sign of his sensitivity to light. His hair was gray and thinning, his skin sallow. The air in the room was humid with a faint odor of tropical decay. There was only one object on the ebony desk—a small gold sculpture of a coiled snake, head raised, fangs exposed.

“So,” the man said in a soft voice, lips hardly moving. “What can I do for you?”

The words came rushing out, not at all as he’d rehearsed them ever since calling for this appointment, this audience, but in a stuttering jumble. Even as he made his request with its peculiar requirement—especially with its peculiar requirement—he realized how idiotic it all sounded.

In a surge of regret, he wished to God he hadn’t come. It felt like the worst mistake he had ever made in a life full of mistakes. But it was too late. Fear grabbed his heart. His hands trembled.

The man regarded him through his tinted glasses with morose, unblinking eyes for what seemed like a very long time. He finally gestured toward the only other chair in the room.

“Sit down. Relax. Talk slow.”

He did as he was told. Afterward, he could remember almost nothing of what he said—only the man’s response and the look in his eyes.