The Viper

THE FASTEST ROUTE to Garville was composed mainly of the interstate with a few miles of country roads at either end of the trip. The downside of the interstate was its need of repaving. The patched seams in the concrete produced a constant drumbeat. It was a road that Gurney normally avoided, but ensuring a timely arrival for his meeting with Hardwick felt important enough to put up with the irritation.

Now, forty minutes into the drive, with the road surface getting progressively worse, he was tempted to take the next exit and make his way along town and village roads, but a ten-wheeler came up on his right as the exit approached, cutting off the opportunity. He sighed and drove on, determined never to take the interstate again—a decision that was soon underscored, as the traffic began to slow, then creep, then come to a dead stop.

Nothing in the stretch ahead was moving. He checked the time. Eleven thirty. If it weren’t for this jam-up, he’d be arriving in Lanka’s parking lot at eleven forty. If Hardwick was coming from his home in Dillweed, he’d be taking back roads all the way and arriving in Garville on time. Being punctual was a Hardwick trait, an anomaly in such a rule-despising man.

Ten minutes later, there was still no movement ahead. Taking out his phone to let Hardwick know he’d be late, he discovered he was in a dead cell zone. The side of highway he was on was separated from the opposite side by a drainage gully. There were no exits as far ahead as he could see, nothing but embankments and woods. He was trapped.

At noon, the traffic began to move, inching forward for about a mile, before stopping again. Gurney rechecked his phone and found that he now had cell service. He placed a call to Hardwick, but it went to voicemail. He left a message, describing the problem and saying that if he wasn’t there by twelve thirty, Hardwick should abandon the mission and they’d reschedule it, perhaps for the following day. During the next hour and a half of immobility, he tried Hardwick’s number three more times and left two more messages.

When the cause of the stoppage had finally been cleared—an overturned tanker truck—Gurney got off at the next exit and made his way back to Walnut Crossing via the country roads he should have used that morning.

After leaving the car in the woods, he climbed to the top of the campsite hill and surveyed the property. There was no sign of the watchers, but there was a small red car next to the house—in fact, in the spot by the asparagus bed where he’d always parked the Outback.

He was more curious than concerned. The chance of law-enforcement personnel arriving in a small red car was zero. He made his way down the hill and across the back field to the rear of the house. He could hear voices coming from inside. He edged around to a spot where he could see into the long ground-floor room. Catching a glimpse of Madeleine at the sink island, he realized the voices were coming from the radio.

He continued around the house to the side door, taking a close look at the red car on the way—a Subaru Crosstrek. Before going into the house, he knocked loudly at the door, then opened it and called in, “It’s me,” to avoid any reaction that might involve the shotgun.

When he reached the kitchen, Madeleine was still at the sink island, rinsing some sort of leafy vegetable in a colander. She glanced at him but said nothing.

“You rented that car?” he asked.

“I don’t like feeling trapped. And with you hiding the other one in the woods somewhere, I didn’t want to keep imposing on Gerry.”

After an awkward pause, he asked, “Did you get a call from Jack Hardwick?”

“Why would he call me?”

“I meant, did he call the house?”

“Is there a problem?”

“I was trying to get in touch with him and haven’t heard back, that’s all.”

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Hardwick hadn’t made it to Garville either—that he might have gotten into a snarl with Esti, decided to stay home, and was in no rush to explain the situation.

Gurney’s phone rang. He took it out, hoping to see J. Hardwick on the screen. Instead, he saw K. Barstow.

“Kyra?”

“Hi, David. I’m glad you picked up! I was just listening to the news on an Albany station, and I heard the name Bruno Lanka mentioned. Isn’t that the name of the hunter who discovered Lenny Lerman’s body?”

“Mentioned in what context?”

“According to the news report, there was a wild shoot-out in Garville today. Lanka was one of the victims.”

“One of the victims?”

“There were two others, but I didn’t recognize the names.”

“Do you recall what they were?”

“Vasco, maybe Vesco. And Horwick, maybe Hartack, something like that.”

Gurney felt the blood draining from his face.

“When you say ‘victims’ . . . ?”

“The report said that Lanka was killed, I’m not sure about the other two.”

Gurney thanked her, ended the call, and went to his laptop. The lead item in the station’s local news section read:

ONE DEAD, TWO CRITICALLY WOUNDED

IN GARVILLE GUN BATTLE