The Viper

LATE IN THE afternoon of a frigid day, at the end of a three-hour drive, he turned into the pine-shrouded private road that led to Slade’s lodge. The temperature was dropping, a bone-chilling Adirondack wind was rising, and the hemlocks around the lodge were hissing and swaying.

Valdez came out to meet him, a woolen watch cap his only concession to the brutal weather, his smile muted by the sadness in his eyes. He looked years older than when Gurney last saw him. They shook hands, and Gurney offered his condolences for the death of Ziko Slade. Valdez nodded, then led the way onto the porch and into the front room of the house. A fire had just been started in the ceiling-high stone fireplace.

“I recall you like strong coffee,” said Valdez in that odd accent that seemed to come from several parts of the world at once. “My preference also. Please sit, be comfortable, while I get it ready.”

He had no desire at that moment for coffee, but since it was the man’s way of welcoming him, he said nothing. After Valdez left the room, Gurney stepped closer to the fireplace. Slade’s tennis trophies were still on the mantel, gleaming in the amber light. They appeared to have been recently polished. The rest of the big room was dustier, less cared-for than he remembered.

The antique pine paneling, wide-board floors, hand-hewn beams, and framed prints of pheasants and woodcocks—all contributed to the image of a rich man’s sanctuary and reminded him that Slade’s will had made Valdez very rich indeed.

“So,” said Valdez, returning with two mugs of black coffee, “what will you do?”

“Sorry?”

Valdez handed him one of the mugs, gesturing for him to take one of the leather armchairs next to the hearth. He settled into the chair across from it before continuing. “Emma believes there’s no longer any purpose to solving the Lerman murder. And even though she believes Ziko was murdered, she says it’s a waste of time to search for the murderer. She says that justice for the dead is nothing but the poison of revenge. Do you believe this?”

“I believe that she believes it.”

“But you are still pursuing the truth?”

“Yes.”

Valdez sipped his coffee, his melancholy gaze on the fire. “Maybe Emma is right. Maybe I am poisoned by this desire. If so, then so be it. If someone killed Ziko, they must also be killed. Is that revenge or justice? I don’t know. I don’t care what the word is. Ziko was my father. A son must respond to the murder of his father.”

Gurney said nothing.

Valdez was still staring into the fire. “Do you believe it is the same murderer for Lerman a year ago and Ziko now?”

“I believe the same person orchestrated both murders.”

There was a long silence before Valdez turned from the fire and looked at Gurney. “I have told you my heart. What is yours?”

“You mean, why am I still pursuing the Lerman case?”

“Yes.”

“Because the official version makes no sense. And because everyone is trying to stop me. The so-called good guys are trying to arrest me, and the bad guys may try to kill me.”

A smile crept into Valdez’s dour expression. “You don’t like people trying to stop you?”

“It makes me wonder what they’re hiding.”

“What have you discovered?”

“Nothing significant enough yet to vacate Ziko’s conviction. But I’m getting closer, and the opposition is starting to panic. Which means the time I have left to uncover the truth is shrinking.”

Valdez peered again into the fire. “This uncovering . . . this is your motive?”

“My goal.”

“There’s a difference?”

“My goal is what I want, which I’m always sure of. My motive is why I want it, which I can never be sure of.”

“Meaning that our minds can play tricks on us, yes?”

“Yes.”

Valdez sipped his coffee thoughtfully before putting his cup down on the arm of his chair and switching to a lighter tone. “Shall we bring your suitcases in from the car?”

FOR DINNER THAT evening Valdez prepared a stew of cubed pork, sausages, carrots, and white beans. He and Gurney ate in the lodge’s dining room, a smaller version of the front room, with its own fireplace.

After they finished, Valdez led Gurney upstairs to the bedroom where they’d brought his suitcases. He pointed out the nearest bathroom and mentioned there was an extra blanket in the closet.

As soon as Valdez went downstairs, Gurney unstrapped his shoulder-holstered Glock and laid it on the bedside table. He put his phone next to the Glock. He slipped off his shoes, loosened his belt, switched off the lamp, and stretched out on the bed—a heavy-timbered four-poster.

Exhaustion and a throbbing headache put him in a nightmarish state, neither asleep nor awake. Every other thought passing through his head was accompanied by the image of Charlene Vesco’s bleeding eyes. Since occupying himself with a practical task usually helped, he got up and took out his laptop. After connecting to the house wifi, he got the contact information for the Albany County ME, whose jurisdiction included Garville, and began drafting an email regarding Charlene’s death.