The Viper

He thought about the interview Sam Smollett had recorded with him that morning and wondered if he should call her back with news of his grotesque discovery, but he decided to leave well enough alone. Thinking of the interview reminded him that he’d meant to call Madeleine and alert her to the elevated risk level his verbal attack on the perp might create.

He was afraid she wouldn’t pick up, but she did.

“It’s me,” he said, the affectionate familiarity of it striking an odd note. “I wanted to alert you to something—warn you, actually.” He paused.

She remained silent.

“Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion there’s only one way to end this case—and that’s to knock the enemy out of his comfort zone.”

“You’ve identified the enemy?”

“Not yet. Anonymity is part of the perp’s comfort zone—being able to pull the strings from the shadows, feel powerful, feel in control. So I decided to hit that comfort zone with a wrecking ball—to create rage and force errors.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I gave an interview to RAM that will air tonight. The interview is the wrecking ball, and the reaction may be explosive. I assume I’ll be the target of that reaction, but it might be a good idea for you to request police protection.”

She said nothing.

He added, “Poking a sharp stick into a bear’s den is not my favorite form of research, but sometimes it’s the only way to get a look at the bear.”

“You mean, it’s the only way you can think of—and since your thinking is so far superior to everyone else’s, it stands to reason that your way is the best way. You never question whether your goal makes any sense to begin with—or whether you have the right to expose other people to the fallout from your obsessions.”

He bit his lip to stifle the urge to defend himself. “I didn’t call to argue. I just wanted to let you know about a possibly dangerous situation and to suggest that you might want to ask the sheriff’s department for temporary protection.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Her flat tone made the words meaningless.

After a few seconds of silence, she ended the call.

He stood motionless in the middle of the bedroom, more baffled than ever by his once close relationship with this woman. Was that relationship actually with her, or was it with his idea of her? Where had that idea come from? Was it based on something real in her? Or was it an artifact of what he needed her to be? Had he, like his childhood self, been sitting in a make-believe boat with a make-believe companion?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. He hurried down the hall to Slade’s former bedroom, whose windows offered a view of the driveway, and saw Valdez’s white pickup approaching the lodge. A minute later, he heard the front door opening and closing and footsteps moving across the front room in the direction of the kitchen. He went downstairs and found Valdez unpacking a supermarket bag.

“I’m sorry to be away so long. Among many other things, an appointment with an attorney. Interesting profession. Everything in writing, because there is so much wrong with people. So much twisting and grabbing and lying. Attorneys, police, locks on doors—all necessary for the same reason.”

Gurney nodded vaguely, then waited until Valdez had finished putting away his groceries before speaking. “Something peculiar happened a little while ago.”

He went on to describe the event—from the movements he saw in the forest to his discovery under the giant hemlock.

“You have reported this?”

“Not yet. My relationship with law enforcement right now is . . . complicated.”

“You’re sure of what you saw?”

“Yes.”

“You were very close? It was clear? No chance it was something else?”

“No chance.”

“How could such a thing be?”

“It seems that the person who cut Lerman’s fingers off kept them.”

“Kept them for this? To stick them in the ground? Why?”

“One more eerie event to scare me off?”

“You’re sure this is aimed at you, not at me?”

“Fairly sure.”

“But if you didn’t happen to notice the movement, you wouldn’t have gone out to investigate. Then what?”

“I suspect further efforts would have been made to get my attention.”

“Hmm. So, this person who kept the fingers—he knows you’re here?”

“Apparently.”

“Perhaps he is still in the forest?”

“I have no idea.”

“I must see this for myself.”

“Whatever you wish.”

Glock in hand, again using the back door, Gurney led the way from the lodge into the woods. Proceeding cautiously over the slippery ground, peering silently in every direction, he eventually caught sight of the landmark pine, and they made their way toward the place where Lerman had been beheaded.

The closer they got, the more perplexed Gurney became. There was nothing unusual about the gravesite. There were no protrusions. Nothing sticking up out of the frozen earth. No claw-like fingers. Nothing.