The Viper

Manx looked pained. “I’m of two minds on the subject. My position in the insurance arbitration case was the same as Stryker’s in the trial. Namely, that Lerman was killed in his effort to blackmail Slade—a fact I hoped might trigger clause thirteen, absolving the company from payment in the event that death occurs in the commission of a felony. But the arbitrator found in favor of the beneficiaries.”

“Why?”

“Her rationale was that the prior expression of a seemingly felonious intent was insufficient to prove that an extortion demand was actually made during the fatal encounter.”

“You said you were of two minds on the subject of Slade’s guilt. Does that mean, your insurance argument aside, that you personally suspect someone else?”

Manx leaned forward, baring his teeth. “I’m a follow-the-money guy. It’s a reliable principle. And it points me at Psycho Sonny Lerman. He had a powerful financial motive, and he hated his father.”

“How do you know that?”

“His sister’s got no filter. Ask her anything, she’ll lay it all out. Family secrets, dirty laundry, whatever. She’s either got a pure heart or a mental disorder.”

Gurney said nothing.

“End of the day, whoever did whatever they did for whatever reason, there’s one bottom line. NorthGuard Insurance was fucked out of a million bucks, and I take that personally.”

Again, Gurney said nothing.

The rapid drumbeat of Manx’s fingers on the desk grew louder. “Okay, Detective, that’s it. I’ve told you everything I know. Bared my soul. So, tell me where you are in this mess. No bullshit.”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Manx, but I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I’m looking into the case as a favor to someone who believes that Slade was wrongly convicted. But frankly, if I was just a little more comfortable, I’d be happy to sign off on the official version.”

“What’s your discomfort about?”

“The missing body parts.”

Manx stared at him. “Because hacking off a blackmailer’s head with an axe seems a little over the edge?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Ever occur to you that Slade might be crazy? That maybe this is what he does to people who threaten him? He wouldn’t be the first nutcase to have a few heads in his freezer.”

17

GURNEY CONSIDERED THE MURDER SCENE EVIDENCE. THE bits and pieces were strung together by a plausible but not necessarily accurate narrative. To imagine an alternative narrative, he needed firsthand knowledge of the site. Crime scenarios had often shifted in his mind as he stood in the spot where killer and victim collided.

From his Outback, he called Emma Martin.

“What can I do for you, David?”

“I’m trying to clarify a few issues, and it would help if I could visit Slade’s lodge.”

“It’s currently being watched over by a young man in our addiction recovery group. When do you want to go there?”

“I’m near Albany right now. I could take a detour up into the Adirondacks.”

“If Ian isn’t there now, he will be later today. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“Ian?”

“Ian Valdez. One our success stories and a great fan of Ziko.”

Gurney entered the lodge address into his GPS and pulled out of the NorthGuard parking lot. As he left the Albany metro area, the urban traffic thinned out, and by the time he was heading due north into the Adirondack foothills on a winding two-lane road, there were no other vehicles in sight.

The vistas around Walnut Crossing were essentially bucolic. Hillside meadows and thickets of deciduous maple, beech, and cherry trees alternated with old farms, barns, and silos. In contrast to the Catskills, the Adirondack vistas appeared less cultivated. This was a land of log cabins rather than farmhouses. Instead of meandering through broad valleys, the streams tumbled through boulder-strewn gullies. The forests seemed vaster, the silence deeper, the air colder. This was not a place of planting and harvesting but of hunting and trapping.

The farther north he drove, the stronger these impressions grew—along with a feeling of apprehension. A thin fog reduced visibility of the road ahead. The giant pines and hemlocks encroaching on the pavement darkened in the haze.

An edgy sense of again being followed crept up on Gurney, justified only by a momentary glimpse of a vehicle far behind him. Twice he slowed and once pulled over to test his suspicion, but no vehicle appeared. Still, the uneasy feeling persisted.

By the time his GPS told him he’d arrived at his destination, the temperature had dropped below freezing, and the fog was depositing films of ice on the trees. The announced “destination” was actually the point at which Slade’s private road—essentially, a very long driveway—met the public road. Gurney turned onto Slade’s property and followed the narrow lane through the forest to a clearing dominated by an imposing two-story log structure. There were no lights on, nor any other vehicle in sight.