The Viper

Gurney couldn’t place his mixed accent.

They shook hands as the beam of the pickup’s headlights went out.

Valdez started leading the way to the porch.

“Hold on a second,” said Gurney. “There’s a problem. I heard a scream in the woods a minute ago.”

“Yes. Common thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rabbit.”

“Sorry?”

“When caught by a fox, the rabbit screams. Like a small child. Always in the dusk or the night. You get used to it. Like many terrible things. Come.”

He opened the front door, flipped a switch on the inside wall, and the front room was flooded with amber light. They stepped inside, Valdez removed his hat and jacket, and Gurney got his first clear view of him. He was taken aback to see how much younger he looked than the tone of his comment suggested—perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. He had the broad face and prominent cheekbones of some Eastern Europeans, but the brown eyes and warmer skin color of a Southern European.

“I can make tea or coffee.”

“Coffee would be fine.”

“You like it strong?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“First, I must tell you. Ziko is very happy you are here.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Today, yes. I am returning now from seeing him.”

“How is he?”

“The same as always. He says worry is a waste of time. Maybe one day I will be so calm.” He gestured toward a seating area in front of a ceiling-high stone fireplace. “Please be comfortable while I make the coffee.”

Instead of sitting, Gurney walked around the large room. The decor suggested an upscale hunting lodge—polished pine paneling, exposed beams, wide-board flooring, oversized leather armchairs, rustic table lamps, colorful framed prints of upland game birds.

A long line of tennis trophies sat on the fireplace mantel. Lined up chronologically, they commemorated a series of victories in local, national, and international tournaments. From the trophy dates, Gurney calculated that Slade won them between the ages of fifteen and nineteen.

“Such a brilliant start.” Valdez returned with two mugs and handed one to Gurney. “So much success. So much love. Many people are killed by this. Almost Ziko, too. But God wants Ziko to live.” He pointed at two armchairs by the hearth. “Come, sit, tell me why you are here.”

They settled into their chairs.

“To see the actual murder scene.” Gurney sipped his coffee. It was very hot, very strong. “To visualize what happened here. Maybe to understand Ziko better.”

“He is the most amazing person.”

“What do you like best about him?”

“Best, I think, is the truth. When you speak, he listens, helps you see what is true, what is not true. He brings peace with him. This is why I have made him my father.”

“Your father?”

“My guide. This is what a father should be, yes?”

The question brought to mind memories of Gurney’s uncommunicative father and his meager childhood relationship with the man.

“Is he really that perfect?”

“He says he sometimes feels anger, fear, but this can be good—because what upsets us tells us what motivates us, and what motivates us tells us who we are.”

“This way of thinking made him a father figure for you?”

“No.” There was hard insistence in Valdez’s voice. “I have made him my father. Not father figure. Real. Not bullshit.”

Gurney paused, wondering if this sensitive issue should be pursued. He decided to take a chance. “Sometimes I wish I could have replaced my father with someone who talked to me, did more things with me, taught me things. But that’s not the kind of man he was. He never shared much of his life. Not with me, not with my mother.”

Valdez watched him intently.

Gurney took another sip of coffee. “Was your father like that?”

A long moment passed before Valdez answered in a tone that sounded purposely flat. “I never speak about him. He is dead.”

In another room, a device beeped.

Valdez set his coffee mug on a side table and stood up. “I set a timer for reminding me to leave to get propane tanks refilled before the hardware center closes tonight. They stay closed for all deer hunting season. Employees are all hunters. Please remain here as long as you wish. You are free to go through the lodge, inside, outside.”

“Thank you, Ian.”

He gave Gurney a long, questioning look. “Something I think is troubling you?”

“I’m wondering . . . if Ziko is innocent, why do you think there’s so much evidence against him?”

“It’s not a mystery, Mr. Gurney. It’s the power of evil.”

ONCE VALDEZ LOADED several portable propane tanks in the back of his truck and departed, Gurney examined the other rooms of the lodge. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but that was often the case when he explored the location of a crime.

An hour later, he entered the last of the lodge’s five bedrooms and saw something that got his attention—a pair of framed photographs on the wall facing the foot of the room’s single bed.