The Viper

“It makes me wonder what kind of ex-officer would sell his services to a piece of crap like Ziko Slade. Fancy-ass society boy, slimebag drug dealer, cold-blooded murderer. Even for a downstate cop, that’s a mighty deep dive into the sewer.”

“It’s understandable why you might see it that way.”

“Don’t you goddamn tell me what’s understandable! Let me make something clear to you. Slade is guilty as sin. Period. Thirty-to-life was too lenient for that piece of shit. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re on the wrong track. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I do.”

“Good. Now, listen up. I don’t want to see you or hear from you again. I don’t care who the hell you are, or who the hell you used to be down in that rat’s nest of a city. You make trouble up here, you try to pull some slippery crap to subvert the conviction of Ziko Slade, you’ll walk into a buzzsaw a hell of a lot more serious than a goddamn dead rabbit. Am I getting through to you?”

“You are.”

Derlick gave Gurney a hard stare and returned to his big SUV. Gurney watched its taillights recede down the long driveway and disappear onto the county road.

He considered the meeting a success in every way. The question of whether to expect simple noncooperation or active obstruction from Derlick was now answered. From the intensity of the man’s anger, Gurney also concluded that Derlick wasn’t at all sure of Slade’s guilt. Derlick’s lack of interest in the headless rabbit and his failure to take possession of it for forensic examination meant Gurney could bring in someone he trusted for the job.

He returned to the lodge and retrieved a large plastic container and some oversized tongs. He used the tongs to lift the rabbit carcass into the container. Then he left a voicemail for Kyra Barstow and headed home.

20

INTERMITTENT SLEET AND FREEZING RAIN SLOWED THE drive from Slade’s lodge to Walnut Crossing. Gurney didn’t arrive home until midnight. His mental review of the day’s meetings—with Howard Manx, Ian Valdez, and Scott Derlick—kept him awake into the wee hours.

The phone on his bedside table roused him from a claustrophobic dream at 9:05 a.m.

He cleared his throat. “Gurney here.”

“I got your message about wanting to bring me a headless rabbit you found in your car. Thing is, I don’t perform animal autopsies, so I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

“Good morning, Kyra. Thanks for getting back to me. No autopsy required. What I’m hoping is that the person who chopped off its head may have left some trace evidence on it.”

“That’s a long shot.”

“I know.”

“Is the body in decent condition?”

“No obvious decomposition.”

“I suppose I can take a look. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“There’s something you should know. This rabbit incident occurred while I was at Ziko Slade’s lodge—and after I reported it, I had a run-in with Scott Derlick.”

“No surprise. That man is touchy.”

“I just don’t want you to get blindsided by a hostile reaction from the Rexton PD or the DA’s office if they find out you’re looking into this for me after being part of the prosecution’s case at Slade’s trial.”

“I don’t report to them. I gathered the forensic evidence and presented my conclusions on the stand. That’s it. Facts are facts. I’m not on anybody’s side. If you want to know whether there’s foreign residue on the rabbit, and what it might be, I’ll tell you what I can. Drop the carcass off today, if you can. Be nice to see you again.”

The call left Gurney fully awake and energized. When he went out to the kitchen for his first coffee of the day, he found a note on the refrigerator from Madeleine, saying she’d left for an early shift at the Crisis Center and should be home by 3:00 p.m.

After a quick breakfast, he set out for the Russell College Department of Forensic Sciences in the wealthy enclave of Larchfield. The drive took a little over an hour and passed through the grim neighboring town of Bastenburg. Their juxtaposition was a stark example of the growing gap between the fortunate and the unfortunate—the gap that had become a fertile ground for conspiracy theories, lies, and political chaos. Topographically, all that separated Bastenburg from Larchfield was a gentle ridge, but to pass from one side to the other was to move between worlds increasingly at war with each other. As Gurney descended the Larchfield side of the rise, intense memories of the horrific drama six months earlier that had left fifteen people dead and nearly cost him and Madeleine their lives accosted him. He chose a roundabout route that avoided Harrow Hill entirely.

Gurney parked outside the forensic sciences building. He removed the plastic container with the remains of the rabbit and started toward the starkly modern structure.

Halfway there, his phone rang. “Kyra?”

“I can see you from my office. Stay there. I’ll come out. It’ll be quicker than getting you through building security.”