The Viper

“I’m busy right now. Very busy. So, at the tone, beep-beep, tell me what you want. Okay? Just spell it out. Be explicit. Bye-bye.”

Gurney began leaving a message, but at the mention of Ziko’s name he was cut off by a live voice, a sharper version of the one on the message. “Who the fuck is this?”

Gurney identified himself and explained that he was looking for insights into Ziko’s character.

“Insights? You want insights into that son of a bitch?”

“We’re trying to get a sense of his character before we commit to the appeal process. We were hoping that you might be able to—”

“Appeal? He’s appealing his conviction? You mean, like, trying to get it reversed?”

“That would be the objective.”

“But he’s guilty.”

“That’s what we’re taking a second look at.”

“You some kind of a lawyer?”

“An investigator. His attorney is Marcus Thorne.”

“I know who his fucking attorney is. You actually think you have a chance of getting that prick off?” She sounded both incredulous and furious.

“That depends. We’re trying to get a picture of his character.”

There was a silence during which Gurney guessed she was assessing the angles. “Where are you?” she asked.

Gurney started to describe his location when she interrupted him again.

“Actually, I don’t give a fuck where you are. You have my address?”

“No.”

“You know where Dutchess County is?”

“Yes.”

“You know Rhinebeck?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Forty-two Heron Pond Road. Can you get here by eight tonight?”

Gurney did a quick calculation. “Yes.”

“And you want the truth about Ziko? The whole truth?”

“We want to know as much as possible about him. He appears to be a charming man, but the evidence at the trial—”

“The evidence at the trial proved he was a fucking axe murderer! But that, sweetheart, is just the tip of the Ziko iceberg. Be here by eight.”

25

BEFORE SETTING OUT FOR RHINEBECK, HE LEFT A BRIEF voicemail message for Madeleine, saying only that he’d be home later than expected. He had no appetite for explaining why.

By the time he crossed the Hudson River on the Kingston bridge three hours later, the wind had risen, and the glow of a full moon was shimmering on the water.

His GPS took him through the prosperous village of Rhinebeck and into the rolling countryside beyond it. The final GPS instruction directed him onto Slade’s estate via a private lane. Unlike many of the county’s painstakingly restored eighteenth- and nineteenth-century homes, the two-story structure at the end of the lane was modern, glassy, and angular. Lamplight shone from an upstairs window. The rest of the house, the gravel parking area in front of it, and the spherically trimmed boxwoods around it were bathed in moonlight.

He got out of the car. On the far side of a multi-acre lawn, he saw a line of stables, reminding him that Marcus Thorne referred to the place as Slade’s horse farm. Beyond the stables sat a glass structure he assumed was a greenhouse.

He climbed the broad concrete steps to the front door—a glossy black slab with a nearly invisible camera lens at eye level—and knocked. Then knocked again, louder. Just as he was taking out his phone to call Simone Delorean, the door swung opened to reveal a shirtless, muscular teenager with disheveled hair and wild eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his face and chest and a trace of white powder on one nostril.

“Fuck are you, man?”

“David Gurney. Here to see Simone Delorean.”

“Yeah?” He stared at Gurney, as if trying to comprehend a difficult concept.

“Maybe you should tell her I’m here.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I told you, David Gurney.”

After another prolonged stare, he slammed the door.

The meeting was turning out to be more complicated than anticipated. As a precaution, Gurney returned to the Outback and strapped on his Beretta ankle holster. He returned to the door just as it opened.

The woman standing in the soft light of the entrance hall wore nothing but a white tee shirt that reached halfway to her knees. Her long dark hair was wet from a shower she’d evidently just stepped out of.

Her pale gray eyes neither welcomed nor engaged. Like a predator, they assessed. She was equally beautiful and unsettling, and he suspected that upon meeting a man, the first thing she assessed was the impact she had on him. The second would be what possible use he might be to her. He imagined how the appraisal might have played out for the young fellow with the coke-powdered nose.

“He’s over eighteen,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

An engine started up somewhere behind the house with a loud burst, followed by the whine of a high-revving trail bike receding into the distance.

“You want to come in?” Her tone was a parody of coyness.

He followed her through a dim-lit hallway into a large room with three black couches around an open granite hearth. A conical chimney of black metal was suspended above it. Rather than creating the warm ambience of a traditional fireplace, it had a chilling effect on the room.