The Viper

“I’ve been looking at the record of the phone contacts between Lerman and Mr. Anonymous.”

“Or Ms. Anonymous.”

“Good point. Anyway, you mentioned in your note on the printout that the anonymous phone was used only for communications with Lerman. Odd in itself, but what do you make of the fact that the calls were limited to the period leading up to Lerman’s trip to Slade’s lodge?”

“Maybe Lerman had an accomplice, at least in devising the extortion plan.”

“Did you also notice an interesting time correspondence between some of those calls and the events Lerman later noted in his diary?”

“I did.”

“Did you bring this to Cam Stryker’s attention?”

“I did.”

“Did she discuss it with you?”

“That’s not the way she uses me or my department. She’s frequently made it clear that we’re here to answer her questions, not to generate unasked-for hypotheses. I think she regarded the notion of Lerman having a partner in crime as something that could muddy the prosecution narrative. She was fond of pointing out that it was Slade who was on trial, not Lerman. I don’t know whether you noticed it during the Harrow Hill case, but the lady is a control freak. She is the boss. The rest of us are the hired help.” Barstow paused, then changed the subject. “Regarding your rabbit, I should have some news for you in a day or so.”

After ending the call, Gurney remained parked for a few minutes at the side of the road—his eyes on the snowflakes landing on his windshield, his mind on the questions raised by Lerman’s phone records and by Stryker’s stranglehold on the case against Slade. Hopefully his meeting in Harbane would shed light on the situation.

As the road ascended Blackmore Mountain in a series of S curves, the wind picked up and eddies of snow swirled across the tarmac. After another mile or so the road began to level off. The top of Blackmore was more like a rolling plateau than a peak. A sign indicating the county line was the only sure way of knowing that one had reached the road’s highest point.

Gusts at this elevation were at their strongest, and visibility was reduced by the horizontally driven snow. Due to the howling of the wind and Gurney’s close attention to the road ahead, he failed to notice the big tow truck coming up behind him until it started moving out into the other lane, as if preparing to pass him. The truck was moving much too fast for the weather conditions—perhaps, thought Gurney, in response to some emergency. He moved a bit to the right to let it pass with less risk of encountering a vehicle in the oncoming lane.

The truck pulled up next to Gurney, reduced its speed slightly, and remained abreast of him for a few seconds . . . before swerving sharply toward him, slamming into the Outback and sending it skidding sideways off the pavement. Gurney struggled to regain control, but the icy gravel of the shoulder provided no traction. The vehicle wildly slewed away from the road. He glimpsed a tree stump ahead but had no ability to avoid the brutal collision.

The airbag’s violent deployment against his face and chest threw him against the seat back, stunned. In his semiconscious condition, he was dimly aware of his door flying open, followed by a flood of cold air and the pinpricks of blown snow against his cheek.

The final sensation to become fixed in his memory was of a sudden blow to the left side of his head. The impact shot like an electrical charge from his scalp to the soles of his feet.

30

HE WAS RUNNING AND SLIDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FROZEN pond as the grown-up skaters circled around and around in a single- file line just inside the perimeter. Swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh went the rhythm of their skates. His father called to him. Time to go home. Time for dinner. He ran faster now, faster, toward the edge of the ice, through the procession of skaters, building up speed for a final slide. Out of control. Too fast to stop. Hitting the edge of the frozen ground, falling forward, his forehead smacking against something hard. His father’s handkerchief dabbing at the tender spot on his head, peering at it. “Just a scratch. You may get a bit of a bump. That’s all.”

At home, his mother glaring at his father.

“What happened to him?”