The Viper

Gurney didn’t think much of Kim Corazon or her insatiable quest for journalistic stardom. Kyle had been involved in an on-and-off relationship with her for a couple of years—“on” when it was convenient for her and “off” when a shiny career opportunity pulled her in another direction.

He called Kyle, got his voicemail, and said, with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, that bringing Kim on Thanksgiving would be fine.

Then he called Barstow, who picked up right away, her lilting West Indian accent more pronounced than it had been in her terse message.

“Some good news, David. Regarding the truck and motorcycle tread photos you sent me, the database ID’d the tires, along with several vehicles on which they were factory-installed. Then the truck and the motorcycle sketches you sent me narrowed the possibilities to one truck and one motorcycle—a Ford-150 pickup manufactured between 2014 and 2019, and a Moto Guzzi trail bike manufactured between 2002 and 2012.”

As she spoke, Gurney entered the information in a notebook app on his phone.

“I also made progress with the reptile DNA on your rabbit. I pushed the analysis a little further and narrowed the possibilities down to several snake families, all quite dangerous, each in their own way.”

“When you say, ‘each in their own way’ . . . ?”

“Each of these snake groups has a distinctive aggressive weapon. They fall into two broad categories—venom and constriction.”

“Constriction, as in boa constrictor?”

“Boa constrictors, anacondas, pythons, to name a few.”

“And the venom category would include rattlesnakes, copperheads, et cetera?”

“Exactly. The et cetera

, by the way, would include some species far more dangerous than rattlesnakes or copperheads.”

HALFWAY FROM WINSTON to Walnut Crossing, Gurney passed a billboard with a circle of red, white, and blue stars surrounding these words:

FREEDOMLAND

GUNS AND AMMO

NEXT RIGHT

With Madeleine’s demand for a gun in the back of his mind, along with his own feeling that it might be a good idea to have a second shotgun in the house, he made the indicated right onto a dirt road that brought him through a patch of evergreen woods to a single-story building in a small clearing. Its wood facade, wide porch, and flat roof reminded him of a western-movie saloon. A smaller version of the roadside billboard stood on the roof, with the words “ERSKINE STOPPARD PROPRIETOR” in place of “NEXT RIGHT.”

Gurney pulled up in front of the porch. There was only one other vehicle in sight, a tan military-style Humvee with a LIVE FREE OR DIE bumper sticker.

When Gurney entered the store, the first things he noted, after the mixed odor of old wood and insecticide, were the security cameras—half a dozen of them, positioned to cover every inch of the place.

Free-standing shelf units displaying camping gear, first-aid kits, water purifying devices, flashlights, and beef jerky occupied the center of the space. Beyond them, a glass-topped counter ran across the width of the store. Signs along the wall behind the counter segmented it into areas of interest: HUNTING, TARGET SHOOTING, PERSONAL SECURITY, and HOME DEFENSE.

In the Home Defense area, a short, dark-bearded customer was conferring with a tall, white-haired clerk behind the counter.

“I hear what you’re saying, Hedley,” the clerk said. “I know it can seem like a tough decision, what with the different advantages. The AR-10’s going to give you more down-range knock-down power. The AR-15 can’t quite match that, but I personally find it to be a sweeter-handling weapon—lighter, smaller, more manageable all around. Higher fire rate, too, and less recoil.”

The customer nodded. “I kinda like that down-range capability with the AR-10.”

“Lot of folks do, Hedley. More power, flatter trajectory, bigger impact. Those are fine qualities. I have a suggestion for you, what a lot of smart folks ’round here have done. Get yourself one of each.”

The customer uttered a thoughtful grunt.

“You give that some serious thought, Hedley, while I see to this other gentleman.” The clerk moved along the counter to the Hunting end where Gurney was standing.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” He had a smiling mouth and assessing eyes.

“I’m looking for a simple, short-barrel, pump-action shotgun.”

“No surprise. Folks are snapping them up fast as I can get them. I’ve got some Mossbergs and Remingtons on backorder, but if you’re in a hurry, I’ve got some darn nice used ones.” He reached under the counter for a printed sheet and handed it to Gurney. “That’s our preowned inventory. Lot of them like brand new. Take a minute now, see if there’s something there that interests you. I’ll finish with this other gentleman and be right back.”