The Viper

Over the next hour and quarter, as the elevation rose, the temperature fell. The readout on his dashboard was down to 18°F by the time his GPS told him he had arrived at his destination—a cleared area off the right side of the road, just large enough for a plow truck or salt spreader to turn around. He pulled over and got out of the car, zipping his jacket up to his chin.

He studied his surroundings—a typical Adirondack forest of giant evergreens. The ground beneath them covered with a thick blanket of brown needles. Patches of ice here and there. Piney smell in the air. Dead silence. His hope that the location might reveal Lerman’s reason for stopping there was rapidly fading. He was about to give it up when something caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it at first because of the pine needles covering everything, but there appeared to be a narrow lane leading from the edge of the clearing into the woods. Moving closer, he saw that it was just wide enough for the passage of a car. He wasn’t about to take a chance on getting his rental vehicle stuck in the woods, but he was curious enough to proceed on foot.

He soon discovered a much larger clearing, consisting mainly of a granite quarry. A brief exploration revealed that it was the same one where Lerman’s Corolla had been reduced to a burnt-out hulk. He made his way to the point where the site photos showed the remains of the car. A blackened area on the gray stone confirmed the location. He spent another twenty minutes going over the site before returning to his car.

He started the engine, got the heater going, and tried to make sense of the situation. Surely it wasn’t just a coincidence that Lerman stopped by a lane that led to the place where his car would later be burned. But why?

As he struggled to come up with even one slightly plausible explanation, his phone announced the arrival of a text. It was from Kyra Barstow, and it was accompanied by four close-up photos of a red plastic gas container.

The container Gurney purchased was on the seat next to him. He turned it carefully to match each of the angles in Barstow’s photos. The comparisons convinced him that the item stocked by Cory’s Auto Supply was identical to the one found at the scene of the car fire. It produced that familiar little surge of satisfaction he felt whenever a pair of puzzle pieces snapped together.

But it didn’t last. The satisfaction was replaced by bafflement. Why would Lenny Lerman, on the verge of attempting to extort a small fortune from Ziko Slade, bring a container of gasoline with him? Had he intended to kill Slade and torch the lodge, once he’d gotten the money? And, then, when the plan went awry, was the gasoline conveniently used by Lenny’s killer to destroy the Corolla? That scenario was conceivable, but it seemed unlikely. Nothing Gurney had learned about Lenny supported the idea that his naive blackmail scheme would include premeditated murder and arson. Greedy and foolish he might well have been, but icy and ruthless didn’t seem to fit.

As the interior of his car began to warm up, Gurney unzipped his jacket, leaned back, and pondered what to do next. He considered driving on to the lodge—it was only a mile or so away. If Ian Valdez was there, he could have another talk with him. After giving it more thought, however, he opted to wait until he was better prepared for the interview. In the event that Ian’s role in what happened was deeper than it first appeared, gathering more information about the man was essential.

With a darkening sky promising snow, and nothing else to accomplish in the Adirondacks, he decided to head back to Walnut Crossing. He tossed the gas container into the back seat, put the car in drive, and his phone rang again. His first guess was Cam Stryker, and he was right. The fact that it was the day after Thanksgiving, when most elected officials would be enjoying the long weekend, would mean nothing to an obsessed workaholic like Stryker.

“David, where are you?”

Something in her tone told him that she knew he wasn’t at home. Might she have sent a trooper or one of her own investigators to follow him? The truth seemed the wisest response.

“At the quarry where Lerman’s car was burned.”

“You’re where?”

“It appears that Lerman himself bought the gas that was used in the fire—which Rexton PD could have discovered if they’d paid attention to his GPS route readout and Visa bills.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about an extremely complicated crime that was addressed by a half-assed investigation and cherry-picked evidence in pursuit of an easy conviction!”

The tone of Stryker’s response was artificially calm. It reminded Gurney of the way someone might speak while defusing a bomb. “It sounds like you may have made some substantive discoveries. We need to talk about them—in person. Based on your current location, you should be able to get to my office by two this afternoon. Can I depend on your being here by two o’clock?”