The Viper

The sedan continued up the pasture lane and came to a stop a short distance from the house. A murky midnight blue, it had the nondescript appearance of an unmarked police vehicle. Two occupants emerged—crew-cut men in dark windbreakers and dark pants. One remained by the car, phone to his ear, while the other approached the house. Because of Gurney’s angle of vision, he almost immediately lost sight of the man. A moment later, he heard loud knocking at the side door. Then silence. Then more knocking, accompanied by a raised voice, but he couldn’t make out the words.

After a quiet couple of minutes, during which Gurney pictured the man making his way around the house, he came back into sight, walked over to the car, and engaged in a short conversation with the phone holder—whose attention then returned to his phone, most likely to receive further instructions.

After the phone call ended, the pair got back in the car. They turned around and headed down through the pasture, but instead of continuing out onto the town road, they stopped at the side of the barn. Gurney noted the quick little taillight flash that occurs when a transmission passes through Reverse into Park—a sign they might be settling in for a while.

Since they appeared to be focused on his potential arrival by way of the road, he figured it would now be safe for him to return to the house via the back field and one of the bedroom windows. He put the propane heater and the sleeping bag inside the tent, zipped up the entry flap, and made his way down the hill.

52

STANDING AT THE SINK ISLAND, DEFROSTING HIS ACHING hands under a stream of lukewarm water, Gurney glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was just a few minutes past three, although the wintry gray light at the windows made it feel later. Snowflakes drifted down through still, cold air. An afternoon like this cried out for a fire, but the chance that the watchers by the barn might notice smoke coming from the chimney made that unwise. A similar concern stood in the way of turning on any lights. The big room was so depressingly dim he’d almost missed the terse note from Madeleine on the refrigerator door, reminding him that she was sharing a shift with Gerry at the Crisis Center.

As his hands began to feel normal, he became more aware of the dull headache that never completely disappeared. He dried his hands and turned his attention to preparing for his next encounter with Cam Stryker. His best defense, his only defense, depended on solid information. Maybe Hardwick had discovered something new since their last conversation. He took his phone into the den and made the call.

It was answered by Esti Moreno, her light Puerto Rican accent sounding less charming than usual. “Jack is busy. He’ll call you back, okay?”

“I won’t take much of his time, just a couple of quick—”

“He’s in the middle of weatherstripping.”

“Sorry?”

“On a day like this, we get a cold wind through the house. I’m telling him again and again, the bedroom is not a refrigerator. In the bed I should not be freezing my butt off. Old houses are terrible. Like being outside.”

“So, Jack is putting weatherstripping tape—”

“Everywhere. He has to insulate around the windows, the doors, everywhere. I don’t want to stop him. Not now.”

When Gurney was about to give up, he heard Hardwick’s voice in the background. It was followed by Esti’s, sounding as though she were muffling the phone. “It’s Gurney. You can finish what you’re doing and call him back later.”

Hardwick’s voice, coming closer: “I’ll talk to him now.”

Gurney heard the phone being laid down, none too gently, then Esti’s voice, petulant, receding into the distance. “Whatever I want, something you want comes first.”

Then Hardwick’s rough voice. “Yeah?”

“Bad time, Jack?”

“What do you want?”

“Were you able to get answers to my last batch of questions?”

“You still riding that horse?”

“No way to get off. Not with what happened yesterday.” Gurney went on to relate the snake episode, adding, “This is not something I can walk away from.”

“You’re hoping it’ll make Stryker think twice about Slade?”

“It ought to. Stands to reason he didn’t send me that thing from Attica.”

That generated a guttural laugh. “Stands to reason is a nice concept, Davey-boy, but it won’t mean shit to Stryker.”

“Thanks for your optimism. Did your guy at BCI answer any of my questions?”

“Seems like my guy is no longer my guy. Got a message from him, telling me to fuck off. Won’t return my calls.”

“So, we’re at a dead end, information-wise?”

Hardwick sighed. “God knows why the fuck I bothered, but I called an old contact at DMV headquarters in Albany. I did her a favor back in the day, so she owed me one.”

“And?”

“First, she ran Bruno Lanka’s and Charlene Vesco’s names through the state DMV files to see if either of them owned a Ford 150 or a Moto Guzzi. Nothing. But she did find a Cadillac Escalade registered to Lanka, with the plate number you took down in Garville.”

“Hardly a surprise.”