The Viper

“As you may know, our program recently devoted a special segment to the Blackmore Mountain murder. We’ll be revisiting that tonight from the perspective of the original Lerman murder, because there’s no doubt now that the two are connected—and you’re part of the connection.”

“Is that so?”

“Considering the delivery you received on Thanksgiving Day, I’d say it’s absolutely so.”

Gurney said nothing. Smollett went on, a chilly smile in her voice.

“Because of your unique perspective, we’d like you to be part of tonight’s discussion. You can do it from wherever you are—totally convenient. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say to our audience.”

“What questions would I be asked?”

“That would be up to Tarla and Jordan. But I’m sure they’ll want your reaction to the item that was delivered to your home. It was clearly a warning to stop stirring up doubts about Ziko Slade’s conviction. So, an obvious question is, are you going to drop your investigation?”

Gurney paused. Sure that Smollett was recording the call with an eye to airing it, he carefully considered his response.

“Everything I’ve learned about Lenny Lerman’s death points to the innocence of Ziko Slade. And everything that’s been done to discourage my investigation has strengthened my resolve to see Slade exonerated, and the actual murderer exposed.”

“Wow! Okay! Now, to prepare for your participation in our program this evening—”

Gurney cut her off. “There’ll be no participation. I’ve stated my position. I have nothing further to say.”

He ended the call and went to get a second coffee for the drive home.

56

THE CLOSER HE GOT TO WALNUT CROSSING, THE WHITER were the hills and the grayer the sky. It felt like he was passing from autumn into winter—an impression underscored by the icy approach to the hill behind his property.

After parking the car out of sight, he made his way up the slippery incline to his campsite. He gave the tent a once-over, then went to the spot where an opening in the hemlock branches provided a view of his house, the low pasture, and the barn.

The area had a cold, forlorn, forbidding look about it. He saw no intruders, official or otherwise, but that was no guarantee of safety. Shivering, he began his descent toward the rear of the house under cover of the hillside evergreens. When he reached the base of the slope, he broke into a run across the exposed field and climbed through the unlocked bedroom window.

Once the stress of making it to the house without incident passed, he became aware of a cold-induced ache in his gloveless hands and a throbbing in his head from the sprint across the field. He swallowed a couple of acetaminophens and held his hands over a burner on the stove until his fingers tingled with renewed circulation.

He turned off the gas and peered cautiously out each kitchen window, then went to the den and looked out those windows as well. The only sign of life was a doe making her way along the edge of the clearing. He settled down at his desk, rubbed the last bit of stiffness out of his fingers, and opened his laptop.

There was a new email from Kyra Barstow—with no introductory note, just a long row of attached documents. He counted thirteen, covering the thirteen weeks leading up to the day of Lenny Lerman’s murder. He opened one at random and saw that it contained a phone-location record of Lerman’s movements during that particular week.

Although the original warrant seeking Lerman’s location records had evidently covered those thirteen weeks, Stryker had chosen to focus the jury’s attention solely on the day of Lerman’s fatal trip to Slade’s lodge. Gurney hoped that the data for the preceding weeks might offer a clue to what happened on that final day.

He put the documents in chronological order and conducted an initial review to get an overall sense of Lerman’s movements—the basic geography of his life. The impression this yielded was of a man who led a limited and repetitive existence. Hardly ever in that quarter of a year had he ventured more than a few miles from his apartment. He was at home or at the Beer Monster, with occasional trips to a gas station and a supermarket.

A close examination of the mapped data revealed only a few departures from this pattern. The last and longest was the trip to the lodge, with its peculiar stop for a gas can and the gas to fill it. Prior to that, there was a trip to and from a location in Gorse, a village adjacent to Calliope Springs; a series of three trips to and from a location in Ploverton, a suburb of Albany; and a trip to the Franciscan Sanctuary.

There was one anomaly. Three days after Lerman’s visit to the sanctuary, there was a four-hour period during which the location-tracking function of his phone had been turned off. Anomalies sometimes provided clues, but this one only raised questions. Where did he go that day? And why did he want there to be no record of it?