The Viper

Lerman’s trips to Gorse and Ploverton could be further explored, however. Gurney began with the forty-eight-minute stop in Gorse. He took its coordinates from the document and entered them into Google Street View on his laptop. He saw a single-story brick building on a tree-lined street. A sign on the lawn identified the building as Clearview Office Suites and listed its tenants: two dental offices, an urgent care facility, a financial adviser, a land surveyor, and a law firm.

Next, he entered the coordinates for the location in Ploverton. A street-side sign identified the place as Capital District Office Park, a label that seemed extravagant for a pair of modest two-story buildings, separated by a parking area. The list of tenants included a criminal defense attorney, a radiological imaging center, a hematology-oncology practice, a sleep-disorder clinic, an architect, an engineering firm, a real estate management outfit, a corporate security company, and a stock broker.

Gurney spent the next two hours going back over the entire thirteen-week GPS record Barstow had provided. When he came to the end of the final week, it was dark outside and the only light in the den was emanating from his computer. His eyes burned from staring too long at the screen, but he was too keyed up to rest.

Wondering what to do next, two things occurred to him—to see if there was any relationship between the dates of Lerman’s trips and his reported mood changes, and to make whatever preparations might be required for an emergency retreat to his campsite.

He decided to deal with the second task first because it was mainly physical, and mentally he was nearing exhaustion. He needed to focus on some simple activity, such as detaching the propane tank from the outdoor grill and bringing it up to the campsite for the tent heater. And it would also make sense to bring up an extra jacket, gloves, boots, and a woolen hat, in case he had to leave the house in only the clothes he was wearing. He looked out the den window and concluded that the moonlight would provide enough visibility for the job.

As it turned out, he was right about the visibility, but he’d underestimated the weight of the full propane tank and the awkwardness of trying to carry everything at once. In the end, the project took two trips and produced a shooting pain in the arm that lugged the propane.

He was making his way across the field to the house at the end of the second trip, when a security alert sounded on his phone. Rather than reversing course and heading for cover, he proceeded to the corner of the house, peered around it, and was relieved to see Gerry Mirkle’s Volkswagen proceeding up the pasture lane.

57

MADELEINE SHOWED LITTLE INTEREST IN DISCUSSING her day or her dinner with Gerry Mirkle, and even less interest in Gurney’s activities.

While he consumed a dinner hastily concocted from leftovers, she sat silently by the fireplace at the opposite end of the room, a book in her lap, her gaze fixed on the ashes in the firebox, her shotgun leaning against the fieldstone facing. When he finished eating, he asked if she’d like him to clean out the ashes and build a new fire. She shook her head. He went over to the wall by the French doors and switched on the outside lights. It was snowing again, lightly but steadily.

As he was watching the flakes drift down over the floodlit patio, a sharp little “click” attracted his attention to the Regulator clock over the sideboard—a sound it made on the hour. It was 8:00 p.m., time for Controversial Perspectives. He considered telling Madeleine about the call from Sam Smollett, then thought better of it and went into the den alone.

By the time he got connected to the livestream, Tarla Hackett and Jordan Lake were sitting at their desks, expressions charged with grim excitement.

Hackett was speaking. “Just when we were thinking the Lerman murder cases couldn’t get any wilder, guess what? That wildness just went into overdrive! Forgive my blunt language, Jordan, but I’ve got to ask the obvious question: What the hell is going on?!”

“That’s what we’re all wondering, Tarla.” Lake turned to the camera, adding a note of confidentiality to his grim tone. “Folks, we’re in a tough spot here in the RAM News organization. Here’s the situation. There’s been a monstrous attack on the man in the middle of the two Lerman murders—the man who’s been investigating the first and may be implicated in the second—retired NYPD detective David Gurney. According to our inside information, a package was delivered to his home on Thanksgiving Day—a package containing something so hair-raising, so terrifying, we can only conclude that it was meant to stop him in his tracks.”

Hackett nodded her agreement. “You said a moment ago that this story put us in a tough spot, Jordan. Maybe you could explain that.”