The sky’s cloud cover had darkened, the path into the pine woods was uninviting, and the restless breezes had grown cooler. The broad rise of Harrow Hill itself loomed over the area—a dark presence that seemed for a moment to be the source of the chill in the air. Gurney moved on, completing his circuit of the lawn.
Barstow and her team had finished their examination of the house and barn without turning up anything that appeared inconsistent with Gurney’s hypothesis of the murder. Whether that conclusion held up would depend on the analysis of the contents of their evidence vacs.
For now, it seemed a safe bet that Linda Mason’s killer—presumably Billy Tate, based on the scratched symbol, method of execution, and bloody message on the wall—had gained entry to her home, knocked her unconscious in her kitchen, and dragged her to the barn, where he employed the tractor’s front loader to lift her body and tilt it at a head-down angle to facilitate the draining of her blood after cutting her throat. The trace of blue paint dust on the neck wound would have come from the scalpel having been used on the front door. The fact that she’d received the blow that presumably rendered her unconscious on the top of her head struck Gurney as odd, since it suggested she was in a seated position at the time—not a common situation with assault victims. But there could be a simple explanation for that.
Fallow and his assistant were long gone. Morgan was likely in the midst of an angst-filled process of preparing for his press conference back at headquarters. Greg Mason had finally been persuaded to go home to his condo on the lake. The two patrol officers had been replaced by one from the night shift with instructions to maintain the site security until further notice.
Gurney decided to call it a day and set out for Walnut Crossing. He got in the Outback and followed the dirt road down through the pine-shadowed ravine. The stream next to the road reminded him that he was still thirsty. And hungry.
Realizing that his route would be taking him through the center of Larchfield, he thought he might pick up a snack for the drive home after touching base with Morgan.
When he reached the village square, he saw that Morgan’s press conference was likely to be a bigger deal than he’d anticipated. Media vans, complete with rooftop satellite dishes, had made Cotswold Lane nearly impassable.
Inching his vehicle around them, he looked up the headquarters driveway and saw more vans in the parking area. Next he came to Peale’s Funeral Home. A glance up that driveway revealed an emptier parking area, so he decided to use it.
Once there, however, it occurred to him that Morgan would be too much of a nervous wreck to talk to, and he didn’t feel like bobbing and weaving to deflect media attention from himself. As unappetizing as it might be, he decided to head directly for the gas station mini-mart in Bastenburg. There wasn’t much harm they could do to a bottle of orange juice and a granola bar.
He was about to turn his car around when another thought occurred to him. As long as he was back where it all began—the site of Tate’s startling revival—why not make another visit to the embalming room, on the chance that he might see something he’d missed the first time around?
As he got out of the car, he noticed a bell at the rear door. He pressed the button and heard a faint chiming. He waited. He pressed it again, and the door opened. The perturbed expression on Danforth Peale’s face faded to bland curiosity.
“Detective Gurney? What can I do for you?”
“I’d like another look at the room where Tate regained consciousness.”
“Any particular reason?”
“A feeling I get sometimes—that I may have missed something. The only way I’m able to get rid of it is to take a second look around.”
Peale hesitated, glancing at his watch. “Fine. But I can’t imagine what you could have missed.”
He led Gurney through the dark hallway to the windowless embalming room and switched on the lights. Gurney’s gaze moved slowly around the room. It was as he remembered it, except that the door of the cadaver storage unit, which had been open, was now closed.
“Is that being used?” he asked, pointing to it.
“No. It’s hardly a time for business as usual.”
“What I’d like to do,” said Gurney, “is step inside the storage unit—to begin where Tate began. It may be useful to follow his movements, to see things from his point of view.”
“If you think it will help, go right ahead.”
Gurney checked the operation of the emergency release lever on the inside of the door. It worked smoothly. He stepped into the unit and closed the door behind him. He tried to imagine himself lying in a closed casket, consciousness gradually returning, consciousness first of severe pain—pain in his head, neck, chest, back, arms, legs, everywhere—then the consciousness of being trapped in some sort of elongated box with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Then the inevitable panic, the stale air, the dead silence, perhaps even the dawning suspicion that the box might be a coffin. Terror. Total terror. Then the frantic battle to break out of it. The straining effort against the inside of the lid. And finally the indescribable relief of the lid breaking open. Then climbing out of the box, only to discover being in a larger box. The panic returning. The search for an exit, a seam, a crack, anything. Eventually his searching hands would come upon the lever, and the door would open.
All of this, Gurney realized as he stepped out into the light, was consistent with what he’d seen and heard on the video. He moved around the room, duplicating Tate’s progress as best he could, seeing what Tate would have seen.
“Is this doing you any good?” Peale asked.
“Putting myself in someone else’s position usually helps. How well did you know Tate?”
“No one really knew him. Certainly not me. Why would I?”
“You’re around the same age. You both grew up in this area. Maybe in elementary school? Or high school?”
The suggestion spread a look of disdain across Peale’s face. “I attended Dalrymple Day School through the eighth grade, hardly the sort of place that would tolerate anyone like Billy Tate. Larchfield Academy was, by its unfortunate charter, more inclusive.” He articulated the word as though it signified something repellent. “I believe Tate entered Larchfield a year or two before I graduated.”
“So, no contact of any kind?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“What can you tell me about Lori Strane?”
“She was an object of universal desire.”
“Any close friends?”
“She inspired awe, envy, lust. Those are not feelings compatible with friendship.”
“Was her marriage to a man fifty years older than her a shock?”
Peale shook his head. “Bit of a scandal, perhaps. Focus of intense gossip. Subject of salacious jokes. But not really a shock.”
“Why not?”
“Because under all that startling beauty there was a core of selfish practicality. Her marriage to Angus Russell revealed it clearly.”
“Interesting observation. What can you tell me about Selena Cursen?”
“Hard to keep up with Selena. If she didn’t have so much money, she’d probably be residing in the Wiccan Weirdo Nuthouse.” His little joke had the stale tone of something he’d said before.
“I understand she and Tate had a relationship.”
Peale sniffed. “I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”
“Do you believe it?”
“It’s not hard to believe that two antisocial lunatics would find common ground.”
Gurney heard the rumble of a truck passing, probably on the cross street behind the building’s parking area. It reminded him that Peale had mentioned that outside noise was the problem that caused him to disable the link between the room’s security camera and his computer’s recording function. He asked Peale if the Tate incident had motivated him to turn it back on.