“The night he killed them, no one was on the lookout for him. But at this point he’d want to minimize the chance of a patrol team spotting him.”
“Sir?” Kyra Barstow was in the office doorway. “I have news from the lab. A DNA match indicates the blood used for the message on Mary Kane’s wall came from Linda Mason. They also found that the blood on the wall contained microscopic traces of the polyurethane used in those little foam paint brushes.”
“Fast results,” said Morgan.
Slovak shifted in his seat. “What about that tire track in front of Kane’s cottage? You have anything on that?”
“Soon,” said Barstow.
Morgan thanked her.
She shot a quick smile at Gurney, stepped back out of the doorway, and disappeared down the hall.
Slovak shrugged. “That blood stuff was pretty much as expected.”
Morgan looked at Gurney. “Any thoughts?”
“Just the obvious one. If Tate did approach the cottage via the Harrow Hill trail system, he must have gone back the same way to wherever he’s hiding out. It would be a good idea to check for security cameras beyond Waterview Drive—on any other roads that might provide access to that trail network. Also, since Tate and his Jeep may be holed up somewhere in the sprawling woods of Harrow Hill itself, a feet-on-the-ground search needs to be organized.”
“Wouldn’t a helicopter be easier?” asked Slovak.
“For some areas, yes. But my impression of Harrow Hill is that most of it lies under a pretty thick cover of pines and hemlocks, with the exception of the area around the Russell mansion. You can check a satellite view to see if I’m right. If I am, the shoe-leather way will be the only way. You might want to download a topographic map and start designing a search grid.”
Slovak glanced at Morgan, and Morgan nodded his agreement.
After Slovak left the office, Gurney suggested to Morgan that he talk to the chief over in Bastenburg, see how many men he could contribute to the effort.
“You really think we’re going to need that kind of manpower?”
“Yes. Unless Tate turns himself in.”
Morgan sighed, then looked at the time on his phone. “Jesus. Six thirty.” He glanced uncertainly at Gurney. “Shall we get something to eat?”
Gurney’s introversion would normally result in a negative response. But he was just hungry enough to say yes. He hadn’t eaten anything all day—with the exception of the two anisette cookies Marika had given him that morning at Abelard’s.
Morgan produced a Chinese restaurant menu from a drawer in his desk. After they made their selections and Morgan phoned them in, they sat across from each other at the table off to the side of Morgan’s desk.
“Important to take time out to eat,” Morgan said after an awkward silence. “We missed quite a few meals back in the day, didn’t we?”
It wasn’t really a question, and Gurney made no effort to reply.
“Strange,” Morgan said after another silence, “how memories seem to come out of nowhere. Happens to me in the morning, when I’m still half-asleep. Vivid memories of things I hadn’t thought about in years.” He uttered an abrupt little laugh. “Jesus, remember Fat Frank?”
“That’s who you woke up thinking about today?” Gurney’s aversion to reminiscing gave his response a less-than-pleasant tone.
“No, no, I just happened to think of him now. This morning I woke up thinking about the first homicide case we worked on together. Remember that one?”
“Not immediately.”
“The guy who imported jockstraps from Vietnam. George Hockenberry.”
Gurney nodded. His lack of enthusiasm did nothing to dampen Morgan’s.
“And the guy who supposedly shot him—the guy with all the rug stores, Kip Kleiburn. The Carpet King. Open-and-shut case against Kleiburn. Until you got hold of it.” He nodded with a distant smile. “Those were the days, eh?”
Nostalgia was Gurney’s least favorite state of mind. He pointedly changed the subject.
“What time tonight is that Silas Gant gathering?”
“Eight thirty. When it’s starting to get dark. He likes fireworks.”
“Fireworks?”
“You’ll see.”
32
The venue for Gant’s “revelation tent meeting” was a rectangular, wooden-fenced field that had the scruffy look of a former pasture. Several lengths of fencing had been removed to allow vehicles to enter. Scores of cars and pickup trucks were parked around the perimeter of the field, and more were arriving. Morgan and Gurney each parked near the entry-exit opening.
The “tent” was a tarp-like canopy erected over a set of theatrical risers at the far end of the field. A podium stood on the top riser. To its left was an American flag on a gold-painted pole and to its right a gold-painted cross of equal height. On the front of the podium was a carving of two rifles with intersecting barrels.
Morgan got out of the Tahoe, and Gurney watched as he headed up behind the row of vehicles to a Larchfield patrol car and bent over to talk to the driver. Gurney went the other way, to a spot by the rear fence with a view of the whole field.
A large part of the audience, which he estimated at roughly three hundred, was already seated in informal rows of lawn chairs on either side of a central aisle that led from the rear of the field to the makeshift stage. They were universally white, mostly older, and, unlike many church congregations, mostly male. Groups of younger men stood smoking, talking, and drinking from beer cans by the parked pickups. Swarms of ragged little boys were running here and there, shouting and colliding with each other. The colors of sunset had faded away, dusk was deepening, a restless breeze was rising, and the sweet scent of mown grass was competing with the exhaust fumes of late-arriving vehicles.
Gurney was about to call Madeleine, to give her a rough idea when he’d be arriving home, when a low rumble out on the road diverted his attention. As it grew louder, the audience began looking back toward the source, and the murmur of their voices grew more excited. The rumble increased to a roar as a procession of motorcycles turned from the road into the central aisle of the seating area.
Gurney counted twelve of the heavyweight machines proceeding up the aisle toward the stage. The procession split as it reached the stage, with six machines turning right and six turning left. A thirteenth rider—this one in a shiny white leather riding suit—came slowly up the aisle and took the center position, setting off a burst of cheering from the crowd. It was Silas Gant, his gray pompadour unruffled by the breeze.
The crowd fell into an anticipatory silence. A few moments later a loud whoosh accompanied the fiery path of a rocket racing up into the sky, where it burst into a red-white-and-blue approximation of an American flag while the sound system blared an arena-style rendition of “God Bless America.” The crowd applauded as Gant stepped up onto the risers and took his position at the podium, illuminated by a pair of spotlights.
“God bless America!” he cried, generating a reprise of the applause that had just ended.
“God save this threatened nation of ours,” he continued. “That is the calling that brings us together on this beautiful night, at this critical moment in the history of our country. Our country! We have come together tonight to share our vision, to claim our rights, to send our message to the degenerates in high places conspiring to turn our precious homeland into a foreign garbage dump. The degenerates in the media—the corrupt, depraved media—who glorify every kind of perversion. The degenerates who laugh at our religion, our Bible, our God. The degenerates who want to strip us of our God-given, Constitution-guaranteed right to bear arms. The degenerate LGBTQ promoters who connive to turn innocent children into freaks. You know what those letters stand for? They stand for ‘Leave God Behind and Turn Queer.’ They are the initials of perdition! The alphabet of the demons of hell!”