He spoke now with a calm emphasis on every word. “You’re an impressive speaker, sir. The things you say, people take them to heart. So the next time you make a speech to your congregation, you might want to include a clear condemnation of the attack on the Cursen house by a pack of ignorant, drunken slimebags.”
Gant’s bland expression congealed for a second into something less pleasant, which he covered with a patronizing smile. “You need to understand, Detective, that those who revel in unholy lifestyles and in the open adoration of Satan may provoke strong responses from well-meaning individuals.”
“Well-meaning individuals. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You do that.”
“By the way,” said Gurney, “if you run into Randall Fleck, let him know that he and his well-meaning friends have made the biggest mistake of their miserable lives.” He paused, then winked at Gant. “You have a nice day, Reverend.”
43
As Gurney was driving past his barn, he thought he saw a faint image of the Dark Angel message coming through the two coats of paint he’d applied to cover it. Then, as his angle of sight changed, the image disappeared. Hoping it had been a mere trick of the afternoon light, he continued up through the pasture to the house. He parked in his usual spot, got out, and was surprised to find Madeleine weeding the asparagus patch.
“I thought you were working at the clinic today.”
“I was. Half day. Want to go for a swim in the pond? I was in a little while ago. The water is wonderful.”
He tried to think of a credible reason to say no but nothing came to mind. He wasn’t as fond of the chilly spring-fed pond as she was. But maybe a quick immersion was just what he needed to wash away the lingering discomfort of his confrontation with Gant.
“Okay,” he said.
Half an hour later, with cool water dripping from his hair into his eyes, he stepped out of the pond onto its grassy verge. Madeleine rolled up a towel and tossed it to him from her lawn chair. After a quick wipe-down he sat in the chair next to her, shaded by a tree with glossy emerald leaves. He extended his legs out from the shade into the warmth of the sun.
“Such a lovely day,” said Madeleine with a happy sigh.
“Hmm.”
“Did you notice the wild irises?”
He looked around. Between the pond and the end of the road he spotted the intricate blue blossoms swaying in the breeze.
“Very nice,” he said.
“The hummingbirds are back. And the orioles. And the nuthatches—the ones that hang upside down on the feeders.”
“Hmm.”
He reclined the back of his chair a couple of notches and closed his eyes.
A minute later she asked, “Are you napping?”
“Just . . . emptying my mind.”
Their brains were wired differently in that respect. Madeleine’s sense of peace in the outdoors was derived from her visual connection to it. The richness and variety of the colors transfixed her. Birds and flowers and sunsets were soothing manifestations of beauty. She seemed skeptical of Gurney’s preference for the elusive scents and sensations of nature, the feeling of a light breeze, the sounds closest to silence—best experienced with his eyes shut.
“Well,” she said, “in case I forget to mention it later . . . you should put another coat of paint on the barn door.”
“Oh?”
“That horrible thing is starting to show through.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
He soon discovered that his goal of letting his mind wander peacefully was not about to be realized, as the thought of the message on the barn drew him once again into wondering about its purpose.
When Billy Tate was assumed to be responsible for it, the question of motive was looser. When a perp is deemed mentally unbalanced or wildly impulsive, motivation becomes a factor hardly worth considering. But now all the evidence indicated that Chandler Aspern, not Billy Tate, was behind everything. And with Aspern it was reasonable to assume a practical motivation.
So, what was it?
The simplest would be a desire to reinforce the fiction that Billy Tate was still alive and raising hell. But the problem with that was proportionality. Did the risk/cost of the action align with the likely benefit?
In this case, how did the reinforcement of an already-accepted belief justify the risk involved in Aspern’s driving up to Gurney’s barn, leaving distinctive tread marks in the soil next to it, and exposing his attention-getting BMW to potential witnesses?
It was hard to see how that made sense.
“You’re at work, aren’t you?”
Madeleine’s voice drew him back into the moment.
He smiled. “I guess so. Sorry. That barn problem is eating at me.”
“The show-through?”
“No. Why the message was put there to begin with.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He explained the risk-reward problem.
“Hmm. Maybe the reward was something bigger than what you’re assuming?”
That struck him as an interesting possibility, but nothing tangible came to mind.
“So,” she asked, “what exactly is the status of the case? When you told me about the Russell woman shooting Aspern, I got the impression it was done with.”
“Technically, that’s true. This morning the DA sat through a presentation of a fairly convincing point-by-point scenario—complete with physical evidence, including Billy Tate’s chopped-off hand. The three murders originally attributed to Tate, as well as the murder of Tate himself, have now been attributed to Chandler Aspern. Aspern’s own homicide has been accepted as a noncriminal act of self-defense. So we have five dead bodies, all neatly packaged with a narrative blessed by the DA herself. Case officially closed.”
“But?”
“I have an uncomfortable feeling about it all.”
44
After applying another coat of paint to the barn door and cutting back the fast-growing shoots of the forsythia next to it, Gurney spent the remainder of the afternoon on his riding mower. It had been a wetter-than-average early May, the grass was thriving, and the perimeter paths were blending into the fields they circled.
When Madeleine moved through an environment like that, it captivated her with the details of its beauty—the wildflowers dotted over the hillside, the songs of the meadow birds, the colors of the butterflies. For him, it was mainly a nonintrusive backdrop for his own thoughts. Those thoughts, as he rode the mower along the sunny border of the high pasture, were following shadowy paths through the unresolved issues of the case.
Most perplexing to him were Aspern’s motives, not only for defacing his barn, but for attacking Lorinda Russell. And there was the disappearance of Randall Fleck, with its echo of the disappearances of Angus Russell’s enemies. There was no apparent link between those old events and this new one. But what if there was? So his thoughts went, winding in circles, going nowhere.
That evening after dinner, he decided to give Mike Morgan a call and share his concerns.
Morgan’s reaction was angry and dismissive.
“Christ, Dave, I spent two hours with Carmody this afternoon polishing our closing statement to the media. Smooth, well-reasoned, coherent. We recorded it, and he sent it out to every media outlet that’s been covering the case. Now you come to me with doubts, poking holes in the logic? What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“You had this same reaction when I questioned Tate’s role in the case, and again when I raised a concern about the BMW on my road. You didn’t want to hear it.”