They sat for a while in silence—Gurney’s mind blank, his feelings numb. Then Claret jarred him with a final twist: “Of course, your approach is a self-centered, tunnel-vision delusion.”
Gurney blinked. “What delusion?”
“You’re ignoring everything that matters.”
“Such as?”
Claret began to answer, then stopped, closed his eyes, and began taking long, slow breaths. When he placed his hands carefully on his knees, their shocking frailty became obvious.
“Malcolm?”
Claret’s right hand rose a few inches from his knee in a gesture that appeared designed to allay alarm. A minute or so later, his eyes opened. His voice was just above a whisper. “Sorry about that. My medication is less than perfect.”
“What is it? What …?”
“A nasty cancer.”
“Treatable?”
Claret laughed quietly. “In theory, yes. In reality, no.”
Gurney was silent.
“And reality is where we live. Until we die.”
“You’re in pain?”
“I would call it periodic discomfort.” He looked amused. “You’re wondering how long I have to live. The answer is a month, maybe two. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Gurney tried to say something appropriate. “God, Malcolm. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Now, since our time is limited—yours as well as mine—let’s talk about where we live. Or should be living.”
“Meaning?”
“Reality. The place we need to live, in order to be alive. Tell me something. About Danny. Did you ever have a special name for him?”
Gurney was momentarily thrown by the question. “What do you mean, a special name?”
“Something other than his actual name. Maybe something you called him when you were putting him to bed, or holding him on your lap, or in your arms?”
He was about to say no when something came back to him, something he hadn’t thought of in years. The memory blindsided him with sadness. He cleared his throat. “My little bear.”
“Why did you call him that?”
“There was a look about him … especially if he was unhappy about something … that for some reason reminded me of a little bear. I’m not sure why.”
“And you would hug him?”
“Yes.”
“Because you loved him.”
“Yes.”
“And he loved you.”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Did you want him to die?”
“Of course not.”
“Would he want you to die?”
“No.”
“Does Madeleine want you to die?”
“No.”
“Does Kyle want you to die?”
“No.”
Claret looked into Gurney’s eyes, as if assessing his understanding, before going on. “Everyone who loves you wants you to live.”
“I suppose so.”
“So this obsessive need of yours to atone for Danny’s death, to deal with your guilt by exposing yourself to the risk of being killed … it’s terribly selfish, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Gurney’s own voice sounded lifeless to him, somehow disconnected, as though coming from someone else.
“You’re the only one for whom it seems to make any sense.”
“Danny’s death was my fault.”
“And the fault of the drunk driver who hit him. And his own fault for stepping off the sidewalk into the street, which you’d probably warned him a hundred times not to do. And the fault of the pigeon he was following. And the fault of whatever God made the pigeon and the street and the drunk and the car and every past event that brought them all together at that unfortunate moment. Who are you to imagine you made all that happen?”
Claret paused, as if to catch his breath, to gather his strength, then spoke in a rising voice. “Your arrogance is outrageous. Your disregard for the people who love you is outrageous. David, listen to me. You must not cause pain to those who love you. If your great sin was a failure to pay attention, then pay attention now. You have a wife. What right do you have to risk her husband’s life? You have a son. What right do you have to risk his father’s life?”
The emotional energy expended in this short speech seemed to exhaust him.
Gurney sat motionless, speechless, empty, waiting. The room seemed very small. He could hear a faint ringing in his ears.
Claret smiled, his voice softer now, the softness somehow conveying a greater conviction, the conviction of the dying. “Listen to me, David. There is nothing in life that matters but love. Nothing but love.”
Chapter 38. A Fondness for Fire
Gurney had no clear recollection of leaving City Island, of making his way through the Bronx, or of crossing the George Washington Bridge. It wasn’t until he was driving north on Palisades Parkway that he regained a sense of normalcy. Along with that normalcy came the discovery that he was too low on gas to make it back to Walnut Crossing.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the parking lot of a large gas station with a food court where he was able to refuel both the car and himself. After a large coffee and a couple of bagels made him feel like he was reestablishing contact with his daily life, he took out his phone—which he’d switched off for his meeting with Claret—and checked his messages.
There were four. The voice on the first, originating from an unknown number, was Klemper’s—rougher and more slurred than the day before. “Following up on Rivermall … Riverside. Our conversation. Check your mailbox. Remember what you said. Don’t fuck with me. People who fuck with me … is not a good idea. Don’t fuck with me. A deal is a deal is a deal. Remember that. Don’t fucking forget that. Check your mailbox.”
Gurney wondered if the man was really as drunk as he sounded. More important, he wondered if the item in the mailbox was in fact the missing security video he’d asked for. He couldn’t help remembering that someone had once put a snake in his mailbox. It was also a natural spot for a bomb. But that seemed a step too far.
The message also reminded him that he needed to fill in Hardwick and Esti on the Riverside meeting and “deal” Klemper was referring to.
He went on to the second message, which was from Hardwick. “Hey, Sherlock. Just got off the phone with Ankara. Seems the little man who shot out our lights is quite a piece of work. Call me back.”
The third message was also from Hardwick, more agitated. “Where the fuck you hiding, Sherlock? I’m outside Cooperstown, heading for Bincher’s place. Still no word from him. Getting a bad feeling about this. And we need to talk about our crazy shooter. And I mean crazy. Call me, for Christ’s sake.”
The fourth and final message was from a grimmer, angrier Hardwick. “Gurney, wherever you are, answer your fucking phone. I’m at Lex Bincher’s house. Or what used to be his house. It burned down last night. Along with his neighbors’ houses. Three fucking houses in a row. Down to the fucking ground. Big, fast, super-hot fires … started in Lex’s house … apparently some kind of incendiary devices … more than one. Call me! Now!”
Gurney decided to call Madeleine first. He got bounced into voice mail, and left a message: “Do me a favor and don’t open our mailbox today. I’m pretty sure there’s no problem, but I got kind of an agitated call from Klemper, and I’d rather open it myself. Just a precaution. I’ll explain later. I’m at the Sloatsburg rest stop. Love you. See you in a couple of hours.”