“When you made my appointment, did Malcolm tell you he was dying?”
“Dying?”
“Yes. He’s in the end stages of a fatal cancer.”
“And he’s still … Oh, God.”
“What?”
“He didn’t tell me, not directly, but … I remember he did say that your appointment needed to be very soon. I’d just assumed he had some major commitment coming up, and … Oh, God. How is he?”
“Mostly the same. I mean, he looks very old, very thin. But he’s … very … very clear.”
A silence passed between them.
Madeleine was the first to speak. “Is that what you spoke about? His sickness?”
“Oh, no, not at all. In fact, he didn’t even refer to it until the end. We spoke mainly about … me … and you.”
“Was it useful?”
“I think so.”
“Are you still mad about my making the appointment for you?”
“No. It turned out to be a good thing.” At least, he thought it was a good thing. He was still having trouble wrapping words around its effect on him.
After a brief silence she smiled softly and said, “Good.”
After a longer silence, he wondered if he should circle back to the Winkler situation and get it resolved. He was still determined to get Madeleine away from the house. But he figured there’d be time enough to take care of that in the morning.
At eight o’clock, she went to bed.
A little while later, he followed her.
It wasn’t that he felt particularly sleepy. In fact, he was having a hard time putting any label at all on what he was feeling. The day had left him confused and overloaded. To begin with, there was the visceral impact of Claret’s message. And beyond that, the jarring immersion in the Bronx of his childhood, followed by the escalating horrors reported by Jack Hardwick from Cooperstown, and finally Madeleine’s pain at the rooster’s death—which he suspected had resonated unconsciously with another loss.
He went into the bedroom, took off his clothes, and slipped into bed beside her. He let his arm rest gently against hers, finding himself unable to conceive of any more articulate or appropriate communication.
Part Three. All the Evil in the World
Chapter 40. The Morning After
Gurney awoke with a heavy emotional hangover.
Mired between thinking and dreaming, his sleep had been too shallow and fitful to perform its vital function of downloading the jumbled experiences of the day into the orderly cabinets of memory. Bits of yesterday’s turmoil were still in the forefront of his mind, obstructing his view of the present moment. It wasn’t until he’d showered, dressed, gotten his coffee, and joined Madeleine at the breakfast table that he finally noticed it was a bright, cloudless day.
But even that positive factor failed to have its normal elevating effect on his outlook.
A piece of music was playing on the NPR station, something orchestral. He hated music in the morning and in his present mood he found it especially grating.
Madeleine eyed him over the top of the book she had propped up in front of her. “What is it?”
“I feel a bit lost.”
She lowered the book a couple of inches. “The Spalter case?”
“Mainly that … I guess.”
“What about it?”
“It’s not coming together. It just gets uglier and more chaotic.” He told her about Hardwick’s two calls from Cooperstown, leaving out the missing head, which he didn’t have the stomach to mention. He concluded, “I’m not sure what the hell is going on. And I don’t feel I have the resources to deal with it.”
She closed the book. “Deal with it?”
“Figure it out—what’s really happening, who’s behind it, why.”
She stared at him. “Haven’t you already succeeded in what you were asked to do?”
“Succeeded?”
“I’d gotten the impression that you’d pretty much shredded the case against Kay Spalter.”
“True.”
“So her conviction will be reversed on appeal. That was the point, wasn’t it?”
“It was, yes.”
“Was?”
“It seems that all hell is breaking loose. These new arson-murders—”
She interrupted. “Which is why we have police departments.”
“They didn’t do such a great job the first time. And I don’t think they have a clue what they’re up against.”
“And you do?”
“Not really.”
“So nobody knows what’s going on. Whose job is it to find out?”
“Officially, it’s BCI’s job.”
She cocked her head challengingly. “Officially, legally, logically, and every other way.”
“You’re right.”
“But?”
After an uncomfortable pause, he said, “But there’s a crazy person loose out there.”
“There are a lot of crazy people out there.”
“This one’s been killing people since he was about eight years old. He likes killing people. The more the better. Someone turned him loose on Carl Spalter, and now he doesn’t seem to want to go back in his box.”
Madeleine held his gaze. “So the danger is increasing. You said the other day there might be a one percent chance of his coming after you. Obviously, this horrible thing in Cooperstown changes all that.”
“To some degree, but I still think—”
“David,” she interrupted, “I have to say this—I know what your answer will be, but I have to say it anyway. You do have the option of backing away.”
“If I back away from the investigation, he’ll still be out there. There’ll just be less chance of getting him.”
“But if you’re not going after him, maybe he won’t go after you.”
“His mind may not work that logically.”
She looked anxious, confused. “From what you’ve told me about him, he sounds like a very logical, precise planner.”
“A precise, logical planner driven by a homicidal rage. Funny thing about contract killers. They can appear cool and practical about actions that horrify most people, but there’s nothing cool or practical about their motivation—and I don’t mean the money they get paid to do what they do. That’s secondary. I’ve met hit men. I’ve interrogated them. I’ve gotten to know a few of them fairly well. And you know what they are, for the most part? They’re rage-driven serial killers who’ve managed to turn their insanity into a paying job. You want to hear something really nuts?”
Her expression was more wary than curious, but he went on anyway. “I used to tell Kyle when he was a kid that one key to a happy life, a happy career, was to find an activity you enjoyed enough that you’d be willing to do it without being paid—then find someone willing to pay you to do it. Well, not many people succeed in doing that. Pilots, musicians, actors, artists, and athletes, mainly. And hit men. I don’t mean that professional killers end up happy. In fact, most of them die violently or die in prison. But they like what they do when they’re doing it. Most of them would end up killing people whether they were paid for it or not.”
As he was speaking, she was becoming more distressed. “David, what on earth is your point?”
He realized he’d worked himself farther out onto a limb than he’d intended. “Only that my withdrawing from the case now wouldn’t accomplish anything positive.”
She was making an apparent effort to remain calm. “Because you’re already on his radar screen?”
“It’s possible.”
Her tone began to fray. “It’s because of that vile Criminal Conflict program. Bincher using your name, tying you to Hardwick. That idiot Brian Bork created the problem. He needs to make it go away. He needs to announce that you’re off the case. Gone.”