Gurney dried and dressed. He found Madeleine alone in their big farmhouse kitchen. She was peering through the French doors past the reconfigured patio and overgrown apple tree, to the figure of a woman facing the old pasture that sloped from the house to the barn. Her loose cape-like coat billowed sideways in the snowy wind.
“She told me she wanted to breathe in our pure mountain air,” said Madeleine.
“Unusual day for it.”
“There’s nothing usual about Emma.”
With the placid smile of someone enjoying a summer stroll, Emma turned and slowly returned to the house.
Gurney opened one of the glass-paned doors.
She stopped just outside, her blue-eyed gaze meeting his. “So beautiful here. The sound of the wind rushing through the trees, the earth breathing.” She extended her hand. Her grip was strong, the palm calloused. “Thank you for taking time to see me.”
“Nice to see you, Emma.”
A little gust of snow blew in as she stepped inside. She looked smaller, thinner than he recalled, yet more intense, as if her diminished body had concentrated her energy. The gray-blond hair he remembered was now all gray. Its short style accentuated her cheekbones and the determined set of her mouth.
“I wish we had nicer weather for you,” said Madeleine.
“This is perfect. I could inhale this air forever. It’s detoxifying. I’ve just come from Attica. What a pit of darkness and misery! The air there reeks of fear, hatred, despair.”
“Not so unusual for a max-security facility,” said Gurney.
“Our prison system is a machine that grinds souls into dust. It makes men smaller, harder, one insult away from explosion.”
Her intensity led to a silence, broken by Madeleine’s offer to take her coat. “Why don’t you and Dave sit by the fireplace, and I’ll get some tea going. Are you still a fan of lemon-ginger?”
“That would be nice,” Emma said in a softened voice, slipping out of the loose coat.
Madeleine retreated to the kitchen end of the long room while Gurney and Emma settled into a facing pair of armchairs by the old fieldstone hearth.
“God judges our virtue by how we treat the damaged among us,” Emma said in a tone more sad than angry. “Show me your prisons, and I will know your heart.”
She paused before changing to a cooler, businesslike tone. “You’re wondering why I’m here. How much has Madeleine already told you?”
“Nothing, beyond the fact that it has something to do with a murder case.”
“The murder of Lenny Lerman. I can see the name means nothing to you. It meant nothing to me, either. Not until the conviction of his accused murderer. But I believe that Lerman is the key to the case.”
The wind moaned in the chimney.
“I’m not following you.”
“Lenny Lerman was a middle-aged, small-time criminal. He was murdered in a private Adirondack hunting preserve. His headless body was found in a shallow grave by a trespassing hunter three days later. The owner of the property—a rich young man with a terrible past—was arrested, tried, and convicted. The testimony of witnesses, physical evidence, fingerprints, DNA—all the available facts incriminated him, especially his lurid background. Are you familiar with the name Ziko Slade?”
“Something in the tabloids. Pro golfer gone bad? Drugs, violence, sex trafficking?”
“Tennis, actually. Great talent. Made the finals of all the big tournaments ten, twelve years ago when he was in his late teens. Handsome, charming, magnetic personality. Movie-star charisma. Became an instant fixture not only in the celebrity sports world, but in the art world, the fashion world, the money world, the drug-infested party world. Soon went on to became a drug supplier to the rich and famous. Rumors of money laundering, wild orgies, underage girls. He put all that behind him, became a different person, but terrible reputations have a way of enduring—and giving life to new accusations.”
“Like the murder of Lenny Lerman?”
“The prosecutor put together a compelling case. Motive, means, opportunity—all crystal clear. The jury took less than an hour to find Ziko guilty—close to a record, I’m told, for a major murder case. The judge polled them individually. Guilty, guilty, guilty—twelve times, guilty. He’s just begun serving his sentence. Thirty years to life. In Attica.”
She fell silent, her sharp gaze on Gurney.
“You didn’t drive all the way from Attica just to tell me this story.” Gurney said. “What am I missing?”
“I want you to solve the murder of Lenny Lerman.”
“Sounds like that’s already been done.”
“The person they found guilty is innocent.”
“Innocent? The Ziko Slade you just described to me—”
“That’s the person he once was—a person he stopped being two years before the Lerman murder.”
The eerie sound of the wind in the chimney grew louder.
“How do you mean, the person he stopped being?”
“Three years ago, his drug-addict wife stabbed him with an ice pick. Grazed his heart, puncturing his aorta. He was in intensive care for nine days. Face to face with death. In that position, he saw the wreckage of his life in a new way. The vision changed him.”
“How do you know this?”
“When he was released from the hospital, the vision was still with him. He had clarity about his past but no idea what to do with it. He wanted help to understand who he could be—who he should be. In that state, the universe sometimes intervenes. Connections appear. Someone put him in touch with someone who put him in touch with me.”
“You became his therapist?”
“I don’t use that term. It creates a false impression of what I do.”
Madeleine arrived with a tray holding two cups of tea, a plate of freshly baked scones, a small bowl of jam, spoons, and a butter knife for the jam. She set it on the low coffee table between the facing armchairs and stepped back.
“You’re not joining us?” asked Emma.
“When it comes to murder cases, I’d rather—”
There was a loud thwack against a pane in one of the French doors. Madeleine winced, hurried over to it, peered down at the patio stones, and let out a sigh of relief. “Once in a while a bird flies into the glass. Sometimes the impact is so loud, you expect to find a little body on the ground. But whoever flew into the door just now managed to fly away.” She shivered, began to speak, stopped, and returned to the kitchen end of the room.
After a brief silence, Gurney asked Emma, “Is there a term you prefer to ‘therapist’?”
“There’s no need for any term. I listen. I comment. I take no payment.”
“And your listening sessions with Ziko Slade during the two years between his near-death revelation and the murder of Lerman have convinced you that the change in his character was so great that he couldn’t have done what sworn witnesses and physical evidence convinced twelve jurors that he did?”
“Yes.”
“When was he sentenced?”
“Just a week ago.”
“You’ve spoken to him since then?”
“Most recently this morning.”
“Did he have a competent attorney?”
“Marcus Thorne.”
Gurney was impressed. “Big name. Must have been expensive.”
“Ziko has money.”
“Have you spoken to Thorne about the appeal process?”
“He believes it’s a lost cause.”
“Despite that, you have no doubt about Slade’s innocence?”
“None.”
Gurney took a sip of tea and gave her a long, appraising look. Unshakable certitude regarding a conclusion that seemed at variance with the available facts was not a rare trait. It was fairly common among egomaniacs, the emotionally unstable, and the deeply ignorant. Emma Martin was none of those things.