“That’s not what I mean. You are to take no initiatives. None. You understand?”
“I do.”
“That’s good. I repeat, do nothing. I’m on my way.”
58
Gurney passed Kline’s comments along to Hardwick.
He bared his teeth in disgust. “Kline’s a pathetic little shit.”
“But he’s right about this being a big deal,” said Gurney. “Especially if the surrender is accompanied by a confession.”
“Which would knock your Beckert-as-victim theory on its ass.”
“If it gets us to the truth, that’s fine with me.”
“So what do we do until the cavalry arrives? Stand here holding our dicks?”
“We get off this road, stay out of sight, get closer to the house. After that . . . we’ll see.”
As they made their way up through the woods, the terrain began to level out. Soon they were able to glimpse through the hemlocks what appeared to be a mowed clearing. Using the drooping branches as a screen, they moved forward until they had a good view of a plain white farmhouse in the middle of a bright-green lawn. Next to the house was a garage-sized shed. Almost all the space in front of the house was filled with mulched beds and hanging baskets of red petunias.
“So what now?” muttered Hardwick.
“We treat this as a stakeout. See if anyone enters or leaves.”
“What if they do?”
“That depends on who they are.”
“That’s clear as mud.”
“Like life. Let’s take diagonal positions out of sight where we can watch the house without any cameras watching us.” Gurney pointed through the woods. “You go around that way to a point where you can see the left side of the house and the back. I’ll keep an eye on the front and right side. Give me a call when you’ve picked your spot.”
He put his phone on Vibrate so there’d be no chance of the ring giving away his location. Hardwick did the same.
Gurney made his way through the trees to a place that gave him good cover while affording decent views of the house and the shed. From his position he could see a small, very new-looking satellite dish mounted on the corner of the house. He also became aware of the muffled drone of a generator. As his ears became accustomed to the hum, he realized that he was also hearing a voice. It was too faint to identify any words, but as he listened he concluded that what he was hearing was the cadence of a TV newscaster. Under the intense circumstances, it seemed odd that Beckert would be watching television—unless, perhaps, he was expecting some announcement of his impending surrender.
Gurney’s phone vibrated. It was Hardwick.
“Reporting as requested. I just breathed in a goddamn gnat. Fucking thing is in my lungs.”
“At least it wasn’t a wasp.”
“Or a bird. Anyway, I’m in position. Now what?”
“Tell me something. If you listen carefully, can you hear something that sounds like a TV news show?”
“I hear a generator.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. But I do have a thought about your double-frame theory. Your idea that all this White River shit was ultimately devised to destroy Beckert raises a big cui bono question.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You also aware of the answer?”
“No. But it sounds like you are.”
Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause before replying. “Maynard Biggs.”
Gurney was unimpressed. His recollection of Biggs as an honest, smart, compassionate man made him an unlikely multiple murderer. “Why Biggs?”
“He’s the only one who seems to benefit in any practical way from the destruction of Beckert. Remove the famous law-and-order police chief, and Biggs wins the AG election without breaking a sweat.”
It didn’t feel right, but he was determined to keep an open mind. “It’s a possibility. The problem is—”
He stopped speaking at the sound of a vehicle, maybe more than one, coming up the dirt road. “Hang on, Jack, we have visitors.”
He shifted his position in the woods for a better view of the opening where the road entered the clearing. The first vehicle to appear was Mark Torres’s Crown Victoria. The second was an unmarked black van, and that was followed by a dark nondescript SUV. They parked in a row at the edge of the clearing, facing the house. No one got out.
Gurney got back on the phone with Hardwick. “Can you see them from where you are?”
“Yeah. The van looks like SWAT. What do you think they’re planning to do?”
“Not much until Kline arrives. And there are other invitees coming to this party, assuming he got in touch with them. Let me check with Torres and get back to you.”
Torres picked up on the first ring.
“Dave? Where are you?”
“Nearby, but out of sight, which is the way I’d like to keep it for a while. Do you guys have a plan?”
“Kline’s calling the shots. Nothing happens until everyone gets here.”
“Who’s with you now?”
“SWAT and Captain Beltz. The mayor and the sheriff are being driven by a deputy in the sheriff’s car. Mr. Gelter is coming separately. Mrs. Beckert’s chauffeur is bringing her.”
“What about Kline?”
“He’s on his way. By himself, far as I know.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way. The RAM-TV people.”
“What?”
“Another of Beckert’s conditions. More witnesses.”
“Kline agreed to that?”
“Agreed to it? He loves it.”
“Jesus.”
“Another piece of news. You asked about the locations of the phones that received calls from the alarm system at Beckert’s cabin when you and Hardwick were there. The calls went to Beckert’s phone, to Turlock’s, and to an anonymous prepaid. Beckert’s was turned off at the time, which makes sense if he was already on the run, so we have no location on that. Turlock’s was on, and the call was received through the Larvaton cell tower, which is the closest one to his house. It would explain why he showed up at the gun club that morning. No surprise there. The interesting one is the call to the prepaid. It was received through the White River tower, and thirty seconds later a call was made from that same prepaid to a phone registered to Ezechias Gort.”
This was no surprise to Gurney, having assumed that someone with reason to believe that Turlock would be present had notified one of the Gorts, but having it confirmed was encouraging. “Thanks for pursuing that, Mark. It’s a nice change of pace when something in this damn case makes sense.”
At the sound of another vehicle coming up the hill, they ended the call.
A maroon Escalade entered the clearing and came to a stop next to the Crown Victoria. A sheriff’s deputy got out of the driver’s seat and tapped on Torres’s window. After conferring for a few moments, he got back in the Escalade. For the ensuing quarter of an hour there was no other activity in the line of vehicles and no sound but the persistent hum of the generator and, at least to Gurney’s ear, the almost subliminal intonations of a cable news program.
Then Kline arrived in his Navigator, got out with a brisk man-in-command air about him, and paid a quick visit to each of the other vehicles. He was wearing a too-large windbreaker made of the stiff dark-blue fabric favored by most law-enforcement agencies. Across the back in bold letters were the words DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
He returned to the Navigator and stood in front of it, feet planted wide apart—the image of a conquering hero, had it not been for the oversize jacket making him look unusually small. Gurney was watching closely from his spot at the near edge of the woods as Kline took out his phone.