39
As Gurney drove southwest through a progression of black-cherry copses and open pastures, he was haunted by the empty stare of the convenience store clerk and what it suggested about the rotting underside of rural life in America.
The problems, of course, weren’t just rural. Urban areas were often dirtier and more dangerous to live in. But here the contrast between the verdant beauty of the landscape and the gray hopelessness of so many of the inhabitants was jarring. Worst of all, in an age of vicious polarization, there seemed to be no acceptable way of addressing the problem. Add a few layers of racial animosity, cultural resentment, and political grandstanding, and solutions seemed far out of reach.
As he was sinking into the edgy depression these thoughts generated, his phone rang. “Private Caller” was all the ID screen revealed.
“Gurney here.”
“Dave! So glad I got you. This is Trish Gelter.”
“Trish. Hello.” The first image of her that came to mind was the last glimpse he had caught of her—a memorable rear view of her progress across the room in her slinky dress at the fund-raising party for the animal shelter. “This is a surprise. How are you?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On how soon I can see you.”
“See me?”
“I heard a rumor you were working on that terrible shooting case.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that. I’m terrible with names. Is it true?”
“More or less. Why?”
“I thought the police had it all wrapped up.”
Gurney said nothing.
“But you don’t think so?”
“I’m not sure yet what to think.” He paused. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes. But not on the phone.”
But not on the phone. He wondered for a moment who else had used that phrase, then remembered it was Rick Loomis, when he suggested they meet at the Larvaton Diner—the meeting he was heading to when he was shot.
“How, then?”
“Face-to-face.” She made it sound like her favorite sex position.
He hesitated. “It’s not something you can tell me now?”
“It’s too complicated.” She sounded pouty. “And I’d really like to see you.”
Again he hesitated. “Where would you like to meet?”
“It would have to be here. I’m marooned. My Porsche is in the shop. And Marv took the Ferrari out to the Hamptons for a couple of days.”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she added, “I know Lockenberry is out of your way, but I really feel it’s urgent.”
The combination of her missing husband and urgent was . . . distracting.
“How soon can you come?” she asked.
He thought about it—from multiple angles, some more distracting than others, which made him wonder if he was making the right decision for the right reason. “I’m down in Pennsylvania right now for a meeting. Maybe late this afternoon? Or early evening?”
“Either way is good. I’ll be here. It’ll be really nice to see you again.”
The call from Trish Gelter pushed aside Gurney’s musing over the social and economic desolation of the rural northeast and replaced it with a specific, vivid recollection from the Gelter fund-raiser: Trish coming over to Marv to let him know that Dell Beckert was on the phone, and Marv leaving the party immediately to take the call.
He had wondered then what sort of relationship might exist between Gelter and Beckert, and that same question returned now with additional force. As he considered the possibilities, his GPS guided him into an even remoter area in which the houses were increasingly far apart. Eventually it announced that he had arrived at his destination—the foot of the road that led to Merle Tabor’s house.
Black Mountain Hollow Road was, for all practical purposes, unmarked. Its identifying sign had been used for target practice. The letters that were partly legible among the rust-edged bullet holes could make sense only if you already knew the words they were part of.
The road was narrow, twisty, rutted, and full of rocks and deep puddles. Once it began climbing to higher ground there were no more puddles, but the rocks, ruts, and sharp turns persisted. At three miles in, according to Gurney’s odometer, this rough dirt track emerged from the scrubby forest that had hemmed it in most of the way and entered a grassy clearing, where it ended. On the right side there was a mud-spattered Toyota pickup truck and an old Suzuki motorcycle. Straight ahead there was a larger-than-average log cabin with a green metal roof, a long covered porch, and small windows. The clearing itself was bordered by raspberry brambles.
Gurney parked behind the motorcycle. When he got out of the car he heard a sound that was familiar from a gym he used to work out in—the rhythmic thumping of blows on a boxer’s heavy bag. The persistence and power of the impacts got his attention. He started walking toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from the left side of the house.
“Mr. Tabor?” he called out.
The thumping continued.
“Mr. Tabor?”
“Over here.”
He was startled by the closeness of the voice.
The man was standing on the far side of the pickup truck, eyeing Gurney with calm curiosity. A weathered, hardscrabble seventysomething, he was still in good shape, judging from the sinewy arms resting on the truck bed. A thatch of gray hair showed traces of once having been red.
Gurney smiled. “Glad to meet you, sir. My name is Dave Gurney.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“News travels fast.”
“From the sheriff’s deputy I spoke to on the phone?”
Tabor said nothing.
“I thought you were unreachable up here.”
Tabor shrugged. “Man’s got a car, I’ve got an address.”
“I didn’t realize my visit would stir up that kind of interest.”
“Harlan looked you up on the internet. You being a big star from the big city. What he didn’t tell me is what the hell interest you have in the ancient history of Butris County.”
“You may be aware of a case up in White River, New York, where two police officers—”
Tabor cut him off. “Heard all about it.”
“Then you know that the case is being investigated by—”
“Dell Beckert. Man gets a lot of attention for a small-city chief.”
“Are you aware that he resigned?”
“I hear he made a show of it, made it sound like a grand gesture. Course he really had no choice, his son being the perp.”
“And are you aware that the acting chief is Judd Turlock?”
Tabor stared at Gurney for a long moment with the unreadable expression of a longtime cop. “I was not aware of that.”
Gurney stepped over to the near side of the pickup, directly across from him. “I’ve been told they go back a long way.”
“That what brings you down here?”
“I’ve been told you might be able to give me some information regarding an incident Turlock was involved in at Bayard-Whitson Academy.”
“Am I missing something here?”
“Sir?”
“Why are you investigating the background of the acting police chief? Is this an official or private matter?”
“I’m acting on behalf of the wives of the slain officers.”
“They have a problem with Turlock?”
“It may be a bigger issue than that. The evidence against Beckert’s son has more holes in it than your road sign.”
Tabor raised a hard-looking hand to his chin and massaged it thoughtfully. “Anybody but you think that?”