He checked the sleeping alcove and its four-poster bed, but the bed was untouched. Madeleine’s duffel bag was open on a bench at the foot of it, but there was no sign of Madeleine.
Then the glass door leading out to the balcony opened, and she stepped into the room. She was wearing black jeans, a cream silk blouse, and her ski jacket. She’d even put on a trace of makeup, a rarity for her.
“Time to go?” she asked.
“What were you doing out there?”
She didn’t answer. They went downstairs in silence and got in the Outback. They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the chalet.
JANE HAMMOND MET THEM AT THE DOOR AND USHERED THEM IN, taking their jackets.
The entrance area of the chalet was formed by three partitions of lustrously varnished honey-colored wood. In addition to creating a kind of foyer, the partitions served as display surfaces for stone tomahawks, deerskin pouches, and other primitive tools. Eyeing the tomahawks, Gurney couldn’t help thinking of Barlow Tarr’s hatchet.
Jane leaned toward him. “Were you aware of anyone following you?”
“No. But I wasn’t checking. Why do you ask?”
“Sometimes there’s a big SUV lurking out there on the lake road. Richard is sure he’s being followed every time he leaves the house. I think they want him to fall apart. By putting all this pressure on him. Do you think that’s what it is?”
He shrugged. “At this point, there’s no way of—”
He was interrupted by his phone. He glanced at the screen, saw that the call was from Rebecca Holdenfield, and, despite a strong desire to speak to her, let it go into voicemail.
“Come,” said Jane nervously. “We can talk about this later. Let me introduce you.”
She led them into the chalet’s cathedral-ceilinged great room. A small, slim man with his back to them was fiddling with the logs in a massive fieldstone fireplace. His delicate physique was a surprise. Gurney had been imagining someone larger.
“Richard,” said Jane. “These are the people I’ve been telling you about.”
Hammond turned toward them. With a wan smile that could have been an expression of lukewarm welcome or plain weariness, he extended his hand first to Madeleine, then to Gurney. It was small and smooth, a bit on the cool side, the grip unenthusiastic.
His silky blond hair, almost platinum, was parted on the side. In the front it had fallen down in wispy bangs over his forehead, like a little boy’s. But there was nothing childlike about his eyes. A disconcertingly luminous aquamarine, they were riveting, almost unnerving.
By contrast, the man’s voice was soft and nondescript. Gurney wondered if it was a form of compensation for the uniquely startling eyes. Or a way of reinforcing their dominance.
“My sister told me a lot about you.”
“Nothing disturbing, I hope.”
“She told me you were the detective who managed to capture Peter Piggert, the incestuous murderer who cut his mother in half. And Jorge Kunzman, who kept his victims’ heads in his refrigerator. And the Satanic Santa, who mailed out body parts as Christmas presents. And the demented psychiatrist who sent his patients to a sadist who raped and skinned them before tossing them off the back of his yacht into the ocean. That’s quite an accomplished career you’ve had. Quite a few madmen you’ve managed to vanquish. And here you are at Wolf Lake. Just passing through. On your way to a romantic inn. Am I right?”
“Yes, that’s where we’re heading.”
“But, for the moment, here you are. In the deep wilderness. Miles from nowhere. Tell me—how do you like it so far?”
“The weather could be better.”
Hammond produced a forced little laugh, while his gaze remained steady and observant. “It’s more likely to get worse before it gets better.”
“Worse?” asked Madeleine.
“Rising winds, falling temperatures, snow squalls, ice pellets.”
“When is this supposed to happen?”
“Sometime tomorrow. Or the next day. Forecasts here are always changing. The mountains have unpredictable moods. Our weather is like the mind of a manic-depressive.” He smiled slightly at what he seemed to regard as a joke. “Do you know the Adirondacks?”
She hesitated. “Not really.”
“These mountains are different from your Catskills. Far more primitive.”
“I’m just concerned about getting snowed in.”
He gave her a long curious look. “That concerns you?”
“You don’t think it should?”
“Jane told me you were driving to Vermont to find snow. Walk in it, ski in it. But perhaps the snow will find you first.”
Madeleine said nothing. Gurney noticed a tiny involuntary shudder go through her body.
Hammond licked his lips in a rapid little snakelike movement, his gaze shifting to Gurney. “Wolf Lake has become such an interesting place lately, hasn’t it? Irresistible, I would think, for a detective.”
Jane, perhaps concerned at her brother’s ironic tone, intervened brightly. “Dinner is laid out on the sideboard—salmon canapés, salad, bread, chicken with apricot sauce, wild rice, asparagus, and some nice blueberry tarts for dessert. Plates at the near end of the sideboard; silverware and glasses on the table, along with bottles of chardonnay, merlot, and springwater. Shall we?”
Her tone was as bubbly as her brother’s was edgy. But it served the purpose of getting everyone to the food and then to the table. She and Richard seated themselves across from Dave and Madeleine.
Before anyone could say another word the lights went out.
In the sudden near-darkness only the dying fire provided glimmers of illumination.
“It’s just the generator,” said Jane. “It’ll be back on in a few seconds.”
When the lights came back on, her hand was on Richard’s arm. She withdrew it and turned her attention to Gurney and Madeleine. “We’re twenty miles from any kind of civilization, so the lodge compound has its own pair of generators. They switch from one to the other every so often, and we get short blackouts. Austen says it’s perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.”
“You do have phone service here, right?” asked Madeleine.
“The lodge compound has its own cell tower. But once you pass over the high ridge, there’s a dead zone with no reception until you get to Plattsburgh. Of course, the cell tower depends on the generators, so if they go out . . .” Then she quickly added, “But there’s virtually no chance of both generators failing at the same time.”
Gurney changed the subject. “I gather Ethan Gall was quite a presence in the world.”
Richard answered. “Indeed he was. A remarkable man—dynamic, generous, supportive. My work here was his idea.”
“Now that he’s gone,” said Madeleine, “will you be going back to California?”
“My two-year contract was up last month, but shortly before his death Ethan offered to renew it for another year, and I accepted the offer.” He hesitated, as if considering how much he wanted to disclose. “Ethan died before the agreement was signed, but Austen was aware of it, and he assured me it would be honored.”
Gurney saw an opening for a question he’d been wanting to ask. “I gather that Austen Steckle, despite his background, has become a man of some integrity?”
“Austen has rough edges, but I have no complaints.”
“What was his conviction for?”
“I’d prefer that you asked him.” He paused. “But I have a question for you. Why did you tell Jane you didn’t want to get involved in my situation here?”
Gurney decided to answer as truthfully as he could. “Jane told me that you refused to hire professional help, but that she’d like me to help her gather facts and figure out what’s behind these apparent suicides. She certainly has a right to explore the affair for her own peace of mind. But frankly, I’m not comfortable being involved in that.”