“I’ll look into it.”
“You have anything else for me?”
“Some background on Austen Steckle. He’s a reformed bad boy, formerly known as Alfonz Volk.”
“He told me that himself. One-time embezzler, magically transformed by Ethan’s program into the Gall family’s financial advisor and lodge manager.”
“Did he mention the drug-dealer chapter in the drama?”
“Steckle—or Volk—was a dealer?”
“Sold coke and other shit to a fancy clientele. A customer who ran an ethically challenged stock brokerage liked his style. Hired him to push crap stocks like he pushed white powder. Turned out he had a talent for it. Made more money on stock scams than he made on coke. But it wasn’t enough. That’s when the embezzlement started—scumbag employee robbing his scumbag employer. The feds, who had their eye on the firm, pressured yet another scumbag to testify against him. Volk got banged up, did some time, came up for early parole. Enter the Gall New Life Foundation. Alfonz Volk is magically transformed into Austen Steckle, the rest is history. So what’s your bottom line on him?”
“I’m not sure. He has a hard edge, which he doesn’t try to hide. I need to spend more time with him, maybe ask why he dropped the drug-dealer bit off the resume he shared with me.” Gurney checked his phone. “I think I’m about to lose my cell signal, so let me mention a few more issues you might want to look into.”
“Pile the shit on, boss. I live to serve.”
“Couple of things I’m curious about. These three dead guys who came to Hammond for stop-smoking hypnotherapy—did it work? In that week or so after they went home and before they ended up with sliced wrists, had they stopped smoking or not?”
“You suggesting I drive around Jersey, Queens, and Florida looking for folks who may have checked the dead guys’ ashtrays?”
“You worked your magic in the hunt for Angela. I have infinite confidence in you.”
“That makes everything so much better.”
“Speaking of Angela, maybe we should think twice about making a surprise visit. If you’ve actually found her, the last thing we want to do is spook her. If she runs you might not find her again, and she’s the closest thing we’ve got to an eyewitness.”
“Okay, what’s the alternative?”
“Hang back a little. Give her options. Let her feel in control of the situation.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“You could leave an envelope addressed to her in her brother’s mailbox. Include a note explaining who we are, that we have a client who doesn’t believe the official suicide theory of Steven’s death, that it would be very helpful to us in discovering what really happened—and thus ensuring her own safety—if we could meet with her, or just speak with her, whichever she’s comfortable with. Include our cell numbers, our landline numbers, our email addresses, our home addresses. Very important, that last one. The home address thing makes us seem not only reachable on her terms but, in a way, vulnerable. Emphasize that how and when she chooses to get in touch with us—and how much she wants to tell us—is all up to her.”
Hardwick was silent for several long seconds. “Sounds like overkill—all those numbers and contact options.”
“It’s overkill with a purpose. Give someone a bunch of open doors, they feel like they’re making a real choice. They may not notice that all the doors lead to the same room.”
“Or the same chute into the shitter.”
“That’s another way of looking at it.”
More silence, followed by Hardwick’s grunt of agreement. “I’ll do it your way. But remember, if it goes south, I piss all over you. Any other requests?”
“I’d very much like to know who in BCI brass approved Fenton’s press strategy. Had to be someone high up. It’s so far out of the conservative box those guys live in, Fenton would need to have his ass covered. Sooner or later, I’d like to know why it was approved—but to begin with I’d be happy knowing the who part. And find out what you can about a guy by the name of Norris Landon. Country gentleman type. Partridge hunter, et cetera. Spent a lot of time at Wolf Lake Lodge over the past couple of years.”
“Like Hammond.”
“Exactly. Be nice to know if there’s a connection.” Gurney paused. “And one more question in case you find yourself with time on your hands. The big one: What benefit would Hammond get from inducing the deaths of those four people?”
Hardwick was silent so long Gurney thought they’d lost their cell connection. “Jack?”
“I’m thinking about the benefit.”
“And?”
“I’m thinking that if some fucker could really do that . . . if he could concoct and implant a fatal nightmare in another person . . . then he might do it . . . just to prove he could do it.”
“For the feeling of power?”
“Yeah. For the feeling of absolute godlike power.”
CHAPTER 21
By the time Gurney reached the state route that wound down out of the mountains toward Plattsburgh, the sun was up and the color of the sky was shifting from pinkish gray to pure blue.
He was organizing the various conundrums of the case in the order in which he imagined they’d need to be explored and solved. This mental process so thoroughly absorbed him that forty minutes later he nearly drove past the sign for the Cold Brook Inn.
At the front desk a pudgy woman with a welcoming innkeeper’s smile answered his inquiry about the location of the dining room with a graceful sweep of her hand in the direction of an open archway at the side of the reception area.
“Black-current scones with clotted cream today,” she said in a lowered voice, as though sharing a valuable confidence.
He spotted Rebecca at a table next to a window overlooking Lake Champlain. Next to her coffee cup was a laptop on which she was typing rapidly. Her auburn hair had that look of casual beauty that comes from good genes and good taste. Good genes had also given her a sharp, linear intellect—a quality he found dangerously attractive.
She flipped the laptop shut and smiled a bright, businesslike smile. The warm, sculpted appearance of her lips looked like it had been enhanced with a subtle lipstick, but he knew from interested observation on past occasions that she never wore makeup.
“You’re right on time.” Her voice was on the low side of the female register.
He nodded at the computer. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nothing important. Just dashing off a scathing review of an article on the survival value of guilt. The research design was flawed, the conclusions inconclusive, and the interpretation pathetic.” Her eyes flashed with the competitive spark that made her such a formidable presence in her field. “So you’re working on an incredible case. Everything you’ve told me about it is nuts. Sit down and tell me more.”
He sat across from her, her contagious energy making him feel like he’d had three cups of coffee. “Not a lot more to tell. I met a local lunatic, connected with the lodge, eager to offer me a supernatural view of things.”
“Like Dalton Gall’s wolf dream and its supposed fulfillment?”
“Did I tell you about that?”
“Found it in an online historical blog—‘Strange Tales of the Mountains’—popped up in a ‘Gall’ Internet search. It’s the kind of story stupid people love. Even some smart people.”
“Speaking of wolf dreams—”
“What do I think about Wenzel’s, as narrated by Cox?” She uttered a derisive little laugh. “A candy store for a Freudian analyst. But I’m not a Freudian analyst. Dreams are useless vehicles for getting to the truth about anything. Dreams are the dust kicked up by the brain as it catalogs the experiences of the day.”