“What have you seen?”
“Nothing that isn’t contradicted by something else.”
“For example?”
“We have a suspect accused of a crime that may not even be possible to commit. We have an unsavory brother of the richest victim, with a huge financial motive for murder—who’s not even being considered as a suspect. We have a family legend involving a wolf nightmare that sounds like nonsense—except that a similar nightmare has been involved in four deaths in the past month. And we have a handyman who seems half crazy—except that he also seems to be the only one who believes there’s something evil going on at Wolf Lake.”
“What about Jane?”
“What do you mean?”
“The saintly little seeker of truth essentially lied to you by failing to mention Richard’s position in Ethan’s will, which may be the most important fact of all.”
“Good point—and one more indication that there nothing’s simple about this case. Most of it is bizarre, if not impossible.”
“So you’re hooked.” She produced a fleeting Mona Lisa smile. “Nothing appeals to you more than the bizarre and impossible. You might think you can walk away, but you can’t. And even if you could . . . I’d have to stay here myself.”
“Why?”
“I have to finish what I came here for.”
Before he could respond to that, his phone rang.
The ID on the screen said it was Holdenfield. He looked at Madeleine, and she gestured that he should take the call. He did.
“Rebecca?”
“Hi, David. I’m not sure I have anything of real value for you, but I wanted to get back to you sooner rather than later.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Madeleine went into the bathroom and closed the door with a distinct firmness.
“For what it’s worth,” said Rebecca, “I did a quick look-through of Hammond’s journal articles, as well as the media coverage he’s gotten from time to time. The general media items were mostly about the controversy over his gay emergence therapy. The antigay crowd may be shrinking these days, but what’s left of it is still as virulent as ever.”
It brought to mind the hatred in Bowman Cox’s eyes. “Any other controversies?”
“Some professional ones. Hammond isn’t shy about attacking the pharmaceutical companies for peddling psychotropic poisons. By contrast, he claims hypnotherapy is perfectly safe, and that his own techniques can achieve results that used to be considered impossible.”
“Does he spell out those techniques?”
“Ah, well, there’s the problem. His clinical success rate has been documented, and it’s astounding. With compulsive disorders, phobias, and PTSD symptoms, his rate of achieving total remission is five times higher than the American Psychiatric Association average.”
“But . . .?”
“But when other therapists try to employ the techniques he describes, they don’t come close to his results.”
“Does that mean he’s faking his success stories?”
“No, that’s been checked and double-checked. If anything, he’s been understating his positive outcomes—a breathtaking fact in itself.”
“Then what’s the explanation?”
“In my opinion, there’s a unique synergy between the method and the man.”
“Meaning?”
“Hammond has a uniquely powerful clinical presence.”
“You mean he has a talent that enables him to do things other therapists can’t do?”
“I’d say that his clinical talent appears to be out of the ballpark. I suspect that other people could learn his techniques, but only by closely observing what he does.”
Gurney thought about this for a few moments. “It sounds like Dr. Hammond could put a very high price tag on himself, if he were so inclined.”
“That’s an understatement.” Holdenfield paused. “The odd thing is, he doesn’t seem interested in money, or in any of the prestige positions in the field that could be his for the asking.”
“One more question before you go. Does the term ‘trance-induced suicide’ mean anything to you? I heard it used recently, and I was wondering if it had any clinical meaning.”
“It’s ringing a distant bell. I’ll let you know if the context comes to mind. Anything else?”
“Has Hammond ever commented on that new area of research you mentioned—separating thoughts from the emotions they generate?”
“Matter of fact, he has. He suggested in a recent article that it could be achieved through hypnotherapy. He even seemed to be hinting that he might already have done it.”
CHAPTER 27
At 6:45 AM the next morning, at the first suggestion of dawn, they were in the Outback, heading for Lake George, heater turned up to the max. By the time they crested the first ridge, Madeleine had fallen asleep.
The secondary roads to the Adirondack Northway were slippery from the night’s flurries, and the going was slow. The Northway itself, however, turned out to be free of both snow and traffic, and Gurney was able to make up for lost time.
At 8:56 he entered Lake George Village and a moment later caught sight of the lake—as gray as the cold sky above it. As the road drew closer to the shore, he passed a deserted marina, a closed restaurant, and a lakefront hotel with a nearly empty parking lot.
At 8:59, he pulled into the Sunoco station on Woodpecker Road. He spotted the red GTO parked by the convenience store in back of the gas pumps. Hardwick was pacing along the edge of the parking area smoking a cigarette. He looked grim. The hard set of his jaw, the evident tension in his muscular body, and those ice-blue sled-dog eyes would keep any sane stranger at a prudent distance.
Madeleine stirred in her seat.
“We’ve arrived,” said Gurney, pulling in next to the GTO. “Did you want to walk around a bit?”
She mumbled something and shook her head.
He got out, felt the wind coming off the lake, and zipped up his jacket. As he approached Hardwick, the man dropped his cigarette to the pavement and crushed it underfoot as though it were a wasp that had just stung him. His grimace morphed into an overly broad smile as he came forward, hand extended.
“Davey! Good to see you!” The exuberance of the greeting was as false as the smile.
Gurney shook his hand.
Hardwick maintained the big grin but lowered his voice, “Never know who’s watching. Want the gift idea to look credible.” He opened the passenger door of the GTO, took out a slim gift-wrapped box, and handed it to him. “Unwrap it and look surprised. And happy.”
In the package Gurney found what appeared to be a sleek new smartphone.
“Advanced surveillance scanner,” said Hardwick. “Full instructions on the opening screen. Your password is ‘Sherlock.’ Set it to scan and leave it in your pocket. Automatically maps any space you’re in. Locates and identifies audio and video bugs, geo-trackers, recorders, transmitters. Stores the mapping, location, and frequency spectrum data associated with each device for later retrieval. Questions?”
“Where’d you get this thing?”
“Remember the tough little redhead techie on the Mellery case?”
“Sergeant Robin Wigg?”
“Lieutenant Wigg now. Running technology evaluation for the Anti-Terrorism Unit. We stayed in touch. I happened to mention that I had a hostile-surveillance concern. Things like that get her excited. She said I could have this item for three days. Unofficial field test.”
“What prompted your surveillance concern?”
“An odd little travel brochure.” Hardwick glanced around, up and down the street, then gestured toward the convenience store. “Let’s go inside.”