“That I’m on the radar of some dangerous people?”
“Another understatement. Let me be clear, and brief. What’s generally known about the FBI, CIA, NSA, and military intelligence operations doesn’t scratch the surface of what’s really happening. The kind of people who are taking an interest in you have access to records of every website you’ve ever visited, every phone number you’ve ever called, every purchase you’ve ever made with a credit card, every book you’ve taken out of a library. Unless you’ve disabled your cell phone GPS, they know every route you’ve ever driven, every address you’ve ever stopped at, every friend, every doctor, every lawyer, every therapist. And that’s just for starters. If they decide that you might impede an operation that has a national security dimension, they can record your phone calls, bug your home. They can review your bank statements, your tax returns, your high school and college records, your medical history. And they can make you disappear for extended interrogations with no statutory limits, simply by concocting a link between you and some terrorist organization that may not even exist. ‘Protecting the homeland’ has become a blank check in the hands of some very ruthless people. Any questions?”
“About a hundred. But I don’t think I want to hear the answers.”
“Good luck, David. And be very, very careful.”
He thanked her for taking the personal risk involved in speaking to him. But she’d already ended the call.
Given the picture she’d painted of a shadowy governmental nemesis, it would be easy to construct paranoid scenarios. On the other hand, given the nature of the government’s massive intrusion into private lives, could any scenario really be dismissed as paranoid? The advances in data gathering and manipulation were racing far ahead of any ethical consensus regarding their use. Putting such powerful tools in the hands of ambitious, self-righteous bureaucrats was like giving weapons of mass destruction to class bullies.
He realized this ongoing societal train wreck was beyond his control. But he did have control over where to invest his time and effort. Maintaining his focus—or dividing it appropriately between the case issues and Madeleine’s issues—would be his main challenge. He could sometimes forget, in his immersion in an investigation, that he was someone’s husband.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave?” Madeleine had come back into the bedroom alcove, carrying her iPad, with a loud piece of music playing on it—one of the surveillance-defeating techniques he’d suggested.
“I’ll be okay,” he said, getting up from the bed. “If I’m out by eight, I can make it to Otterville by eleven. By the way, how were you planning to get to Hammond’s place?”
“I could take one of the lodge Jeeps, or even walk, so long as it’s not sleeting or snowing. It’s less than a mile.”
“You’re supposed to be there at nine?”
“Richard said I could come earlier and have breakfast with them. Actually, he said we both could come, but I didn’t think you’d want to.”
The best response he could muster was a tight-lipped nod. He muttered something about showering and shaving, went into the bathroom, and closed the door.
He knew the anger he felt was absurd. But he couldn’t deny its reality.
AS HE WAS PREPARING TO DEPART FOR OTTERVILLE, HE EXPLAINED to Madeleine where the scanner had pinpointed the three audio bugs in the chalet, and where she should try to sit with Hammond to limit their effectiveness.
“Keep your back to those transmitter locations, and speak as softly as you can. You could even bring your iPad and have that music playing. You could tell Hammond it helps you relax.”
She extended her arms toward him, her eyes filling with tears. She held him tightly—desperately, it seemed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My decision to come here was a terrible mistake.”
“We can leave anytime you want.”
“No. The problem is inside me. Running away now won’t help.” She was silent for a long moment. “You should be on your way. Maybe Mr. Blumberg will have the answer to your Wolf Lake mystery.”
BEING ALONE IN HIS CAR MADE IT EASIER TO FOCUS ON THE CASE. HE decided to concentrate on identifying the discrepancy he sensed in Angela Castro’s answers to his questions at Tabitha’s Dollhouse. He took out his phone, located his recording of the interview, and tapped the “Play” icon.
It immediately brought the Dollhouse scene vividly to mind. When he heard Tabitha’s voice he was struck again by her strange combination of formidability and deference—and by Angela’s explanation that she might be hoping they’d “buy another Barbie.”
He wasn’t able, however, to pinpoint the discontinuity he was looking for.
So he played the recording again.
It was during the second playing that he heard it. Just one odd word.
The word was “later.”
It wasn’t even the word itself, but the meaning it was given by the way Angela said it.
Gurney asked her what Pardosa had said about Hammond, and she replied that he’d said he was disgusting.
Then Gurney asked if Pardosa had told her about his nightmares.
She replied, “Yeah, but that was later.”
What struck Gurney was the way she said “later”—making it sound as though a relatively long interval had elapsed. But she’d also said that Pardosa told her about the nightmare the first time he had it, the night after he met with Hammond.
Presumably the earliest Pardosa could have told her that Hammond was “disgusting” was the afternoon of the day of the hypnosis session. And later that night, or first thing next morning, he told her about his nightmare. So, a gap of perhaps twelve to eighteen hours would have elapsed—hardly a long interval.
Gurney realized that he was getting pretty far out on a speculative branch, based on nothing more than the way a single word struck his ear. Before he proceeded further he needed to know exactly what Angela meant by “later.” He knew only one way to find out. He pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, found Angela’s cell number in his phone list, and pressed “Call.”
She answered in a small frightened voice. “Hello?”
In the background he could hear TV voices, laughter, applause.
“It’s Dave Gurney, Angela. Are you all right?”
“I think so. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just curious about something you said, and I thought maybe you could help me. Are you free to talk?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you speak freely? Are you alone?”
“Who else would be here? I’m in my room.”
“At the Dollhouse Inn?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let me explain what it is that I need help with.” He recounted the exchange that had occurred between them, leading up to her use of the word “later” to separate Pardosa’s description of his nightmare from his earlier comment that Hammond was disgusting. “I’m wondering how much time passed between those two conversations.”
“I don’t understand.”
“At some point, Stevie told you the hypnotist was disgusting. And then, later, he told you about the nightmare he had. How much later was that?”
“God, I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t like counting days or anything.”
“It was a number of days, not hours?”
“Oh, no, not hours. Days.”
“Okay. Am I remembering right that Stevie told you about the nightmare right after he had it the first time, the night of the same day he had his session with Hammond?”
“Definitely. I know that for sure. Because we were here when he told me.”