“His irritation could make him helpful to us.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I mentioned that we’d love to know if Leo Balzac had ever been to Camp Brightwater; or if he’d been known to harbor strong opinions regarding gay men; or if he might have had any past contacts with Gall, Wenzel, or Pardosa.”
“And?”
“He said he’d be glad to find out what he could, as long as his involvement would remain a secret. I told him it would—that I’d be delighted to take full personal credit for blasting the case right up the asses of the boys in the stratosphere.”
“That must have warmed his heart.”
“We’ll see what kind of information he actually comes up with. In the meantime, how’d your sit-down go with Moe?”
“He told me that the summer Pardosa was there was pretty awful. One of the campers disappeared. And a nasty rumor circulated afterward was that he might have been killed because he was gay. Problem is, there’s no real evidence for it.”
“But it does ring that same damn bell one more time.”
“Yes. It does.”
“Anything else?”
“He kept talking about the ‘bad apples’ in the barrel. Couldn’t remember any names, though. Claimed Pardosa’s name meant nothing to him. Maybe I’ll give him a call before he gets on his Tel Aviv flight, see if the names Balzac, Wenzel, and Gall stir up any memories.”
“Anything else happening? How’s Madeleine doing?”
“She’s pretty stressed right now. Which reminds me, I need to get going. I’ve been told there’s a record blizzard closing in.”
THE FARTHER NORTH GURNEY DROVE, THE DARKER IT GOT. WHEN he reached the crest of the last ridge before Wolf Lake, he stopped at the side of the road. Finally within the coverage area of the lodge cell tower, he called Moe Blumberg’s number.
The call went into voicemail. He left a message that included the names of the victims he hadn’t mentioned during their Otterville meeting, plus Richard Hammond’s for good measure, asking if any of the names triggered memories from that terrible summer thirteen years ago.
As he pulled back onto the road, the sky ahead was the sullen blackish-blue of a bruise, and a few scattered snowflakes were drifting down through the beams of his headlights.
Halfway down the winding road from the ridge to the lake, his headlights swept across a large pine thicket, and he saw something moving. He braked to a stop and switched on his high beams just as the creature, whatever it was, disappeared into the deep woods. He lowered his windows a couple of inches and listened. But the silence was deep and unbroken. He drove on.
By the time he arrived at his parking spot under the lodge portico, Wolf Lake and its surrounding ridges were engulfed in an unnatural darkness, and the snow was falling steadily.
It was 4:30 PM by the grandfather clock in the reception area. He checked the Hearth Room to see if Madeleine might be there, then hurried up the stairs.
Entering the suite he found the main room illuminated only by the kerosene lamp by the couch. His first thought was that there was a problem with the electricity—until Madeleine called out to him. “Don’t turn on the lights.”
He found her in the bedroom alcove, sitting very still in the center of the four-poster bed with her eyes closed and her pajamaed legs crossed in a lotus position. A second kerosene lamp on the bureau bathed the alcove in an amber glow. A classical guitar piece was playing on her tablet, which was placed on the arm of a chair out near the bugged Harding portrait.
She held up three fingers, which he assumed represented the number of minutes she intended to remain in her yoga pose before speaking to him. He sat in a chair between the bed and bureau and waited. Eventually she opened her eyes.
“Is it all right for us to talk in here?” Her voice sounded less tense than it had for days.
“Yes, here in the alcove, with your music playing out there.” He studied her face. “You look . . . relaxed.”
“I feel relaxed.”
“Why the kerosene lamps?”
“The soft light is calming.”
“How did your meeting go with Hammond?”
“Very well.”
He stared at her, waiting for more. “That’s it?”
“He’s good.”
“At what?”
“Reducing anxiety.”
“How does he do that?”
“It’s hard to put it into words.”
“You sound like you’re on Valium.”
She shrugged.
“You’re not, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“So what did you talk about?”
“Colin Bantry’s craziness.”
Again he stared at her, waiting for more. “And?”
“My own guilt trip—blaming myself for what he did.”
A silence fell between them. Madeleine’s gaze seemed to be focused on the lamp.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking that Richard is innocent, and you have to help him.”
“What about our trip to Vermont?”
“I called this afternoon and cancelled.”
“You did what?”
“Don’t pretend to be irate. You never wanted to go there anyway.” She straightened out her legs slowly from her yoga position and got off the bed. “Maybe you should try to relax. Maybe have a quick nap? I’m going to take a bath before we go to dinner at Richard and Jane’s.”
“Another bath?”
“You should try it.”
She took a small bottle of shampoo out of her duffle bag, went out to the sitting area, took the other kerosene lamp from the end table, and went into the bathroom. He heard her turning on the bath taps and heard the water gushing into the tub.
He took a few deep breaths and tried massaging his neck and shoulders to loosen the tightness in his muscles. He asked himself where his tension was coming from. He didn’t like the first explanation that came to mind—that he was jealous and resentful that another man was helping Madeleine in a way he himself had been unable to.
He heard the tub water being turned off. A minute or two later Madeleine returned to the alcove. Standing in the soft light cast by the lamp on the bureau, to all appearances in no hurry, she removed her pajamas and laid them on the bed.
As it always did, the beauty of her body had a powerful effect on him.
She seemed to sense the change in the nature of his attention.
Turning to the bureau, she opened a drawer and took out a bra and panties she’d transferred there from her bag. She laid them on a bench at the foot of the bed. Then she opened a second drawer and took out a sweater and jeans. She laid them on the bench also, moving casually closer to him as she did so.
He reached out, lightly touching the smooth curve of her hip with his fingertips.
She met his gaze with a look that was challenging and irresistible.
Neither of them said a word. She moved her pajamas from the bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down on the sheet. She watched him taking off his clothes.
Their lovemaking was intense, creating for a while a separate world where nothing mattered except what they were doing at that moment.
As he lay next to her in a daze, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth one more time. Then she got up and left the alcove. A few seconds later he heard the bathroom door close.
Feeling deeply at peace for the first time in days, he let his eyes drift shut.
In retrospect, as he carefully reviewed later what happened, in a search for details that might explain it, he found it hard to recall how much time had elapsed between the closing of the bathroom door and the traumatic horror that changed everything.
Five seconds? Ten seconds? Possibly even thirty seconds?
The high-pitched sound pierced him viscerally, chillingly, struck some primitive part of his brain, before his conscious mind identified it as a scream. It was an excruciating sound of terror, followed by the sound of stumbling and the hard impact of a body hitting the floor.