John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

On the other hand, not every idea that feels right is right. Gurney knew from experience how dangerously easy it is to overlook logical flaws in one’s thinking. When the product of one’s own mind is the subject, objectivity is an illusion. We all believe we have an open mind, but no one really does. A devil’s-advocate process is essential.

His first choice for devil’s advocacy was Hardwick. He took out his phone and placed the call. When it went to voice mail, he left a brief message. “Hey, Jack. I have a slant on the case that I’d like your reaction to. Call me.”

He checked to make sure his phone was still set on vibrate. He wasn’t sure what the night had in store for him, but in the scenarios he imagined, a ringing phone could be a problem.

His next devil’s-advocate choice was Lieutenant Bullard. He didn’t know where she stood at this point, but the need he felt for feedback outweighed his concern about the politics. Besides, if his insight into the case was correct, it could tilt the politics back in his favor. That call also went into voice mail, and he left essentially the same message for her that he’d left for Hardwick.

Not knowing when Hardwick or Bullard might get back to him and still wanting to expose his new perspective to a live listener, he decided, with mixed feelings, to call Clinter. After the third ring, the man himself answered.

“Hey, laddie, trouble on your big night? You calling for help?”

“No trouble. Just an idea I want to bounce off you. Might have holes in it, or it might be significant.”

“I’m all ears.”

It suddenly struck Gurney that there was a sizable psychic overlap between Clinter and Hardwick. Clinter was Hardwick gone over the edge. The thought, strangely, made him both more and less comfortable.

Gurney explained his idea. Twice.

There was no response. As he waited, he gazed out the window at the broad, marshy pond. The full moon had risen, giving the dead trees looming above the marsh grass an eerie presence. “You there, Max?”

“I’m absorbing, laddie, absorbing. I find no fatal fault with what you say. It does, of course, raise questions.”

“Of course.”

“To be sure I understand, you’re saying that only one of the murders mattered?”

“Correct.”

“And the other five were protective cover?”

“Correct.”

“And none of the murders had a damn thing to do with the ills of society?”

“Correct.”

“And the fancy cars were targeted… why?”

“Maybe because the one victim that mattered drove one. A big, black, expensive Mercedes. Maybe that’s where the whole concept came from.”

“And the other five people were shot essentially at random? Shot because they had the same kind of car? To make it look like there was a pattern.”

“Correct. I don’t think the killer knew or cared anything about the other victims.”

“Which would make him a rather chilly fucker, wouldn’t it?”

“Correct.”

“So now the big question: Which victim was the one that mattered?”

“When I meet the Good Shepherd, I’ll ask him.”

“And you think that’ll happen tonight?” Clinter’s voice was pulsing with excitement.

“Max, you have to stay away . It’s a fragile thing I’m putting together.”

“Understood, laddie. One more question, though: How does your theory of the old murders explain the current ones?”

“That’s simple. The Good Shepherd is trying keep us from realizing that the original six victims were the sum of one and five. Somehow The Orphans of Murder has the potential to expose that secret-possibly by pointing in some way to the one that mattered. He’s killing people to keep that from happening.”

“A very desperate man.”

“More practical than desperate.”

“Christ, Gurney, he’s murdered three people in three days, according to the news.”

“Right. I just don’t think that desperation has much to do with it. I don’t believe the Shepherd regards murder as that big a deal. It’s simply an action he takes whenever it seems advantageous. Whenever he feels that killing someone will remove more risk from his life than it will create. I don’t think desperation enters into-”

A call-waiting signal stopped Gurney in midsentence. He checked the ID. “Max, I have to go. I’ve got Lieutenant Bullard from BCI trying to get through. And, Max? Stay away from here tonight. Please.”

Gurney glanced out the window. The weird black-and-silver landscape raised gooseflesh on his arms. He was standing in a shaft of moonlight that crossed the center of the room, projecting an image of the window, along with his own shadow, on the far wall above the bed.

He pressed TALK to take the waiting call. “Thank you for getting back to me, Lieutenant. I appreciate it. I think I may have some-” He never finished the sentence.

There was a stunning explosion. A white flash accompanied by a deafening blast. And a terrific impact to Gurney’s hand.

He staggered back against the table, unsure for several seconds what had happened. His right hand was numb. There was a stinging ache in his wrist.

Fearing what he might see, he held his hand up in the moonlight, turning it slowly. All the fingers were there, but he was holding only a small piece of the phone. He looked around the room, searching futilely in the darkness for other areas of damage.

The first explanation that occurred to him was that his phone had exploded. His mind raced around the edges of that improbability, trying to imagine a way it could have been set up, a time when the phone might have been accessible to someone capable of that kind of sabotage, how a miniature explosive device could have been inserted and then triggered.

But that wasn’t just improbable, it was impossible. The concussive impact, the sheer force of the explosion, put its source beyond anything he could conceive of being fitted into a functioning phone. A dummy phone, perhaps, built for the purpose, but not the phone on which he’d just been speaking.

Then he smelled ordinary cartridge gunpowder.

So it wasn’t a sophisticated mini-bomb. It was a muzzle blast.

However, it was a muzzle blast far too loud for any normal handgun-which was why he hadn’t reached the right conclusion immediately.

But he did know at least one handgun that could produce a report of that magnitude.

And at least one individual with the accuracy and steadiness of hand required to put a bullet through a cell phone by moonlight.

His next thought was that the shooter must have fired into the room through one of the windows, and he instinctively dropped to a crouch, peering up at the window over the table. However, it was still closed and the panes illumined by the moonlight were unbroken. Meaning the shot must have come from one of the rear windows. But given the position of his body at the moment of impact, it was hard to see how the bullet could have reached the phone in his hand without passing through his shoulder.

So how…?

The answer arrived with a small shiver.

The shot hadn’t come from outside the cabin.

Someone was there, in the room, with him.

The realization came to him by sound rather than sight.

The sound of breathing.

Just a few feet away.

Slow, relaxed breathing.

As Gurney looked in the direction from which the sound was coming, he saw, interrupting the strip of silvery light across the cabin floor, a dark rectangle where the trapdoor had been opened. On the far side of the opening, there was just enough faintly reflected moonlight to suggest the presence of a standing figure.

A hoarse whisper confirmed the impression. “Sit at the table, Detective. Put your hands on top of your head.”