John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

He envisioned an endgame in which he would finally confront the Good Shepherd. An endgame in which the puzzle pieces would snap together. An endgame that would prove that his contrary view was the product of a sound mind and not the fantasy of a damaged cop whose best days were behind him.

He didn’t have time to question the rationality of this goal-or the likelihood of his success. All he could do now was focus on how to bring about the confrontation. And where.

Deciding where would be easy.

How would be the challenge.

When the phone rang, it brought him back to the present, sitting at the table, which was now in the full light of the morning sun. He was surprised to see that while he’d been lost in his thoughts, Kim and Kyle had retreated to the armchairs at the far end of the room and that Kyle had started a small fire in the woodstove.

He went to the den to take the call.

“Good morning, Connie.”

“David?” She sounded surprised to have reached him.

“I’m here.”

“In the eye of the storm?”

“Feels that way.”

“I bet it does.” Her voice was edgy and energetic. Connie always sounded as though she were on uppers. “Which way is the wind blowing at the moment?”

“Sorry?”

“Is my daughter hanging in or heading for the exit?”

“She tells me she’s determined to drop the project.”

“Because of the intensity?”

“Intensity?”

“The ice-pick murders, rebirth of the Shepherd, panic in the streets. That’s what’s scaring her off?”

“The people who were murdered were people she cared about.”

“Journalism isn’t for the faint of heart. Never was, never will be.”

“She also has the feeling that her idea for a serious emotional documentary is being converted into a sleazy RAM soap opera.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake, David, we live in a capitalist society.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning the media business is-surprise, surprise-a business. Nuance is nice, but drama is what sells.”

“Maybe you ought to be having this conversation with her rather than with me.”

“Like hell I should. She and I are oil and water. But, like I told you before, she looks up to you. She’ll listen to you.”

“What do you want me to tell her? That RAM is a noble enterprise, that Rudy Getz is a prince?”

“From what I hear on the street, Rudy is a shit. But he’s a smart shit. The world is the world. Some of us face it, some of us don’t. I hope she thinks twice about bailing out.”

“Bailing out in this case might not be such a bad idea.”

There was a silence-not a common thing in a conversation with Connie Clarke. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. “You don’t know what that could lead to. Her decision to go to journalism school, to get a degree, to pursue this idea of hers, to build a media career for herself-it’s all been such a lifesaver, such a salvation from where she was before.”

“Where was that?”

There was another silence. “The ambitious, focused young woman you’re seeing now is kind of a miracle. The way she was a few years ago had me scared-the way she was when she bailed out of normal life after her father disappeared. When she was in her teens, she was adrift. She didn’t want to do anything, wasn’t interested in anything. There were times she’d be okay, and then she’d sink back into a dark hole. This journalism thing-particularly this Orphans project-has provided some direction. It’s given her a life. I’d rather not think where ‘bailing out’ might lead.”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“She’s there ? In your house?”

“Yes. Long story.”

“There, now, in the same room with you?”

“In another room, with my son.”

“Your son?”

“Another long story.”

“I see. Well… I’d love to hear that story when you have time to tell it to me.”

“Be happy to. Maybe in another day or two. Things are a little complicated right now.”

“I gather. In the meantime please remember what I said.”

“I’d better go now.”

“Okay, but… do what you can, David. Please . Don’t let her self-destruct.”

When the call ended, he stood at the den window, staring out at the ridge without really seeing it. How the hell was anyone supposed to keep anyone else from self-destructing?

A fresh surge of throbbing in the heel of his hand interrupted his train of thought. He raised the hand, resting it against the window sash, and the pain faded. He looked at the clock on the desk. In less than an hour, he and Kim would have to leave for their meeting with Rudy Getz.

But right now he had more pressing issues to resolve.

The wild card. The opportunity to send a message to the killer.

What should the message be?

An invitation?

To come where? To do what? For what reason?

What might the Shepherd want?

One thing the Shepherd always seemed to want was security.

Perhaps Gurney could offer him an opportunity to eliminate some element of risk in his life.

Perhaps an opportunity to eliminate an adversary.

Yes. That would do nicely.

An opportunity to kill someone troublesome.

And Gurney knew the place for it. The perfect place for a murder.

He opened the desk drawer and took out a business card that had no name on it, just a cell number.

He took out his phone and made the call. It went into voice mail. There was no salutation, no identification, just a brusque command: “State your purpose.”

“It’s Dave Gurney. An urgent matter. Call me.”

The response came less than a minute later. “Maximilian Clinter here. What’s up, laddie?” The brogue was present in full force.

“I have a request. I have to do something, and I need a special place to do it.”

“Well, well, well. Something major?”

“Yes.”

“How major exactly?”

“As major as it gets.”

“As major as it gets. Well, well. That can only mean one thing. Am I right?”

“I’m not a mind reader, Max.”

“I am.”

“Then you don’t have to ask me any questions.”

“It’s not a question, just a request for confirmation.”

“I’m confirming that it’s major, and I’m asking for the use of your cabin for one night.”

“Care to provide some details?”

“I haven’t figured them out yet.”

“The basic idea, then.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I have a right to know.”

“I’m going to invite someone to join me there.”

“The man himself?”

Gurney made no reply.

“Bloody hell! Is it the truth? You found him?”

“Actually, I want him to find me.”

“In my cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he want to come there?”

“Possibly to kill me, if I can give him a good enough reason.”

“I see. You plan to spend the night in my cabin in the middle of Hogmarrow Swamp, in the hope of getting a midnight visit from a man with a good reason to kill you. Do I have this right?”

“More or less.”

“And what’s the happy ending? A split second before you get your head blown off, I drop out of the sky to save you, like fucking Batman?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I save myself. Or I don’t.”

“What are you, a one-man army?”

“It’s too damn iffy for anyone else to be involved.”

“I should be part of it.”

Gurney gazed unseeingly out the den window, contemplating the wobbly stack of assumptions under his so-called plan. Going it alone would be risky as hell. But bringing in backup, especially someone like Clinter, would be riskier. “Sorry. My way or no way.”

Clinter’s voice exploded. “You’re talking about the fucker who fucked up my life! The fucker I live to kill! The fucker I want to feed to a dog! And you’re telling me it has to be done your fucking way. Your fucking way? Are you out of your fucking mind?”