John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“I really don’t know, Max. But I see a tiny window of opportunity to stop the Good Shepherd. Maybe stop him from killing Kim Corazon. Or my son. Or my wife. It’s now or never, Max. My only chance. There are already too many variables, too many what-ifs. And one more person in the mix would be one more variable. Sorry, Max, I can’t tolerate that. My way or no way.”

There was a long silence.

“Okay.” Clinter’s voice was flat. No brogue. No feeling.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, you can use my house. When do you need it?”

“Sooner the better. Let’s say tomorrow night. From dusk to dawn.”

“Okay.”

“But I absolutely need you to stay away.”

“What if you end up needing help?”

“Who helped you in that little room in Buffalo?”

“Buffalo was different.”

“Maybe not so different. Are there keys to the cabin doors?”

“No. My little vipers are the only locks I’ve ever needed.”

“Your rumored rattlesnakes?” Gurney recalled that odd tidbit from his visit to Clinter’s cabin the previous week. It seemed like a month ago.

“Rumors can be stronger than facts, laddie. Never underestimate the power of the human mind. A snake in the brain is worth two in the bush.” The brogue was creeping back in.

Shortly before eleven that morning, Kyle settled down with Gurney’s computer, printer, and a USB cable and began transferring PDF files from his BlackBerry. A classmate was keeping him up to date with lecture summaries and assignments, reducing any pressure he might be feeling to return to the city. Kyle explained that his side job was also doable via e-mail, at least temporarily.

At eleven sharp, Gurney and Kim left for their twelve-thirty meeting with Getz. They took the Miata, with Kim driving. Gurney hoped, as a passenger, he might to be able to devote some serious thought to his notion of luring the Shepherd to Max Clinter’s cabin. And, with a little luck, he might be able to grab a catnap.

With some crimes, figuring out the motive could lead you to the perp. With other crimes, identifying the perp could lead you to the motive. In the current situation, there wasn’t enough time for either approach. The only hope was to get the perp to identify himself. Which sounded like an impossible challenge. How do you ensnare a man who has a hawk’s eye for snares?

When they were halfway to Ashokan Heights on Route 28, Gurney finally sank into his desperately needed nap. It ended twenty-five minutes later, when Kim woke him on Falcon’s Nest Lane, a mile from Getz’s house.

“Dave?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think I should do?” She was looking straight ahead as she spoke.

“That’s a big question,” he said vaguely. “If you decide to back away from RAM, is there a Plan B?”

“Why do I need a Plan B?”

Before he could come up with an answer, the car reached the imposing entrance to Getz’s driveway. Kim drove between the stone pillars into the tunnel of arching rhododendrons that led to the house.

Getting out of the car, they were greeted by the thumping reverberation of a helicopter rotor. It grew steadily louder as they stood looking up through the surrounding trees for the source. Soon it seemed so close that Gurney could feel it as much as hear it. He didn’t see the craft itself, which had been approaching from a direction blocked from his field of vision by the façade of the house, until it was about to touch down on the roof. Caught briefly in the direct downwash of the rotors, Kim’s hair was blown wildly around her face.

When the air was again still, she reached into her shoulder bag and took out a small brush. She neatened her hair, straightened her blazer, and gave Gurney a small smile. They climbed the cantilevered steps to the door, and Gurney knocked.

There was no response. He tried again. After they’d waited another half minute or so, as he was about to knock a third time, one of the doors opened.

Rudy Getz’s mouth was stretched into something like a grin. His hooded eyes were gleaming in a way that made him look high. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, as he had been on their previous visit, but the white linen sport jacket had been replaced by a pale lavender one. “Hey, good to see you! Good timing! I like that. Come in, come in.”

The modernistic interior with its cold metal-and-glass furniture was as Gurney remembered it. Getz was snapping his fingers as though his level of nervous energy demanded it. He pointed to the same oval, acrylic coffee table and cluster of chairs where they’d had their first meeting. “Grab a seat. Time for a drink. Love helicopters, love ’em to death. RAM’s got a fleet of them. We’re famous for it. The Ram-copters. Every major news event, a Ramcopter is always the first one there. Really big event, we send two. No one else has the resources to send two. Point of pride. But whenever I go up, I always land thirsty. Join me in a drink?”

Before Gurney or Kim could answer, Getz put two fingers to his lips and whistled-a loud, sharp note that outdoors would have been audible at five hundred yards. Almost immediately the Rollerblader entered from a doorway on the far side of the room. Gurney recognized the skates, the black leotard stretched over the eye-catching body, the deep blue gel-spiked hair, the eyes as blue and shocking as the hair.

“You ever have Stoli Elit?” asked Getz.

“I’ll just have a glass of water, if that’s okay,” said Kim.

“You, Detective Gurney?”

“Water.”

“Too bad. Stoli Elit is really special. Costs a fortune.” He looked at the Rollerblader. “Claudia, sweetheart, bring me three fingers, neat.” He held up three fingers horizontally, to show her how much he wanted in his glass.

She pivoted on the tips of her skates and glided out through the far doorway.

“So we’re all here. Let’s sit down and talk.” Getz motioned again to the chairs.

Kim and Gurney sat on one side of the table, Getz on the other side.

Claudia came gliding back and placed a glass in front of Getz. He picked it up, sipped some clear liquid from it, and smiled. “Perfect.”

She gave Gurney an appraising glance and again disappeared through the far doorway.

“Okay,” said Getz. “Business.” He set his gleaming eyes on Kim. “Sweetheart, I know you got stuff you want to say. Let’s get that out of the way first. Talk to me.”

Kim looked lost for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know what to say-other than that I’m horrified. Horrified by what’s happened. I feel responsible. These people who were killed-they were killed because of me. Because of The Orphans of Murder . It has to be stopped. Ended.”

Getz stared at her. “That’s it?” He seemed taken aback, as though he’d been auditioning an actress who stopped speaking after her first line.

“That and the whole tone of the program. It wasn’t what I was expecting. The way it was edited, that hokey opening on the dark country road, the so-called experts who were asked for their opinions-to be honest, I thought it was trashy.”

“Trashy?”

“Bottom line, I want the series canceled.”

“Bottom line, you want it canceled? That’s pretty funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah. Funny. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I did ask for water.”

“You did. That’s the truth.” Getz pointed a forefinger at her as if it were the barrel of a gun and grinned. Then he picked up his vodka and downed it in two long swallows. “Okay, let’s get some facts on the table. A small housekeeping detail first. You really need to check your contract, sweetheart, so you’ll have a clearer understanding of the basics-like who owns what, who makes what decisions, who gets to cancel things. Et cetera. But this is no time to get bogged down in legalities. We have bigger issues to talk about. Let me tell you a few things about RAM that-”