John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

She nodded and picked it up. “You are thirsty.” She stood noisily, giving her glass a sharp whack with her hand, knocking it over. “Shit! What a mess!” She stomped out of the room.

The glass was empty, there was no mess, but anyone listening in would be picturing one of those awkward moments in unrehearsed real life. Gurney smiled. The young lady had real talent.

A few moments later his phone rang. He picked it up and began his fictitious conversation.

“Max?… Sure, go ahead… What do you mean?… Why are you asking?… What?… You’re serious?… Yes, yes, of course… Right… No, no, the Facebook message was a fake… Ah, good point… How sure are you?… Look, what you’re saying makes perfect sense, but that ID needs to be nailed down-I mean nailed down one hundred percent, no loose ends… That’s absolutely incredible, but, Jesus Christ, I think you’re right… Sure… When?… Yeah, I’ll bring everything… All right… Yeah… Be very careful… Midnight tomorrow night… Absolutely!”

Gurney went through the motions of pressing the button to end the call, then laid his phone on the table.

Kim came back into the room. “Here’s your refill,” she said, as though she were handing him a glass. “Who was that call from? You look pretty excited about something.”

“That was Max Clinter. It seems that the Good Shepherd finally made a major mistake-in addition to the ones at Ruth Blum’s and at the auto-body shop up the road. Those I already knew about, but Max just made another discovery, and… now we know who he is.”

“Oh, my God! You’ve identified the Good Shepherd?”

“Yes. At least I’m about ninety percent sure. But I want to make it a hundred percent. It’s too big a thing for there to be any open question.”

“Who is it? Tell me!”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet ?”

“I can’t take any chance of being wrong about it. Way too much at stake. I’m getting together with Clinter tomorrow night at his cabin. He has something I need to look at. If it matches what I’ve got, it’ll close the loop-and the Shepherd is history.”

“Why do you have to wait till tomorrow night? Why not right now?”

“Clinter’s been staying out of the area ever since he got a text message from the Shepherd tricking him into driving around Ruth’s neighborhood in Aurora. He got spooked. Doesn’t even want to be in Cayuga County in the daylight. He said midnight tomorrow was the soonest he could get to his cabin.”

“Jeez, I can’t believe this! I can’t believe you know who the Shepherd is and you won’t tell me!” She sounded frightened, almost pathetic.

“It’s safer this way.” He waited a couple beats, as if mulling something. “I think, for now, you should check in to a hotel. Keep a low profile. Why don’t you pack a few things in an overnight bag, then let’s get out of here.”

They didn’t speak again until their cars were parked in the lot of one of the big chain hotels on the I-88 service road.

It was nearly seven-thirty, and the late-March dusk had turned into night. The lot’s stark lights had come on, creating a visual atmosphere that was neither darkness nor daylight-perhaps what daylight might be like on a planet whose sun was a chilly blue and all the colors were faded and cold.

Kim had joined Gurney in the front seat of the Outback to discuss their “performance” and its potential impact on its presumed audience. Kim was the first to raise a practical question. “Do you think the Shepherd will swallow the bait?”

“Bottom line, yes. He may be suspicious. He’s probably the kind of person who’s suspicious of everything. But he’ll have to do something. And to do something, he’ll have to show up. In the scenario we laid out, the risk of doing nothing would be bigger than the risk of taking action. He’ll understand that. He’s a very logical guy.”

“So you think we did okay?”

“You did more than okay. You seemed very much yourself. Now, listen to me: Spend tonight in this hotel. Don’t open your door for anyone . Not under any circumstances. If anyone tries to persuade you to open the door, you get security on the phone immediately. Okay? Call me in the morning.”

“Are we ever going to be safe?”

Gurney smiled. “I think so. I’m hoping we’ll all be perfectly safe after tomorrow night.”

Kim was biting her lower lip. “What are you going to do?”

Gurney leaned back, gazing out at the parking lot’s bilious lighting. “My plan is to let the Good Shepherd step forward and hang himself. But that’s tomorrow night. Tonight the plan is to go home, go to bed, and get the sleep I haven’t gotten for two days.”

Kim nodded. “Okay.” She paused. “Well, I’d better get myself a room.” She picked up her shoulder bag, got out of the car, and went into the hotel.

After watching Kim disappear into the hotel lobby, Gurney got out of his car, walked around to the rear, lay down on his back, and reached underneath. Without much trouble, he managed to remove the GPS tracker from the bumper support. Back in his seat, he opened the device with a small screwdriver and disconnected its battery.

From now until the final confrontation, he wanted to keep his location to himself.

The Lord giveth. The Lord taketh away.

That night Gurney got seven uninterrupted hours of desperately needed sleep. The next morning, however, he awoke with a feeling of dread-a nameless fear that was only partly relieved by showering, dressing, and strapping on his Beretta.

At 8:00 A.M. he was gazing out the kitchen window, the sun a cool white disk in the morning haze. He was halfway through his first cup of coffee, waiting for it to have a positive effect. Madeleine was sitting at the breakfast table with her oatmeal, toast, and War and Peace .

“Were you up reading that all night?” he asked.

She blinked at the interruption, visibly confused and annoyed. “What?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Sorry.” It had been an ill-advised attempt at humor, hardly humor at all, based on his recollection that she’d been at the same table with the same book the previous evening when he’d come home from Syracuse and gone almost immediately to bed, giving her only the blandest summary of the drama he and Kim had acted out.

He finished his coffee and went to the pot for a second cup. As he was pouring it, Madeleine closed her book and slid it a few inches toward the center of the table.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking so much of that,” she said.

“You’re probably right.” He filled his cup anyway but, in a peculiar concession to her concern, added only one sweetener packet to it instead of his usual two.

She continued to watch him. He had the impression that the worry in her expression took in larger issues than his caffeine consumption.

After he switched off the coffeemaker and went back to the window, she asked quietly, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The question had a strange effect on him. It seemed so all-encompassing. Yet so simple.

“I don’t think so.” To his own ears, his answer sounded trite, inadequate.

“Well,” she said, “let me know if you think of anything.”

Her gentle tone made him feel even more inadequate. He tried to brighten his mood by changing the subject. “So what’s on your agenda today?”

“The clinic, naturally. And I may not be home for dinner. I may go over to Betty’s after work.” She paused. “Is that all right?”

It was a question she often asked in a variety of contexts. It could be about going somewhere, or planting something in one of the flower beds, or a recipe decision. He always found it inexplicably irritating, and he invariably answered it the same way. “Of course it’s all right.” The exchange was always, as it was now, followed by a silence.