John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“Aren’t you working at the clinic today?” asked Gurney.

“I don’t have to be there till ten-thirty. Plenty of time. Too nice a morning to stay in the house.”

She went to the bedroom, and two minutes later she emerged in a wild assortment of colors: lavender fleece pants, a pink nylon jacket, and a red beret.

“I’ll be down near the pond,” she said. “I’ll see you before you go.”

Kyle came over and sat at the table with Gurney. “Do you think she’s all right?”

“Sure. I mean… obviously she’s… I’m sure she’s okay. Being outside always seems to help her. Walking does something for her. Something good.”

Kyle nodded. “What should I do?”

It sounded like the biggest possible question a young man could ask his father. Thinking of it that way made Gurney smile. “Keep an eye on things.” He paused. “How’s your work going? And your school stuff?”

“E-mail is magic.”

“Good. I feel bad about this. I’ve dragged you into something… created a problem in your life where there shouldn’t have been any… created a danger. That’s not something… a parent…” His voice trailed off. He looked out through the glass doors, looked to see if the crows were still perched on the hemlocks.

“You didn’t create the danger, Dad. You’re the one who’s taking care of it.”

“Right. Well… I’d better get ready. I don’t want to find myself hung up with this arson nonsense when I need to be somewhere else.”

“You want me to do anything?”

“Like I said, just keep an eye on things. And you… you know where the…” Gurney gestured toward the bedroom.

“Where the shotgun is. Yep. No problem.”

“By tomorrow morning, with a little luck, everything should be okay.” On that note, which had an emptier ring than he would have liked, Gurney left the room.

There really wasn’t much for him to do before setting out. He checked to make sure his phone was adequately charged. He checked the action of his Beretta and the security of his ankle holster. He went to his desk and got out the folder of information Kim had given him during their first meeting, and he added to it the printouts of the reports Hardwick had e-mailed him. He had quite a few hours left before any kind of confrontation would occur, and he planned to review once again all the facts in his possession.

When he came back out to the kitchen, Kyle was standing by the table, plainly too anxious to sit.

“Okay, son, I’d better be going.”

“Right, then. See you later.” Kyle raised his hand in a determinedly casual gesture-something between a wave and a salute.

“Right. See you later.”

Gurney went out quickly to his car, grabbing his jacket from the mudroom on his way. He was hardly aware of driving down the pasture lane, until he reached the place by the pond where the grassy surface merged into the gravel of the town road. At that moment he caught sight of Madeleine.

She was standing by a tall birch on the uphill verge of the pond, her eyes closed, her face raised to the sun. He stopped the car, got out, and walked toward her. He wanted to say good-bye, say that he’d be home before morning.

She opened her eyes slowly and smiled at him. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“What?”

“The air.”

“Oh. Yes, very nice. I was just on my way, and I thought-”

Her smile caught him off balance. It was so… so intensely full of… what? Not sadness, exactly. Something else.

Whatever it was, it was in her voice as well. “Just stop for a bit,” she said, “and feel the air on your face.”

For a moment-a few seconds, a minute perhaps, he wasn’t sure-he was transfixed.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she said again, so softly that the words seemed to be a part of the air she was describing.

“I have to go,” he said. “I have to go before-”

She stopped him. “I know. I know you do. Be careful.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I love you.”

“Oh, God.” He stared at her. “I’m afraid, Maddie. I’ve always been able to figure things out. I hope to God I know what I’m doing. It’s all I can do.”

She placed her fingers gently on his lips. “You’ll be brilliant.”

He didn’t remember walking to his car, or getting into it.

What he remembered was looking back, seeing her standing on the high ground above the birch, radiant in the sunlight in her profusion of colors, waving to him, smiling with a poignancy beyond his understanding.

The countryside between Walnut Crossing and Cayuga County presented one classic bucolic vista after another-small farms, vineyards, and rolling cornfields, interspersed with hardwood copses. But Gurney hardly noticed. His mind was on his destination-a stark little cabin in a black-water bog-and what might happen there that night.

It wasn’t yet noon when he arrived. He decided not to go into the property right away. Instead he drove slowly past the dirt entry road with its skeleton sentinel and sagging aluminum gate. The gate was open, but its very openness appeared more ominous than inviting.

He proceeded a mile or so, then made a U-turn. Halfway back to Clinter’s forbidding driveway, he saw a large, decrepit barn in the middle of a weed-choked field. The roof was sagging dramatically. Quite a few boards were missing from the siding, as was one of the double doors. There was no farmhouse in sight-only a disheveled foundation that might once have supported one.

Gurney was curious. As soon as he came to what he suspected had formerly been the entrance, he drove slowly up into the field, all the way to the front of the barn. It was dark inside, and he had to switch on his headlights to get a sense of the interior. The floor was concrete, and there was a long open passageway extending from the front clear through to the shadowy back of the building. It was filthy, with decaying hay everywhere, but otherwise it was empty.

He made a decision. He drove slowly into the barn-as far as he could into its dark recesses. Then he took his file of Orphans data and police reports, got out of the car, and locked the doors. It was exactly noon. He was going to have a long wait, but he was prepared to make good use of it.

He proceeded on foot down through the tangled field and along the road to Clinter’s driveway. Walking in along the narrow causeway that traversed the beaver pond and adjacent swamp, Gurney was struck again by the godforsaken loneliness of the place.

As promised, the front door of the cabin was unlocked. The interior, which seemed to consist of one large room, had the musty smell of a place whose windows are rarely opened. The log walls contributed another smell, woody and acidic. The furniture looked like it had come from a store specializing in the “rustic” style. It was a man’s environment. A hunter’s environment.

There was a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator against one wall; a long table with three chairs against the adjacent wall; a low single bed against another wall. The floor was made of dark-stained pine boards. The outline of what appeared to be a trapdoor in the floor caught Gurney’s eye. There was a finger hole drilled near one edge, presumably as a way of lifting it open. Out of curiosity, Gurney tried it, but it wouldn’t budge. Presumably, at some time in the past, it had been sealed shut. Or, knowing Clinter, there might be a concealed lock somewhere. Perhaps that’s where he stored the “collectible” guns he sold to other “collectors” without the need for a federal firearms license.

There was a window that provided some illumination over the long table, as well as a view of the path outside. Gurney settled down there in one of the three chairs and tried to arrange his thick handful of papers in a practical sequence for the hours ahead. After making a few piles, shifting items from pile to pile, and moving the piles into various orders of priority, he abandoned his efforts at organization and decided to start wherever he felt like starting.