John Verdon - Shut Your Eyes Tight

She searched his face for a reaction.

He looked off into the distance, out over the treetops beyond the barn. “And all you want me to do is look for Hector Flores.”

“Not look for him. Find him.”

Gurney had a fondness for puzzles, but this one was starting to feel more like a nightmare. Besides, Madeleine would never…

Jesus, think of her name and…

Amazingly, there she was, in her explosion of red and orange attire, making her way gradually up through the pasture, pushing her bicycle along the rutted incline of the path.

Val Perry turned anxiously in her chair to follow his gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”

“My wife.”

They said nothing more until Madeleine arrived at the edge of the patio on her way to the shed. The women exchanged blandly polite gazes. Gurney introduced them, saying only-to maintain the appearance of confidentiality-that Val was “a friend of a friend” who had dropped by for some professional advice.

“It’s so restful here,” said Val Perry, her emphasis making it sound like a foreign word whose pronunciation she was practicing. “You must love it.”

“I do,” said Madeleine. She gave the woman a brief smile and rolled her bicycle on toward the shed.

“Well,” said Val Perry uneasily, after Madeleine had passed out of sight behind the rhododendrons at the back of the garden, “is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Were you bothered at all by the nineteen versus thirty-eight difference in ages?”

“No,” she snapped, confirming his suspicion that she was.

“How does your husband feel about your intention to engage a private detective?”

“He’s supportive,” she said.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“He supports what I want to do.”

Gurney waited.

“Are you asking me how much he’s willing to pay?” Anger twisted some of the beauty out of her face.

Gurney shook his head. “It’s not that.”

She seemed not to hear him. “I told you money was not an issue. I told you we have a shitload of money-a shitload , Mr. Gurney, a SHITLOAD -and I’ll spend whatever it takes to get done what I want to get done!”

Cherry splotches were appearing on her vanilla skin, the words rushing out contemptuously. “My husband is the fucking highest-paid fucking neurosurgeon in the fucking world! He makes over forty fucking million dollars a year! We live in a fucking twelve-million-dollar house! You see this fucking thing on my finger?” She glared furiously at her ring, as though it were a tumor on her hand. “This shiny lump of shit is worth two million fucking dollars! For fucking Christ’s sake, don’t ask me about money!”

Gurney was sitting back, his fingers steepled under his chin. Madeleine had returned and was standing quietly at the edge of the patio. She came over to the table.

“You all right?” she asked, as though the meltdown she’d just witnessed had no more significance than a bad fit of sneezing.

“Sorry,” said Val Perry vaguely.

“You want some water?”

“No, I’m fine, I’m perfectly… I’m… No, actually, yes, water would be good. Thank you.”

Madeleine smiled, nodded pleasantly, and went into the house through the French doors.

“My point,” said Val Perry, nervously straightening her blouse, “my point, which I… overstated… My point is simply that money is not an issue. The goal is the important thing. Whatever resources are needed to reach the goal… the resources are available. That’s all I was trying to say.” She pressed her lips together as if to ensure no further outburst.

Madeleine returned with a glass of water and laid it on the table. The woman picked it up, drank half, and put it down carefully. “Thank you.”

“Well,” said Madeleine, with a malicious twinkle in her eye as she went back into the house, “if you need anything else, just holler.”

Val Perry sat erect and motionless. She seemed to be reassembling her composure through an act of will. After a minute she took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure what to say next. Maybe there’s nothing to say, other than to ask for your help.” She swallowed. “Will you help me?”

Interesting. She could have said, “Will you take the case?” Did she consider that way of saying it and realize that this was a better way, a way that would be harder to reject?

However she asked, he knew he’d be crazy to say yes.

He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

She didn’t react, just sat there, holding on to the edge of the table, looking into his eyes. He wondered if she’d heard him.

“Why not?” she asked in a tiny voice.

He considered what to say.

For one thing, Mrs. Perry, you seem a bit too much like your descriptions of your daughter. My inevitable collision with the official investigating agency could turn into a major train wreck. And Madeleine’s potential reaction to my immersion in another murder case could redefine marital trouble .

What he actually said was, “My involvement could disrupt the ongoing police efforts, and that would be bad for everyone involved.”

“I see.”

He saw in her expression no real understanding or acceptance of his decision. He watched her, waiting for her next move.

“I understand your reluctance,” she said. “I’d feel the same way in your place. All I ask is that you keep an open mind until you see the video.”

“The video?”

“Didn’t Jack Hardwick mention it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, it’s all there, the whole… event.”

“You don’t mean a video of the reception where the murder took place?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. The whole thing was recorded. Every minute of it. It’s all on a neat little DVD.”

In the Gurneys’ spacious farmhouse kitchen, there were two tables for meals-the cherrywood Shaker trestle table used mainly for guest dinners, when it would be dusted off and bedecked by Madeleine with candles and bright flowers from their garden, and the so-called breakfast table, with a round pine top on a cream-painted pedestal base, where, singly or together, they ate most of their meals. This smaller table stood just inside the south-facing French doors. On a clear day, it was touched by sunlight from early morning till sunset, making it one of their favorite places to read.

At two-thirty that afternoon, they were sitting in their usual chairs when Madeleine looked up from her book, a biography of John Adams. Adams was her favorite president-largely, it seemed, because his solution to most emotional and physical problems was to take long, curative walks in the woods. She frowned attentively. “I hear a car.”

Gurney cupped his hand to his ear, but even then it was a good ten seconds before he heard it, too. “It’s Jack Hardwick. Apparently there’s a complete video record of the party where the Perry girl was killed. He said he’d bring it over. I said I’d take a look.”

She closed her book, letting her gaze drift into the middle distance beyond the glass doors. “Has it occurred to you that your prospective client is… not exactly sane?”

“All I’m doing is looking at the video. No promises to anyone. You’re welcome to watch it with me.”

Madeleine’s quick flash of a smile seemed to brush aside the invitation. She went on. “I’d be willing to go a little further and say that she’s a poisonous psycho who probably fits at least half a dozen diagnostic codes from the DSM-IV. And whatever she’s told you? I’ll bet it’s not the whole truth, not even close.”

As she was speaking, she was picking unconsciously at the cuticle of her thumb with one of her fingernails, an intermittent new habit that Gurney regarded with alarm as a kind of tremor in her otherwise stable constitution.