Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

It was getting toward lunchtime, and my appetite was coming back. Hannah, angel that she was, had cooked me a beef pot roast and at least a gallon of mashed potatoes. I chunked some of both into an iron frying pan and set it on the stovetop to warm, moving slowly, letting my body teach me what hurt and what didn't.

While the food heated up, I thought about the conversation I'd had with Gary Varna yesterday. He'd come to visit me after Renee and Ian left, wanting to take a statement if I felt up to it.

I'd known that was going to happen, and I'd tried to prepare myself. The problem was that I didn't want to give up Renee's secrets-her mini-affair with me, and her sexual encounter with Astrid. Those issues weren't in play yet; right now, Gary's focus was on the assault. But as the case expanded to include Astrid's murder, so would the range of questioning. I had to assume that eventually, Renee and I would be asked to account for every minute of the past few days.

The last time I'd been under Gary Varna's scrutiny, I'd had to lie about a lot of things. But I didn't want to lie to him anymore. I hated doing it at all; I wasn't any good at it, even when I wasn't in a drug fog like now; it was dangerous and nerve-racking, particularly with him; and above all, it was a dogshit way to treat this man who had done a hell of a lot for me.

I'd ended up deciding to compromise-to be straight about everything except Renee's sexual encounter with Astrid. That was up to her.

"Gary, before we start-I can't see that this even figures in, but you should know it," I'd said.

One of his eyebrows rose a few millimeters. "Go ahead, the tape recorder ain't on yet."

"Remember when I told you Renee found that dead rat in her dresser? Afterwards, she was…in a mood to be consoled."

"'Consoled.'" His mouth twitched in one of his crocodilian smiles. "Not bad, Hugh. I can't exactly say you're a gentleman, but you do take a stab at it now and then."

"The situation's kind of awkward. What with her being engaged."

Gary gazed past me for a moment, drumming his long fingers on the arm of his chair.

"Well, I appreciate your telling me," he said. "Personally, I agree with you, I don't see why it should matter. But you better realize, Paulson's defense will probably jump on it like a pogo stick."

"I know. I was just hoping it wouldn't come up for a while. Give her a chance to work things out with her guy."

"All right, I hear you. You ready now?"

When the formalities were over, Gary told me more about the situation with Travis Paulson. He hadn't put up much resistance to police questioning; if anything, there'd been a sense of sneaky bragging as he described his accomplishments.

When he wanted to photograph a woman, he'd start by flattering her, then maneuver her into cozy situations and work up to his proposition with a variety of pitches-what a shame if her beauty was never recorded before it faded; everyone had a right to a private side of their life; acting out a harmless fantasy was exciting and healthy; and so on. He'd assure her that his interest was purely aesthetic, that he'd give her all the prints and negatives, that it would remain forever secret. Most of the ladies refused at first, but a significant number soon let him know they'd like to discuss the matter further.

Paulson admitted that he'd traded on his acquaintance with Professor Callister to get chummy with Astrid, and he eventually made his pitch to photograph her. In keeping with her brashness, she agreed readily. She wore the cowgirl outfit, including the garish earrings, because he encouraged all the women to indulge their fantasies with props or costumes.

He was fascinated with Astrid anyway, powerful and striking as she was. Then when he saw Renee wearing one of the earrings around her neck, he came unglued. He claimed that he had no idea how she'd gotten it, or how it figured into the murder; he only connected it with the thrilling couple of hours he'd spent photographing Astrid's nude beauty, and the many more hours he'd spent poring over the photos since then. Those factors had melded together into a driving compulsion to repeat the experience with Renee and take it to the next step.

By now, Paulson had also admitted to the police that the sex he'd had with unconscious women was not consensual. During the photo session, he would tell them they were tense, which impaired their natural loveliness, and he'd insist that they drink a glass of wine to relax. Of course, they didn't realize that it was laced with rohypnol. He wouldn't have dared to try this with Astrid or most of the others; he carefully chose victims who were naive or passive. If they suspected afterward that something amiss had happened, he could convince them they were wrong, or coax and bully them into not making a fuss.

When Renee wouldn't give him a chance even to begin his approach, anger and frustration entered the mix in his mind. That was when he crossed a line. He believed that she was alone and vulnerable, and he'd gotten away with enough rapes to convince himself that he could again. He swore that he'd never used violence before and hadn't intended to this time; he'd brought the pistol only to frighten her into submission and get her to drink the rohypnol. He'd broken into her house through a back window and watched until he'd seen her car approaching, then hurried to hide; but with his haste and in the darkness, he hadn't seen me. When I stepped inside instead of her, he'd started to run out the back door, but panicked when he saw that I was armed.

That was the story that Travis Paulson had told so far. The police were searching for evidence to link him to Astrid's murder, including fingerprints from the cache we'd found in the carriage house. No motive had yet come clear, but the loss of control that Renee had caused him was telling. Speculation was that his fascination with Astrid, rage at his failure to possess her sexually, and jealousy of her lover had boiled over.

My nose told my belly that the meal I had warming on the stove was ready. I started to wash the dishes after I ate, but the cabin was filled with a pleasant warmth from the fire that Madbird had built, I was weak enough so that just getting from the hospital to here had worn me out, and I started feeling my ribs in a way I couldn't ignore. I washed down a Percocet with a shot of whiskey, and slipped into a delicious sleep.

Three hours later, I woke up feeling like shit.

I prodded myself into taking a slow walk around my property, and I was drawn to the firing range to relive yesterday's interlude with Renee. That was bittersweet at best-electric, disturbing, and now infused with the ache of loss.

But the chilly air and exercise helped my mind and body both, and I drifted through the evening dabbling with computer, books, and thoughts. When I crashed, I was tired again, relaxed, and ready for a real sleep.

Maybe I'd rested too much already. Again and again that night, I woke up in a sweat from wrestling with my dreams, if that was what they were.

The news over the next couple of days wasn't so good.

No fingerprints from Travis Paulson or anyone else had been found on the items from the cache. Everything had been wiped carefully clean. More sophisticated tests were possible, but state and federal crime labs had years-long backlogs, and weren't likely to invest their time and resources without very compelling reasons.

Moreover, Paulson had successfully passed a lie detector test, and he'd been able to establish an alibi that seemed relatively solid. On the night when Astrid and her lover were murdered, he had been staying in the resort area of Big Sky, working on a consulting job. He had located two coworkers who confirmed that they'd had dinner with him in a restaurant that evening, then drank in a bar until about eleven. They remembered clearly because they had seen Paulson the next day after the news broke; he'd told them he knew Astrid, and seemed visibly shaken.