Borderlines

Here, everyone just watched him.

Hamilton cleared his throat. “Thank you, Major. You probably all now by now that Rennie Wilson was found dead this afternoon. rofter Smith will give you what we have so far.” Smith rose from the crowd and opened a file before him. When e’d appeared at the Lemon Road scene at the head of the troops, he’d oked a little piqued, half visible in the gloom. Now, under the fluoescent tubes, I doubted I’d ever seen a man look so exhausted. He had ags under his eyes I could see from across the room. As case officer %194 on the Wingate murder, his compulsively rigid personality probably hadn’t allowed him to catch more than two hours sleep at a time, and then only when he was sure no one was around to catch him napping.

“This is going to be a little unusual. Because of the time factor, I haven’t been able to condense all our findings into a single report.

So, I’ve asked several of the people directly involved in the investigation of Rennie Wilson’s death to give verbal reports tonight, with the understanding that tomorrow, you will all be issued written versions after some of us have had some sleep. I’d like to start with Fish and Game Lieutenant John Bishop.” Bishop stood up slowly and began to speak in a gentle, measured tone, as if he were addressing a group of keenly attentive children. He described the process he’d used to discover Rennie’s body, and what the tracks had told him. He had indeed traced the killer’s footprints back to the road. Apparently, the vehicle had arrived after Rennie, but before the other two, and had been parked farther down the road, out of sight, disguised with leaves and branches, just as Rennie’s had been.

Bishop stuck to a recitation of the facts, but I was struck by a pattern-as if the killer, having followed Rennie to Lemon Road, had followed his every move thereafter, from hiding the car to creeping through the woods to awaiting the arrival of Rennie’s mysterious guests at the rock outcropping. It struck me that the killer had bided his time, waiting not just for the proper moment, which must have presented itself again and again in the isolated woods, but more out of curiosity.

One by one, Smith called on his witnesses, including the local M.E. Dr.

Hoard-who confirmed what Bishop had told me, adding that the weapon had probably been a large hunting knife, and who reported that an autopsy was being performed as we spoke. Various members of the Crime Lab, here on their way back to Waterbury, gave preliminary reports on their findings and on the samples they had collected for analysis. Of immediate interest was the fact that while the killer’s footprints did not match any of those found at Bruce Wingate’s murder scene, the smaller of the visiting twosome did conform to the small ones found at the ravine-the ones that had been colored yellow on the sketch of that scene.

It was an impressive display of police procedure, and no doubt of use to those who had not been at the scene, but it still boiled down to very little. Rennie had been murdered by a person unknown. That much, including relevant details, could have been said in five minutes or less.

Hamilton, too, had obviously reached the same conclusion. He checked his watch, thanked Smith for his effort, and launched into his own spiel. “In the interest of time, I’m going to summarize some %195

aspects of this investigation. The primary purpose tonight is to brainstorm on what we’ve got and where we’re headed-the written reports will supply any detailed background information we might skip over here.

Agreed?” There were general murmurs of relieved assent. “Okay. Item One: the fire the beginning of all this. Appleby and his crew have been hard at work, but still haven’t found much to add. The members of the Order are still playing dumb, Sarris refuses to actively cooperate, and the investigation, in and of itself, isn’t going anywhere, to the discredit of nobody, I might add. That will remain a particularly tough nut to crack until or unless we can use some sort of legal pry bar to open it up, but until such warrants or whatever appear, we’ll have to work around the edges. We do have additional information on Freedom to Choose, Inc. Gorman’s company-but nothing that particularly connects to this case.” Apple raised his hand. “Just a couple of quick ones for clarification. Bruce Wingate did buy a Smith & Wesson 9-mm semi-automatic with a nine bullet clip capacity about ten years ago.

This morning, Joe Gunther drove down to Natick and found out in addition that Wingate bought another gun a.38-just two months ago. Also, we interviewed John Stanley, a private investigator from Boston, and he confirmed the Wingates’ story about tracking their daughter to Gannet.

He’d been hired to do that about two months ago.” “Thank you.” Hamilton opened a file and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Item Two: the Wingate homicide. Some more Crime Lab stuff has come in. The lighter found under the body was indeed Rennie Wilson’s.

It was a Zippo-type and while there were no prints on the outside, the inner casing-exposed only while refilling the lighter-had a perfect of Wilson’s left thumb.

“They can’t match every wound on the body to the kitchen knife found at Wilson’s home, so the possibility exists that another knife was also used. However, it has now been proven scientifically that the metal fragment recovered by Dr. Hillstrom was indeed the broken tip of the Wilson knife. There were no prints on that knife, by the way.

“Item Three: the clothing found at Rennie Wilson’s home. The stains were blood, and that blood is compatible with Bruce Wingate’s. Unless we do a DNA test, we can’t swear it’s the same stuff, but we’re assuming it is for the moment. In addition, there was some dirt found on the cuff of the pants, which also matches the dirt at the scene.” He distributed a sheaf of papers down each side of the table. “Pass these around they’re the details that led them to their various conclusIons.

“The footprints around the scene have still not been linked to any %196

particular people aside from Wilson, but we have discovered that these,”

he swung around to the map of the scene and pointed at the yellow footprints, “are definitely moccasin tracks, completely compatible with what all Order members seem to wear, and with those found at both the Wingate and the Wilson scenes. This does not mean, of course, that any member of the Order was at either place. The easiest thing in the world would be to try framing those people by wearing moccasins. It is too early to draw any hard conclusions right now, of course, but the lab is paying careful attention to see if the ‘yellow’ prints and the small ones we found off Lemon Road are one and the same. “In addition,” he waved a stapled sheaf of papers at us, a more in-depth analysis has been made of the sequential order in which the prints were made at the Wingate scene. All the lab findings will be combined after this meeting into a single volume for reference.” He put down the papers and leaned forward a little for emphasis. “The thing about the moccasins brings up something a little out of context.

Those people out there,” he pointed at the windows, “are dying to pin this whole mess on the Natural Order. Now in the long run, they may get what they want, but I want that to happen only if and when everybody involved in this process is absolutely positive that’s the case. Once the Order-or whoever has been indicted, then the press can have a field day. But until then, I want them kept in the dark. Nobody is to talk with them-is that understood?” “Tell Gunther that.” It had been a muttered aside, but from the voice, I was pretty sure it was Wirt, whom I hadn’t even noticed, buried against the far back wall.

Hamilton stiffened. It was the first time I’d seen him really pissed.

“Just a goddamn minute. This is just what I was talking about. You people can bitch and moan all you want about whatever you please, from your salaries to your hours to the way your wives treat you at night, but I will not tolerate any backstabbing. If you have a legitimate complaint about one of your fellow officers, you can bring it to the proper authorities. If you don’t, if you just happen not to like the guy, you stick it in your ear and you live with it. Joe Gunther is attached to the SA’s office. He is not a member of the State Police.

If it’s all right with his boss, he can goddamn well serenade the press if he wants. It’s none of our business. “But, for your information, that is not what happened,” Hamilton went on. He bent down and pulled a newspaper out of his briefcase on the floor. He held it up. It was a copy of the Caledonian Record. The headline ran, “Brattleboro Cop Joins Investigation.” My head began to ache.

%197 “Lieutenant Gunther sat in on a meeting being run by Gorman nd Greta Lynn last night. That action was entirely appropriate.

Unforunately, he was recognized by one reporter as a Brattleboro policeman nd the press tried to make hay out of his being here. If you read the rticle, you’ll find he didn’t give them a thing.

“Furthermore, I’d like to state for the record that while I had my oubts initially about having the SA’s man closely linked to this investiation, those doubts are long gone. Lieutenant Gunther has been an sset to us, adding to the case and proving himself a constructive and ntegral part of the process.” He dropped the paper and leaned forward again, his fingertips on he tabletop. “Watch out for this kind of thing, people.

The press see as the bad guys, and they’ll generally do anything to get us to open p, including making us fight among ourselves. We can’t afford that. 0 ignore ‘em and just do your jobs.” He straightened and resumed his usual passive mien. “All right, enough of that. Let’s look at all this as a linked chain of events-any nd all of you dive in if you have something to add. Early Tuesday orning, we have a fire in which five people die, one of whom had a ght with Bruce Wingate on Monday night. Four of those people are ound dead of smoke inhalation behind a door locked on the outside, nd the fifth-Ed Sylvester, aka Fox-is found lying on his back on the verturned wood stove downstairs. He was dead before he landed there nd we suspect, but cannot prove, foul play. “On Wednesday night, Bruce Wingate apparently received a letter structing him to meet with someone at Dulac’s ravine.

We’ve been able to compare the handwriting on the envelope to a sample of Julie ingate’s that Lieutenant Gunther procured, and it appears to be a atch, which only establishes that she addressed the envelope. At the avine, Bruce Wingate was murdered, with all the evidence pointing at ennie Wilson, with whom Wingate had had an altercation on Monday ight following an argument concerning Wingate’s daughter. We also ow know-thanks to Lieutenant Gunther that Rennie once had a exual relationship with that same daughter.

“Thursday night, last night, it looks like Rennie Wilson arranged meeting with two people off the end of Lemon Road, one of whom ad probably also been at the fatal get together with Wingate. That eeting took place, but somebody else followed Wilson, watched the eeting, waited for the other two to leave, and then murdered Wilson.” Hamilton stepped away from the table and began to pace back and rth in front of the blackboard. “One scenario has it that Wingate illed Sylvester-or Fox lit the fire and killed the others indirectly.

%198 Two nights later, someone, perhaps his daughter, contacted him and killed him at the ravine, framing Rennie Wilson to avert attention from herself or the Order. There are several problems with that, however.

A) It is unclear whether Wingate was in possession of the gun we think was fired at the top of the stairs. B) The assumption that Julie Wingate might have killed her father is complicated by the presence of several other people at the meeting at which her father died. C) The growing evidence seems to be reinforcing, rather than weakening the premise that Rennie Wilson did indeed kill Bruce Wingate.” He stopped pacing. “So, we switch around the cast of characters, see if we can get a better fit. Our own people reinterviewed Nadine Wilson today to ask her of her husband’s whereabouts on the night of the fire. She knows he was there later; in fact, he responded from home to fight the fire, but she’s vague about his actions or location earlier.

Vague enough, in fact, to suggest that he could have been in the Order house and shot Sylvester, perhaps with Julie Wingate as his accomplice.

This possibility is given credibility if we assume that Julie and Rennie were still lovers. If so, they both killed Sylvester-Fox-because Fox kept Julie on a short leash, perhaps against her will. Later, they killed her father out of revenge, as well as to get him off Julie’s back.” He leaned forward on the table and smiled. “None of that, of course, helps us to understand why or by whom-Rennie was killed. It seems, according to Lieutenant Bishop, that, if Julie was involved, she and some man went to meet with Rennie, had a chat, and then left peacefully. We’re saying Julie, obviously, because both sets of moccasin prints were apparently made by the same person; in point of fact, we have no proof Julie was anywhere near any of these scenes of violence.” “So maybe it was a small man, or a fat child, or maybe Ellie and/or Greta,” Spinney muttered, audibly enough so the whole room heard.

I gave Hamilton high marks. He actually chuckled. “Or an envoy of Sarris’s, for that matter. Lieutenant Gunther found out Wilson had been blackmailing him for a steady supply of Order women.” “Doesn’t that place Sarris pretty high on the list?” Apple asked.

“He had good reason to want both Wingate and Wilson dead.” “Why would he frame Wilson just to kill him later?” Apple shrugged.

“Just because it sounds off-base doesn’t mean it is. Is there at least enough on the blackmail angle to get some sort of warrant and force Sarris to talk?” Hamilton looked at Potter and raised his eyebrows.

Potter shrugged.

“It’s pretty thin. Chaney doesn’t even know it was blackmail just that Rennie ‘had something on Sarris,’ to quote Joe’s report. And we can’t go after Julie now any more than we could %199 before. As the lieutenant said, we still can’t place her at any of the crimes.”

“Lieutenant Hamilton,” I asked, “did you get a report back on the saliva on that envelope we found in the Wingates’ room? Maybe that’Il help us.” Hamilton nodded and started pawing through the pile of papers before him. He finally located a sheet and held it up. “Here it is.”

“Does it say what the blood type is?” He scanned the report. “B, but we don’t know Julie’s.” “We could get it, though.” Potter pulled at his chin a couple of times. “It seems to me a whole lot of people are refusing to talk in this case. If we held an inquest, we might get them to talk.” “Yeah,” Apple said. “We could get the whole goddamn bunch of ‘em in front of a judge and sweat ‘em individually.” Apple was smiling at the thought. Of all of us, he’d had the most frustrating time, knocking fruitlessly on doors, getting nowhere with people who might as well have lost their tongues. He looked like Potter had just made him a gift. “It is true, Lieutenant,” Smith chimed in, “that we might make better time using an inquest.” An inquest, as legally described in Vermont, is almost unique to that state. It is a secret criminal proceeding in which almost anybody and his uncle can be subpoenaed to appear before a judge to answer questions from the State’s Attorney. The person so summoned cannot bring his or her lawyer into the courtroom, although they can leave the room and consult with their lawyer outside if and when they like, but if they do not answer or cooperate with the process, the judge can order them jailed for contempt. In the short run, inquests give frustrated cops a moment of joy-as Apple had just demonstrated. In the long run, however, they can become legal nightmares, later triggering cumbersome discovery motions by the defense-if the case ever goes to trialand even raising questions of constitutionality. I spoke up from the back of the room, aware, once again, that I was differing with Smith. “I disagree. If we set up an inquest now, I think we’ll end up taking it on the chin.” “Why?” “First, it’ll take a week or so to set up, which is a long time with the vultures circling around outside.” I jerked my thumb at the window.

“Second, once we do set it up, the press’ll be standing around outside grilling everyone who goes in or out of that courtroom. An inquest is a rumor mill almost by design.” %200 “If we get what we want, who cares about the press?” Apple countered.

“We’re stuck with ‘em anyhow.” “I don’t think we’ll get anything. Apple, you’ve been scratching at these people for days. What makes you think they won’t stay clammed up in front of a judge?” “He’ll throw them in jail, that’s why.” “That’Il play right into their hands. Sarris can then say his people are being persecuted, that they didn’t say or do anything. I’m afraid an inquest now could stop us dead in our tracks.

We’ve done a lot in a few days. Why risk screwing it all up with a potential circus?” I noticed heads were turning from me to Potter, as if they were watching a tennis game. I looked at Smith to check for any vicarious enjoyment, but as usual, his face betrayed nothing.

Hamilton put an end to it. “The subject’s been broached; if there’s time at the end of this, maybe we can go back to it. I’m sure Mr.

Potter has some feelings on it he hasn’t expressed, and I’m not sure, if I were him, that this would be the place I’d choose to air them.

There’s still a lot we can do on what we’ve got at the moment, and as Lieutenant Gunther pointed out, even with an inquest, we’d still have a week before anything happened. Thomas, what did you get on those phone records-I don’t seem to have anything here.” Sergeant Thomas straightened in his seat. “I just got them, sorry. I was down in Hanover checking on Paul Gorman’s alibi.” He, too, pulled out a sheet of paper and looked it over.

“According to Bruce Wingate, he last called Gorman on Monday night, after his altercation with Fox. That must have been at 17:57-the call was placed from the phone at the Rocky River Inn to the FTC headquarters in Hanover.” “Not to Gorman’s mobile phone?” Hamilton asked. “No.

Later another call pops up from a pay phone in East Burke.” “Where?”

Spinney asked.

“The Mobile station. The call went to a Hanover number belonging to one of FTC’s employees, a Heather SpineIIi. I spoke with Mrs. SpineIIi and she denies getting a call and claims Gorman spent the entire night at her house in the guest room.” “What time was that?” I asked.

“Four-forty, early Tuesday morning.” “The fire was called in at five, more or less, and the arson team figured it might have been smoldering for up to half an hour before then.” “There was one other call from that phone, at 17:18 the same day.” %201 “What had the Wingates been up to just prior to that?” I asked on a hunch.

Smith answered. “We’d given them the lie detector test.” Thomas interrupted. “And the call was placed to the White Horse Motel.” “All right,” Apple muttered with satisfaction. I liked that bit of news myself. If it was accurate, it might mean Gorman was in the area before Wingate died, and didn’t just show up afterwards, as he’d Iaimed.

That would link Gorman tightly to the Wingates, making him ither an accessory to whatever illegalities Bruce Wingate had commited, or at least the repository of some information we badly wanted. ost ominously, it opened the possibility that one of the mysterious ootprints surrounding Wingate’s body had belonged to Paul Gorman.

“It may not mean a thing.” Hamilton cautioned. “We don’t know ingate made the call, and we don’t know who was at the other end.” “It sure puts Gorman on our hit parade,” Spinney smiled. “Yes, but let’s be careful here. Don’t screw this up. We can’t get court order here-it’s all too vague. Lester, why don’t you go down 0 the White Horse tomorrow and nose around a little? See if you can’t et us enough for a warrant.

Crofter, arrange with your team to watch arris’s house and put a tail on him. If we can get anything on him, might be the first crack in the dam.” “What about the call from the Rocky River, the one Ellie Wingate sked Greta to make to Gorman right after she heard of her husband’s eath?

That was supposed to have been made to his mobile phone.” Thomas made a face. “I couldn’t get it. The phone company lost he records.” “What do you mean?” “It happens,” Spinney said. “It’s got something to do with retrievng the records from the computers. Apparently, it messes things up nd sometimes they just lose the stuff.” “All right. We may have enough anyhow. It’s been a long day for verybody. Tomorrow morning, all reports will be available here, inIuding autopsy and Crime Lab updates. Is there anything else? You ant to kick around the inquest idea some more?” Potter spoke up.

“Unless anybody has a new angle, I think I’ve got enough to go on. I’ll let you know tomorrow.” Apple chuckled. “So button your lip, boys.”

Hamilton frowned his maternal frown. “Major Imus? Any last ords?” Imus couldn’t resist. He stood up. “I’m very impressed by what ‘ve seen tonight. As you no doubt know, I don’t show up at meetings %202 like this very often, and I was worried that my doing so would make you feel we were doubting your abilities. That’s what I told the Commissioner.

The Governor, however, is very concerned about all this, and the Commissioner felt there was no choice but that I should come. I can now return to Waterbury and lay their fears at rest. It is obvious to me-“

it was also obvious to me what else the man had to say. I slipped around the edge of the door and wandered down the hall.

I found a small, dark office with a desk, a chair, a phone, and nothing else. Leaving the light off, I settled in the chair, put my feet up on the table and leaned back, mulling over what had just been discussed.

The inquest angle still rankled, although there was little I could do about that now. I also had to sympathize with the urgency to do something, even if it wasn’t particularly well thought out. The frustration of having to constantly fall back onto hypothetical possibilities instead of progressing with accumulated facts was beginning to tell.

Not with me, though. I didn’t see things that way. I remembered going to the seacoast as a child once, and playing in the soft dunes. I’d discovered that when I dug small tunnels into the dry sand, the sides didn’t hold. For each scoop of sand my hand removed, an equivalent amount slid in from around the edges. I placed a small, black stone almost five feet up the dune, and by just digging in one small spot at the base, I caused the stone to trickle slowly all the way down, until it finally fell into my hand.

Investigations are like that. We dig and scoop, piling up evidence, but we also draw things in from the outside, things that before had appeared either out of reach or even superfluous-like Paul Gorman.

Only now, I’d come to realize, Paul Gorman was far from superfluous, and he was quickly coming within reach.

When I got home that night, I found another car parked in Buster’s driveway, something small, blue, and covered with frost. It wasn’t until I got out that I realized it was Laura’s old Toyota. I stopped by the driver’s door to look. The car was empty.

%203 The house looked pretty lifeless, too. It was already almost midzght.

The porch light had been left on, and I could see the hall light as on upstairs, but that was it. I entered quietly. I could hear Buster snoring in his bedroom. I uld also smell the remnants of a meal, something more substantial an Buster’s usual Crockpot glue. I walked back to the kitchen and itched on the light. From the dishes in the drying rack by the sink, could tell two people had enjoyed a dinner together. I smiled at the ental picture of them, comforting each other’s special loneliness.

I returned to the front of the house and poked my head into the zm living room, lit only from the small flames in the open wood stove.

aura was asleep on the sofa, covered with a blanket. Her face looked ry serious, her eyes shut tighter than they should have been; it reinded me of a child wishing the evils of its world away.

I sat on the sofa next to her and watched her for a while, all ndled up, her cheek half-covered by her dark hair. I brushed it aside d she turned her head and looked at me. “Hi,” I said.

She reached out and laid her hand on my chest. The gesture swept e blanket back and revealed she was wearing a light blue shirt with veral of the top buttons undone. She saw me taking that fact in and iled.

“You and Buster have a nice dinner?” I was suddenly feeling ncomfortably warm, aware that I’d both dreaded and wondered about is situation possibly arising. Now that it had, I was as torn as ever er my role in it. “Yup.” She Ianguidly rubbed a warm hand against my shirt, her eyes still alf-closed in sleep. She looked very seductive, especially by the light the fire. I swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t notice. The cliche as it that at times like this, the air becomes electric. Suddenly, I didn’t d that hard to believe. “I wanted to see you. Buster said I could stay.” Her voice was as it as water held in the palm. “I fell asleep thinking of you.” She slid her hand down my arm to my hand, which was resting the cushion next to her. She lifted it and placed it on her breast, osing her own hand on top of it. Her eyes closed and she sighed ntentedly.

The heat of her under my hand was mesmerizing. I could feel her art, the slight movement of her skin under the shirt fabric, even the sh of blood through her veins. I made the most minute gesture-a rely perceptible flexing of my fingers. She took in a deep breath and %204 I felt her nipple grow against me. Her eyes were closed, her whole body as sensitive as sunburned skin.

Gently, carefully, but no longer reluctantly, I removed my hand. Her eyes opened in surprise, her mouth forming a question. She looked at me, studying my face. Her eyes moistened with tears and her mouth quivered. “Why not? What’s wrong?” “I’m a guy in a scrapbook; it’s got little to do with the real me.” Her expression darkened. “That’s right, you’ve already got a job, people who need you, even a girlfriend.” I bit off the knee-jerk objection and kept silent for a moment, struggling to put honesty over diplomacy. “I told you I was selfish.” She seemed to close in on herself for a while then, her eyes averted and half-closed. I stayed where I was, waiting to take her cue.

I hated this, for all sorts of reasons. The fact that it was the right thing to do only made it more bitter. She finally sighed and passed a hand across her face. When she looked at me again, the raw emotion was gone, if not the fragility. “If you were really selfish, you would have made love to me first.” I smiled at that. “Now you’re making me feel stupid and selfish.” She smiled back and again placed her hand on my chest. “You’re not either of those.” Her hand slid off and she pursed her lips. “What am I supposed to do?” The question was so soft, I wasn’t sure I was supposed to respond.

Not that I had the answer, in any case. I leaned over and kissed her briefly. “Thank you, Laura.” “For what?” “Thinking of me as you do.”

Her smile returned. “That’s not hard… Joe?” “What’s up?” “I’m not saying I’d ever do this, but would it be okay if maybe I called someday, maybe if things get tough? Or write a letter or something?” I squeezed her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, at least not for a while.” “I know, but I think I need a little time alone at first.” “Want me to stay out of the way?” She pursed her lips, her eyes brimming. “I do and I don’t, you know?

But it might be easier.” “I understand.” I stood up. “You going to be okay for now?” She nodded, just barely. “I’ll be fine. I just want to lie here for a bit.” I bent down and touched her cheek. “Good night, Laura.” %205 As I was getting ready for bed, I found the necklace I’d bought St.

Johnsbury a few nights ago in my jacket pocket-shiny green nes intended for her. I placed them in the dresser’s top drawer. ybe she’d find them while she was cleaning, or Buster would, and nder whose they were, or maybe they would remain there forever, e a gesture never completed.

Never before had a woman made me such a gift, or been so cious when it was turned down. I was too sentimental to think she’d I now. It half made me wish, now that I was safely too late, that I’d epted her offer.

I missed breakfast the next morning. Spinney called me as I was essing, his voice sharp with excitement, to tell me to meet him at the hite Horse Motel in St. J.-“toot sweet.” I was to stop by the barcks on the way and pick up a tape recorder and the footprint photos m the Bruce Wingate scene. He came out to my car as I pulled into the White Horse parking “Got the photos?” I handed him a large envelope and the small tape recorder. “What you have?” He flashed that huge, toothy grin and waggled his eyebrows. “Folw me and learn something about superb police procedure.” I got out and trailed after him up the exterior metal stairs to the cond-floor balcony that ran the entire length of the building.

“I already spoke to the manager,” Spinney said over his shoulder. orman checked in about five in the afternoon on Tuesday, a full irty-six hours before he claimed he did. So we got him in a bald-faced “He could say he got the days confused.” “Yeah, well, he can say what he wants. I still think we got his balls iled to the wall. What was he up to in town that he doesn’t want us know about?” He stopped at an open door, outside of which stood a roomeaning cart, filled with tiny bars of soap, sheets, towels, and cleaning pplies. I could hear a vacuum cleaner whirring inside.

%206 We entered the room and found a small, plump, middle-aged woman pushing the cleaner around in a haphazard fashion. She turned off the machine when she saw us. “Boy, that was fast.” Spinney grinned and patted her shoulder, in an overly friendly manner.

Next to her, he looked like an oversized scarecrow-all bones and straw-colored hair. He placed the tape recorder on a side table and turned it on and recited the day’s date and the time. “We are here with Joe Gunther, who works with the State’s Attorney’s office of Essex County, Vermont. I’m Detective Sergeant Lester Spinney of the Vermont State Police, and you are who, ma’am?” She gave an indulgent half smile.

“Angie Cowley.” “And you work as a cleaning lady?” “Yeah.” “Where?”

“Right where I’m standing-at the White Horse Motel.” “In St. Johnsbury, Vermont, is that correct?” “Right, in Vermont.” “Tell Lieutenant Gunther what you told me.” She looked at both of us as if we’d lost our minds.

“I found a pair of dirty shoes in Room 212, day before yesterday.” “Room 212,” Spinney informed the tape machine, “is registered to Paul Gorman.

Miss Cowley, what made you notice the shoes?” She started at him for a second, perplexed. “I clean rooms.” “So it was the dirt?” “Yeah, there was dirt all around the shoes on the carpet.” “So what did you do?”

“Like I told you. The boss doesn’t like us to touch any of the guests’

things, but this was different, I mean, I had to clean, right? So I took the shoes and turned them over, so the dirt wouldn’t fall off no more. Then I vacuumed. That’s it.” “What did the bottoms of the shoes look like?” “Bumpy. You know, with those super-deep treads.” “Lug soles?” “Yeah, I guess.” Spinney rummaged through the envelope, pulled out a series of photographs and spread them on the unmade bed beside him. “Okay. Look at these carefully. They’re all shots of footprints.

Do you see one that looks like the shoes you described finding in Room 212?” She shook her head but bent over to study the pictures. “Kind of hard to tell. It’s not like these are real shoes. I mean, look at this one you can hardly tell anything at all. It’s not even in color.”

Spinney impatiently emptied the envelope across the sheets, scat %207

ring glossy prints everywhere, He rummaged through the pile, finally ulling one out from the rest. “Here, same shoe print, better shot.” He placed the one she’d criticized.

She picked up another one. “This one.” “You sure?” “You asked, I told you. What’d you think?” “It’s something we have to say, all right? You are sure this photo atches the prints of the shoes in Room 212.” She suddenly looked cautious. “Am I going to get in trouble?” “No. You’re just telling us what you saw, that’s all.” Her words came out reluctantly. “Well, I hope you’re not puttin’ e on.” She waved the picture in her hand. “Like I said, this looks like e shoes I saw-there’s the same squiggle-like pattern in the middle.” Spinney took the picture from her. “Great.” He read the identifiation number off the back of the photo for the record and turned off e tape recorder.

“We’re set.” We left Angie Cowley shaking her head. Again, I tagged after pinney as he half-ran down the length of the balcony toward the stairs. Now we’ll see what kind of clout the State has. You missed it, but last ight, after telling us what super dudes we all were, Imus said he’d rranged to have a judge on permanent stand-by to consider any warants we might request. We are priority business over everything.”

“You gonna tell Hamilton?” I asked as I slid into his car next to 1m.

“I’ll do it from the courthouse.” He started the engine. It took only about four minutes to drive to the courthouse. The eather from the day before was still holding-damp, cold, and loomy, with a cloud cover so low you could touch it. Spinney came p the Atlantic Avenue hill, right by the front of Potter’s office, and ut left onto South Main. The courthouse was on the immediate left. “Shit, reporters.

There were three people-two men and a woman-loitering outide. One was sitting on a cement bench planted under a small bare tree, he other two balanced on the iron railing on either side of the roofed ntryway. Call us paranoid, but I thought he was right. Who else in their right minds would sit around outside a courthouse, early in the orning and in weather so cold you could see your breath? Even the ummies knew better.

Spinney parked across the street. “You better stay here. They see our face, we’ll never get rid of them; worse than driving around with atman.” It was irritating but I could see his point. At least he left the engine %208 running soI wouldn’t freeze to death at the height of my fame. I looked out the side window at the courthouse, a one-hundred-year-old red brick pile with a slate roof. It had two floors of tall, skinny windows, capped with what looked like wooden eyebrows painted green. The building looked perpetually surprised at what was going on inside.

As it turned out, Spinney could have taken the car keys. He was back in fifteen minutes, looking pleased with himself. “Damn. That’s got to be a record. Son of a bitch was right there, just as advertised.

He even stood around while I filled out the form.” We returned to the motel and found Hamilton already waiting, standing next to a fat, nervous man with thin black hair and glasses so thick they looked like they’d been cut from the bottoms of Coke bottles. Spinney held up the warrant. “Efficient, huh?” Hamilton smiled and motioned to the motel manager to lead the way.

“Do we know if he’s home?” I asked.

“Thought we’d surprise him,” Hamilton answered. He seemed in a remarkably good mood, understandable considering the heat he’d probably been feeling, and which he’d spared passing on to us.

But Gorman wasn’t in. We pounded on the door several times, and then stepped aside to let the manager use his passkey. From the door, the place not only looked empty, but unused. Aside from a suitcase, a few items on the night table, and some clothes laying about, it looked ready to rent bed made, towels unused.

Hamilton stopped us from going beyond the threshold. “What’s your name again?” he asked the manager. “Petrone, Arthur.” I caught a hint of military obsequiousness lurking in the man’s past.

“Mr. Petrone, this warrant allows us to search for a pair of shoes whose soles match those pictured in this photograph. We are not here to ransack the room, nor are we allowed to take from it anything not mentioned in the warrant, unless we know it to be directly linked to the criminal investigation now under way. Do you understand all that?”

“Sure… I think.” “Good. I want you to stand right here and watch us.

Later, if they ask you in court, you can tell them exactly what we did here, okay? So try to remember.” Petrone nodded silently. Despite the cold air entering through the door, I could see he was sweating. “What did this guy do?” “Maybe nothing, that’s why we’re here.” Hamilton looked at us and nodded. We both made a beeline for %209 he alcove with the sink at the far end of the room. To its left was the athroom, with a toilet and tub; to the right was a doorless closet. We oth fell to our knees like kids at the Christmas tree. “I think we got it, Lieutenant.” Hamilton approached, tugging Petrone behind him, and looked ver our heads. On the floor, still lying bottoms up the way Angie owley had placed them, were a pair of low-cut walking shoes. Hamilon handed the photo to Spinney, who held it next to the shoes. “What do you think, Mr. Petrone? Is it a match?” Petrone, beginning to enjoy the newfound authority, nodded ravely. “I believe it is.” Hamilton pulled a brown paper evidence bag from his pocket and ave it to Spinney. Spinney snapped it open and gingerly placed one hoe inside, careful not to lose any dirt. As he began doing the same with the other shoe, I stopped him. “What?” “I thought I saw something, something shiny.” I took the shoe from him and held it closer, angling it in the light from over the sink. “There it is. I’ll be damned.” “What?” Spinney asked again, this time with some insistence. I moved the shoe so he could see.

Hamilton stuck his head in from he side for a better view. Even Petrone balanced on one foot and tried 0 see without intruding. It made me think of a bunch of frustrated iners finally catching a glimpse of a tiny speck of gold.

Which wasn’t far from the truth, for what had caught my eye was small sliver of glass wedged in between two lugs and held there by ried mud.

It was broken and scarred, but still recognizable. It also went a long way in explaining why Gorman had appeared so nervous when Spinney and I had first met him, the night after Wingate’s death.

It was a contact lens.

Gorman, however, wasn’t available. Upon leaving the motel, Hamilton got in touch with the surveillance crew that had been put on him and discovered Gorman had returned to Hanover, New Hampshire, the night before. Spinney was all set to get a court order and hunt %210 the man down. Hamilton, as usual, took the dispassionate, reasonable view.

Gorman had left his belongings in this motel room and was slated to appear with Greta at a televised news conference at the Rocky River in a few hours. Why not just wait for him to come to us? Spinney continued to growl until it was pointed out that by being in Hanover, Gorman was out of state, and the paperwork to extradite him would take days. That left Spinney frustrated, but without recourse. Not so Hamilton, who decided that since Gorman was temporarily out of reach, he would head off to the Waterbury lab and have the contact lens scientifically matched to the one that had remained in Wingate’s eye just to be sure.

That had left Spinney at barracks, with me to watch him pace. I went over to the projection screen at the head of the room, released the catch, and eased it back into its cannister near the ceiling. The diagram of the murder scene was still displayed on the blackboard behind with all its multi-colored footprints. “What color are Gorman’s prints supposed to be?” “White.” I studied the diagram, using a pencil as a pointer. “White-the one guy who was standing off by himself.” “And for a long time,” Spinney added. He was now sitting down, with his elbows propped on the table, staring at the board intently.

“Right. Hamilton said last night the lab had come up with some new information about all this, something about chronological sequencing?”

Spinney looked over the paper debris Iittering the table and came up with a thick binder. He leafed through it a bit, scanning the indexes.

“Yeah, here it is. What do you want to know?” “Any sense of who went where first.” Spinney read quickly, flipping through several pages.

“Well, let’s see. We got Mitch Pearl and Rennie’s tracks on top of all the others.” I scanned the board. “Okay, that’s when they found the body. What else?” “Of the earlier prints, it looks like white is on top… Well, he didn’t hit all the other prints. He is on top of black and red-he missed yellow.” I translated, using Crofter’s color key.

“Gorman’s white, so he came after black, which is Wingate. So Gorman either entered the picture while Wingate was still alive, hitting some of Wingate’s prints but not all, or he came in after Wingate was already dead.” “Which means he could have killed him.” %211 “Maybe. What else?”

“White-Gorman is also on top of several reds.” “Red. Crofter called him the busiest-” “And Gorman the least busy-in and out.” “Right, so he is; one line in, one line out, pretty clean if you’re oing to hack someone with a knife a half-dozen times.” “Perhaps.” “Red is stomping all over the place, particularly near where Winate’s head finally wound up.” I stepped away from the board and faced Spinney. “I kick you in he balls; what happens?” “I shoot you and sing soprano the rest of my life.”

“Which won’t be long. You double over, clutching yourself with ne hand, and I finish you off with the knife. You fall at my feet.

rgo, my footprints end up all around where your head ends up, ight?”

“Possibly. Maybe you kick me in the balls and I fall down like a ack of potatoes and the little lady finishes me off.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” He pointed at the binder. “Let’s assume the yellow tracks elong to Julie for the moment, a likely choice since she addressed the nvelope to her father and none of our other suspects fit those small, ight moccasin prints.

Now, this report says both she and red step all ver each other. No way to tell who went first.” I nodded my acknowledgment. “But Gorman’s definitely on top fred?” “Yeah.” “So if yellow-Julie-and red are intermixed, we might assume orman appeared after Julie, too.” Spinney shook his head and dropped the book in front of him. ‘Maybe.

This is like reading tea leaves. Just because one set of prints on top of another set doesn’t mean they came later than a few econds. If you have ten guys walking in a line, did the last guy follow he first nine by two hours, or was he holding a short rope attached to he ninth guy’s belt? You can’t tell.” “Okay, I’ll grant you that. But nowhere does it say Gorman’s rints appear under anyone’s, right?” “Right.” “And since yellow’s and red’s prints are mixed together, it’s reaonable to assume they were together at the time.” “Two against one? Yellow and red against Wingate, with Gorman ntering the scene after?” %212 “It works, doesn’t it?” Spinney rubbed the sides of his nose with his forefingers.

“Yeah, but so does three against one.” “Does it?” I used the pointer again. “Here’s Wingate standing around, shifting his weight, staggering finally, and then falling. Here’s yellow, also standing around, back and forth, in front of Wingate. And the same’s true for red. But Gorman…” I tapped at the two neat parallel rows of white marks, “goes straight in, pauses maybe squats down or something-and then leaves.” “In a hurry.” “What?” Spinney pointed at the book. “In a hurry. The lab says he left running, leaving only toe marks, no heels.” “It fits,” I said, tossing the pencil onto the table. I felt disappointed in some ways: Gorman, obviously, was not our killer.

“So who’s red, and is Julie yellow?” The first question had a numbing regularity to it; it seemed we had fit everyone except Buster into those red footprints. I ducked answering.

“And what was Gorman doing there in the first place?” Spinney leaned way back in the chair and locked his hands behind his neck. “You know, Joe, red could still be Rennie.” I shook my head and sat down. “Concede the point. It is possible.” “I’d be happier conceding it if he hadn’t gotten killed.” “That’s because you’re linking all three events together the fire and the two murders. What if they’re not connected?” That struck me as unlikely. “Remember when we visited Rennie’s place, and got the boots and clothes and knife? Well, I asked Nadine, just as we were leaving, whether Rennie ever went without a belt. Remember what she said?” He looked at me closely. “That he always wore a belt.” “So what was blood doing on the waistband of the pants we found? If he always wore a belt, the blood would be on the belt.” Spinney rolled his eyes.

“Wait, I know it’s not evidence, at least nothing that would stand up in court, but to me it shows something fundamentally wrong with Rennie being the killer.” Spinney decided to skirt the issue. “Those red prints were definitely made by his boots, and he definitely had ties to both Wingate and Julie.

It wouldn’t be the first time lovers attempted murder.” “They were hardly lovers, from what I hear. Chaney said Rennie dumped her.” %213

“Come on, we don’t know that. For all we know, they were still uts about each other. Plus, Wingate took a swing at Rennie; some people have killed for a parking space.” I remembered something else. “Rennie said he lost his lighter bout six months ago, just a short time after Chaney said Rennie jumped Julie Wingate. Maybe that’s why he clammed up on us. I hought at the time it was odd that he knew when he’d lost the lighter, ut not where or how.

If he suspected Julie stole it, or that she picked up after one of their trysts, then he also suspected her of planting it nder Wingate’s body.”

“Which might explain what Julie’s footprints were doing off emon Road.

Rennie called the meeting to find out if she’d framed Im.

I got up to look out one of the windows. “So who killed Rennie?” hat, almost more than anything, was what was sticking in my craw. ‘If Rennie was framed, why kill him oIl? Especially when he was the ost obvious suspect?” “How about asking, ‘who didn’t kill Rennie’?” “All right.”

“Not Julie, because her tracks come and go, leaving Rennie alive.” I nodded, content for the moment that my assumptions about ulie’s actions were reasonable.

“Not Gorman.” “Why not?” “All right, probably not Gorman. Because he would have used is one pair of hiking shoes, just as he had the night Wingate died, hoes which obviously haven’t been used since. Also, as a city boy, e’d have crashed around the woods like the twosome who met with ennie. He’s no woodsman. The guy who iced Rennie walked around zke a cat.” “So, by the same logic, Gorman couldn’t have been part of the duo ho met Rennie at the rock.” “Right. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense. From what we’ve estabshed, it looks like Julie was there, so what would Gorman be doing with her meeting Rennie?” “All that’s based on the hypothesis that Gorman knows nothing bout moving in the woods which we don’t know for a fact-and that e only has the one pair of boots that he would naturally wear to that ind of meeting. Beverly Hillstrom has a pair of boots permanently ored in the trunk of her car.” Spinney looked sourly at the tabletop. “All right, so it might have een Gorman.” %214 “Among others,” I added, looking out the window. “Like Sarris, or one of his people, or someone we haven’t even thought of.”

“It gets easier all the time,” Spinney sighed. “Well, at least let’s start with Gorman.” “Jesus, we should have booked ahead.” Cars and pickups lined both sides of 114, and several television trucks filled North Street, across from the Rocky River. We made the corner down Atlantic Boulevard and were damn near back out of town before Spinney said, “Fuck it,” and parked in someone’s yard.

It had begun to snow as we made our way back up the street, returning to the Inn on foot. “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was supposed to be a small interview,” Spinney said, looking at the trucks.

“It’s a big story; everybody’s had enough time to send in the hotshots.

My guess is that Gorman’s been working the phone like a regular P.T.

Barnum.” “The only crew missing is MTV.” As we rounded the corner into North Street, we found a throng of people milling about the menagerie of electronic equipment. I saw Buster standing by the side of the road, looking like the bear rousted from his cave. “What d’ya think?” He shook his head. “Damnedest thing. They come all the way up here from cities where they get thirty killings in a week, just to jabber about how the country’s going to the dogs. Beats the hell out of me.”

“Anything happen yet?” “Hell, no. The fancy boys with the hairdos are talking to each other, the local guys are taking pictures of the fancy boys, and the rest of ‘em are taking pictures of each other just to prove they were here. Now I know for sure why we end up with the politicians we get.” He stumped off into the falling snow, presumably to sit in contemplation amid the isolated splendor of his filling station. Spinney and I climbed the steps to the front door, stepping over a nest of tangled wires and cables leading to trucks with dish antennas on top. Inside, on the left, the Library glowed with an eerie blue-white %215 light. People jammed the entrance way, balanced on top of radiators, and challenged the strength of the staircase, all craning to see over or through the forest of lights, reflector umbrellas, cameras, and sound equipment that had been crowded into Buster’s favorite evening den.

We ucled 0UE way through to tee double doors, where we found a man with a headset around his neck uard1n the entrance.

“Greta Lynn and Paul Gorman in there?” Spinney asked in his best G-man tone. The man looked at us like we’d just wandered out of the woods.

“Yeah, they’re the show.” “We need to talk to them now.” “We’re about to tape.” Spinney pulled out his badge. “Now.” The man caught his breath for a moment, apparently fighting down a hysterical reaction. “Wait here.” He returned a minute later with a flabby-looking man with blowdried hair, a gold chain around his neck, and tinted aviator glasses, a look I thought had faded years ago. “What’s going on?” he asked with thinly veiled hostility.

Spinney smiled~arely and introduced us, complete with lofty titles.

“We’re conducting a criminal investigation. We need to talk to Mrs.

Lynn and Mr. Gorrnan.” “Is this going to take long?” “I don’t know.”

“You know, we’ll be out of here in an hour. Maybe you could wait. I’ll give you a ringside seat.” “No.” The man, presumably a producer or director, pursed his lips. “Since what we’re both doing ties in with your case, why don’t you let us film your talk with them, and then we’ll do the interview right after? Kind of like “Sixty Minutes,” you know?”

Spinney just looked at him.

“You may be missing the boat here. People open up when a camera’s rolling-we might be able to help you get more out of them. It’ll make you look good. Your boss’ll be happy and your family can see you on TV.” That explained the tinted glasses and neck hardware, I thought.

The network put this guy out to pasture years ago, at least I hoped so.

Again Spinney said, “No.” Finally, the producer caved in. “Kill the lights. We’ll hold for a while.” The other man checked his watch. “We can’t hold forever.” %216 “I’m aware of that fact, Charlie. If it takes too long, we’ll fold our tents; this is hardly a summit conference.” I was grateful Greta wasn’t within earshot. They might have been suddenly covering a live homicide.

Several reporters had caught wind something was up and began to cluster around the doorway.

“Aren’t you Joe Gunther?” one of them asked. “Oh, for Christ sake,”

Spinney muttered and grabbed my arm. “Don’t let anyone past,” he told headset-Charlie as we plowed into the electronic jungle littering the Library.

Greta and Gorman were on the other side, sitting in director’s chairs, having their noses dusted. Spinney stepped up in front of Gorman.

Show’s over. We need to talk.” Greta looked around at the dying lights.

“What the hell’s going on?” “Actually, Greta,” I said, “unless Sergeant Spinney objects, I’d like you to hear this.” The makeup man was standing awkwardly to one side. I waved him away. Spinney shrugged.

“Fine with me.” He reached forward and took Gorman’s arm. “Come on, let’s go find a quiet corner.” Gorman shook the hand off. “Am I under arrest?” “You might be, depending on what you’ve got to say.” Several technicians and hangers-on discreetly gathered within earshot, straining to hear. “On what charge?” Spinney looked around. “You know and we know what the charges might be, Mr. Gorman. If you want to have this conversation in front of the network crews, that’s fine with me.” Greta crossed her arms. “Fine, let’s do it.” Gorman hesitated. “No, I think maybe a little privacy is called for.” Greta stared at him, her mouth half open.

He quickly covered himself. “I’m sure what they’ve got to say is totally ridiculous. But there’s no point feeding it directly into the pipeline.” He stood up. “Where to?” Spinney shot me a questioning look. I turned to Greta. “The stairs are blocked. Is there some place on the ground floor we can go? The kitchen, maybe?” Reluctantly, her face mirroring her suspicions, she got up and began to lead the way. I noticed she kept looking back at Gorman as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. Deceit was not something she handled with grace, especially from those for whom she’d let down the drawbridge.

%217 The side door to the kitchen was off a short hallway around the corner from the Library’s entrance; our wade through the crowd was short and without comment, at least from any of us.

Once in the kitchen, Spinney locked the door behind us. Gorman strolled into the middle of the room, seemingly interested in the pots and pans hanging from hooks overhead, the numerous large, deep metal sinks, and the long wooden work tables, their surfaces scarred and eroded by years of slicing and hacking. Glancing around, I wondered if the place would survive even a cursory glance from the Health Department. The accumulated grime of thousands of greasy meals was parked in every nook and cranny, and the walls looked painted with a thin, dark sheen of old, rancid oil.

Gorman turned theatrically on one heel to face us, a great show of forced indifference, belied by his watchful eyes. His hands remained in his pockets. “So, what’s this all about?” “You checked in at the White Horse Motel thirty-six hours before you said you did,” I said. He stared at us with mock surprise.

“Checked into the motel?” Greta laughed. “You got to be kidding. Is that what this is about?” Spinney took over. “I have to inform you you don’t have to talk to us, and that if you have a lawyer, you might want to call him.” Gorman waved it away. “Such melodrama.” “It’s your choice. You told us you arrived on Thursday morning after receiving a call from Ellie Wingate about an hour earlier. That was a lie-we’ve got the motel records to prove it.” Gorman held up his hands. “A lie?

That’s a little strong. I may have gotten my timing confused; there’s been a lot going on.” “You checked into the White Horse on Tuesday afternoon, two days earlier, after receiving a phone call before dawn the same day at the house of Heather SpineIIi, in Hanover.” Gorman smiled. “I told you I’d been in Hanover.” “Do you deny checking into the White Horse on Tuesday afternoon?” I liked Spinney’s style. Some cops get a routine over the years, a favorite approach that works in most situations. But Spinney switched aroundtough with some people, endearing with others, solicitous if necessary. With Gorman, he was like a chess player, relentlessly knocking down his opponent’s defenses, pushing him into a corner.

“Sergeant, if you say you’ve got records proving I was at the motel on a certain day, they must be accurate. I travel a great deal.” Do you remember the phone call? You also got one about fifteen minutes after you checked in. Bruce Wingate told you about the lie detector test, the one he wouldn’t let Ellie take. That ring a bell?” %218 Ice move. We had no idea what they’d talked about, but we did know that a call went out to Gorman following every jam Wingate had found himself in. I noticed that Greta had become silent.

“I remember some phone calls, but I don’t recall exactly what was said.”

“Where were you Wednesday night? You told us earlier you were in Hanover.” There was a ghost of a pause, and then Gorman’s face relaxed into an indulgent smile. “I was in Hanover, Sergeant. It’s only an hour away.

I had interrupted business in Hanover, so I was doing a little shuttling.” Greta stepped forward, grasping at this reasonable explanation.

She addressed me instead of Spinney. “If you guys had any balls, you’d go after the Order, instead of coming after innocent people like us.

You just don’t like the idea we may be right, that the answer to all this has been staring you in the face all along. Why do you think so many people are listening to us? Why do you think the news people are here?” “We’re not finished, Greta,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes and walked over to lean against one of the work tables.

Spinney continued. “We searched your room early this morning, Gorman, and we had the dirt on your shoes analyzed. It matches the dirt where Wingate was killed. In fact, there’s some blood mixed in with it.”

Gorman looked shocked. “You searched my room?” “With a warrant.” Gorman was fighting for composure. Greta stood rooted in place, her face pale.

I made a move toward her, but she stiffened and put her hands up, her eyes glued to Gorman. She reminded me of a cornered animal, boxed in by some fierce and merciless stalker.

Gorman was trying to recover. “You found dirt on a pair of hiking shoes. Are you telling me that Bruce was lying in some sort of specialized mud, only found in that ditch and nowhere else? Come on, Detective. You’re fishing.” “Bruce Wingate wore contacts-you know that?” Gorman looked puzzled. “I may have. I don’t remember.” “When we found him, he was missing one of his lenses.” Gorman’s voice was slow and cautious. “So?” “We found the missing lens stuck to the bottom of your shoe, held there by the mud.” There was a sudden sound and Greta jumped on Gorman, landing a punch on him that knocked him clean off his feet.

%219 “You son of a bitch. You used me.” She was about to kick him when Spinney pulled her off balance. She shook herself free, ran for the door, nlok~d it and vanished.

“Greta.” The door slammed and I could hear her running down the hallway.

I started to follow, but I could see it was useless-the crowd had absorbed her like the sea. I hesitated and then closed the door. I’d talk to her later.

Gorman was sitting in the middle of the floor, rubbing his head. She’d caught him near the temple and had probably done more damage to her hand than to him.

Spinney chose to ignore the entire incident and continued in the same quiet, chilly tone. “In a lot of murder cases, Mr. Gorman, we don’t actually find a guy with a gun in his hand, standing over the body. We have to put the case together, sometimes with circumstantial evidence, sometimes with physical evidence. With you, we’ve got both. Judges, prosecutors, and especially juries really like that; it’s something they can get their teeth into.” Gorman looked totally bewildered. Not only had he been assaulted by his erstwhile ally, with no visible concern from either Spinney or me, but the former was still addressing him as if he was a confessed axemurderer. -I didn’t kill Bruce,” he said, struggling to his feet again.

“You were there.” “But I didn’t kill him.” “Are you denying you were there?” “You know I was there. You just said it, but I didn’t kill him.” “I’m glad to hear it.” “Don’t you believe me?” Gorman’s tone began to border on the hysterical.

Spinney shook his head in wonder. “I saw who did it.” Spinney and I looked at each other. I felt as if the small stone had finally made it from the top of the dune to the palm of my hand. It was a sense of victory that quickly proved premature.

“Who was it?” “I don’t know, it was dark. He stood back, letting Julie Wingate do the talking, until… You know, until he killed him.” So Julie was there, I thought, relieved at last to have that piece locked into place.

“You couldn’t see him at all?” Spinney’s voice was slightly incredulous.

“I just knew somebody was there. Bruce was holding a flashlight, %220

and I could sometimes see the guy’s legs his pants legs were too short.

He was standing maybe ten feet behind her, maybe a little more. I knew Bruce could see him; he referred to him, not by name, but just that he was there because she didn’t trust her own father. He was saying a lot of nonsense. Anyway, it happened all of a sudden. I don’t know who did what first whether the guy rushed in or Bruce did something he had a gun on him~ut all of a sudden they were at it, or the guy was at it. Bruce never had a chance. The guy kicked him in the nuts and then started stabbing him with this huge knife.” Gorman suddenly sat on a stool near one of the work tables. He was staring at the floor, his hands intertwined in his lap. “It was horrible. Julie screamed and the guy hit her without breaking stride.

He was like a butcher, like the Devil himself. Bruce just dissolved into the ground. I’m not sure he even knew what hit him.” “And you never saw the guy’s face?” “All I could see were outlines-he was tall and thin. Bruce had dropped his flashlight. That’s partly what made it worse; it was all so vague, almost like it wasn’t happening at all, like a dream. And then it stopped. The guy picked up the flashlight I got real scared then but he didn’t look around. He stuck something under the body, as if to pin it down, like it might blow away or whatever, and then he did something really odd. He pointed the flashlight at his feet and looked at them carefully, twisting them in the light, and then he rubbed one of them against Bruce’s neck, smearing it with blood. It was disgusting, like Bruce was a dead animal or something. Then he took the gun from Bruce’s pocket and left with Julie.” The mention of the lighter and the boot being smeared snapped another piece into place in my mind.

It also eased that fierce and tiny pain I’d been carrying since the morning Bruce’s body was discovered: Whatever else he might have done, whatever changes his character might have undergone, Rennie had not ended his life as a killer. That meant a great deal to me.

Spinney hadn’t paused in his questions. “What was Julie Wingate doing through all this?” “Crying and babbling-it didn’t make any sense to me.

She just sounded hysterical, like she had no idea what was happening.

After they left, I waited until I thought they were long gone, then I turned on my flashlight and went to him. He looked horrible. I was just standing there feeling sick, not knowing what to do, when another light went on and caught me. I heard Julie scream a little again, so I know it was them. I guess they’d been waiting on the road above. So I took off as fast as I could.” %221 “They didn’t follow?” “They might have tried, I don’t know. I wasn’t listening for them, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around. I’d parked my car way up the road and I just took off.” There was a slight pause while Spinney and I absorbed all this. Major questions remained unanswered: What had motivated Wingate’s assailant to kill him? Since we now knew the killer wasn’t Rennie, then who was he?

Sarris, perhaps, hell bent on eliminating both Wingate and Rennie with one blow?

“Why were you there in the first place?” Spinney asked. Gorman was sitting slumped on his stool, absentmindedly rubbing the side of his head. “Bruce called me. He called me several timesafter the fire, after the lie detector test. He was falling apart.

He’d gotten a note from Julie late Wednesday night asking him for a get-together later that night. We talked about it some; I said I’d come along to back him up, but we decided I should stay out of sight.” “Why come along at all? Weren’t you running the risk of scaring her oIl?”

“Bruce was scared. I found out at that meeting that Julie had tried to kill him once already, just before the fire-” Gorman hesitated, obviously aware he’d opened a potential can of worms. He spoke rapidly to reseal the lid. “I know nothing about the fire, by the way. When Bruce called me that morning, all he said was that there had been one, that he’d gone back to the house after the fight with Fox, had argued with Julie, who’d reappeared, and that ‘things hadn’t worked out’those were his words. He made it sound like the fire was just an accident.”

“Did he tell you if Julie got away before the fire?” I asked, remembering Wingate’s minimal interest in the victims the following morning.

“Not in so many words. I asked him something like, ‘Is Julie okay?” and he said she was fine. I guess he lied about part of it to keep me involved. He knew I’d have nothing to do with violence.” Spinney ignored the self-righteous undertone. “You said you found out that night that Julie had tried to kill her father. What did she say exactly?” Gorman looked pained, ruing his own indiscretion. “I don’t remember exactly; it was something like, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t kill you.’”

“To which he said?” “‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’” “Was there any mention of how she tried to kill him? A gun or a knife?” “No.” %222

“Or whether anyone else died as a result?” “No, they both knew what they were talking about. They didn’t go into detail for my benefit.” I spoke up. “If they didn’t go into detail, how did you know she tried to kill her father before the fire-that’s what you said. The fire could have been the method she tried.” Gorman was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m trying to remember all this, okay? It was pretty wild. I think that’s just something I assumed. As far as I know, they never saw each other after the fire, except for the night he died, so it must have been before. And I think the fire was accidental, because they both blamed each other for that.” Spinney mulled that over and returned to his original line of questioning. “So you say Wingate was scared, and that’s why you agreed to be his backup?” His voice was totally neutral.

“He was scared-he even brought a gun. But all he told me was that he thought they were crazy and that he wouldn’t know what to do if a bunch of them showed up at once.” “So you were supposed to be the cavalry? I find that hard to believe.” He hesitated.

“You’re facing felony charges already, Gorman. Don’t start dicking around now.” “All right, all right. Bruce was hoping he could talk her into coming back home-most parents do. But he also thought that if she wouldn’t come, maybe the two of us could grab her. I’d told him that, if you can get a kid like that in a neutral place, sometimes you can turn them around, make them see the cult for what it is and give it up.”

“So you were hoping to kidnap her?” He didn’t like the phrasing. “As a last resort. I didn’t know she was homicidal. He lied to me.” “What was the meeting like, before the attack?” Gorman looked bitter.

“I was hiding up the hill a bit. It was dark, the sky had been covered by clouds, couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Bruce was at the bottom with a flashlight. Julie appeared out of nowhere-it was creepy. They talked. He accused her of causing the fire, and said if she came with him, no one would ever know about it.” “Did she admit setting it?” “Not directly, but she talked about it. She said he was as much to blame as she was, that if he’d just left her alone, none of it would have happened. She made it sound like an accident, but one they’d both caused. It didn’t make much sense to me.” %223 “Go on.” “It was pretty obvious she hadn’t called the meeting to talk about going home.

She wanted him to leave her alone or she’d ‘turn him in’-those were her words; I don’t know what she meant. Anyway, he said she couldn’t do that without implicating herself. She answered she didn’t care because he’d ruined her life anyhow and now it was her turn, that her merely speaking out would screw up his job and his cherished reputation forever. She was incredibly angry. I mean, I’d never seen such hatred.

She loathed the guy. I was thinking I’d tell him later that he was well rid of her and that he should dump the whole thing.” Spinney scratched his head in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you report any of this? You weren’t guilty of anything. In fact, you made yourself an accessory by keeping quiet you must have known that.” Gorman looked at us with wide eyes. “You weren’t there. This guy just took him apart. I mean, this wasn’t some sort of fight where a gun goes off or something. This guy butchered him-like a madman. I was scared to death. They had that light right on me. I looked up into it-they saw my face.” “So why not get in your car and drive off into the sunset?” Spinney asked.

“I thought about it. But I had to talk to Ellie first, to tell her what had happened.” “Did you?” “Not right away. I went to the Inn, but that old bat was around. I could see her through the windows.” “Greta?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what she was doing, but she was up and about in the middle of the night. I was stuck then, because I didn’t want to go back to the motel, in case they’d found out where I was staying, and I couldn’t leave Ellie high and dry. So I drove around all night. I figured the motel would be safe after dawn, so then I waited in my room for Ellie to call me. I knew she would as soon as she heard about Bruce.” “Why didn’t you just call her on your car phone?” “It doesn’t work up here, no cellular relay stations. Besides, I knew they didn’t have a phone in their room. If I’d called, Greta would have answered and might have wondered later about the coincidence of Bruce dying and my telephoning the same night. I wasn’t even supposed to be near here, much less at the scene of a crime.” “So why didn’t you leave then?”

Spinney persisted. “I was going to, but then I saw what was happening.

Julie and whoever it was were trying to frame Rennie Wilson. That’s when I realized I was probably okay.

They’d seen who I was, but they weren’t %224 going to do anything about it because it would have blown their frameup.” “Come on, they could have rigged it some way. You could have had a fatal accident,” I said.

“Running away wasn’t going to guarantee my safety. I’m a public guy, easy to find. I figured maybe the best defense was a good offense, especially after I met Greta. If I made a big enough stink, with lots of publicity, it would not only give me some protection, but the extra heat would keep you guys on your toes, and the sooner you caught Julie and her father’s killer, the sooner I could stop looking over my shoulder.” Spinney’s voice was like acid. “Well, I don’t know about you looking over your shoulder, but I’ll guarantee you some protection.”

He slapped a pair of handcuffs onto Gorman’s wrists and steered him out into the hallway, reading him his full rights. Spinney and I were standing in the parking lot of the correctional facility on Route 5, just a little south of the State Police barracks, having hand-delivered Gorman there. The jail was high on a hill looking east, and we were both idly facing that direction without actually registering the view, which the falling snow had reduced to a blur in any case. “So he was tall and thin.” Spinney’s voice was reflective. “Yeah. He must have put Rennie’s clothes on over his own-to keep himself warm and to expose the clothes to any blood. And he must have kept the pants up with suspenders. That’s why that one spot of blood showed up where a belt would have been.” I felt particularly vindicated with that last detail.

“So who do we know who’s tall and thin?” I looked at him. “Sarris.”

Sarris, as usual, didn’t seem surprised to see us. His only greeting was a single world-weary, “Ah.” “We’d like to speak with you, if we might,” Spinney said. Sarris shrugged and led the way through the big hall with its dozens of sparkling windows. At the far wall, he opened a small door I’d never noticed and ushered us in.

%225 We stepped into a brightly lit room, very woodsy and warm, which looked like something torn out of an Aspen real estate brochurebright ponchos on natural wood walls, beige wool u~holslered ~rrnchairs and a sofa, a thick hand-woven rug in front of the fireplace, a huge slab of polished maple as a coffee table. There were watercolors hanging about, a couple of wooden duck decoys on the mantle, odd pieces of quaint metal farming tools propped about as decorations. The air was filled with soft classical music.

“Is this the cutting edge of anti-materialism?” I asked. “Please, no polemics. Have a seat.” He gestured to the various seats.

“Electricity too?” He settled into an armchair opposite us and crossed his legs. He looked only at me. “What do you want?” I glanced at Spinney, who merely nodded. I was to kick off. “A few more questions.”

“I’ve already answered your questions.” He was definitely more peevish than before, his polished, urbane patina worn down by current events-a good sign, I hoped.

“More have come up.” “I’m afraid that’s your problem.” “Not really.

You’re in very hot water.” “It can’t be too hot, or you would have arrested me for something.” “There are seven dead bodies out there, all of which have ties to you and the Natural Order. I wouldn’t be too optimistic, if I were you, or so cocky.” “I have broken no laws.” “We have evidence that suggests otherwise,” Spinney murmured gently.

“You know one of the things that threw me oIl?” I asked, to stop him from asking us to produce Spinney’s “evidence.” “It was why you were being so coy. If Julie killed her father, why didn’t you just hand her over? You said your opposition was philosophical, but it’s been forcing us to chip away and chip away, looking for a way to crack your whole organization wide open. She couldn’t have meant that much to you.

Besides, you’ve cooperated in the past. You helped the State Police when that child went over the bridge, and you supplied the identifications to the five people who died in the fire.” Sarris sighed. “I apologize for making you tax your brains unnecessarily. I’m not sure I understand why you choose to continue doing so here and now.”

Spinney spoke up again. “We want you to understand your posi %226 tion.

Picture yourself on top of a mountain, with all of us climbing up in order to nail your hide. Each time we establish another fact, we take another step in your direction, and you’ve got nowhere to go-you’re stuck where you are.” Somewhere, in the back of my brain, a bell was beginning to sound.

“I’ve committed no crime,” Sarris repeated. I was lost in my thoughts, digging furiously through a mental index file, trying to match two separate pieces of information.

Spinney kept going. “That’s not true. Julie, for instance. Now there’s one hot potato. As soon as we get our hands on her, your world is going to fall apart. But even if you’ve buried her in some ditch, and we never get to lay a legal hand on you, you’re still out of business. Because what we can’t do to you, the bad publicity will.” He hunched forward in his chair, warming to his task. “This is no Island Pond. We’re the good guys this time. Have you been reading the papers?” Spinney looked at him impassively. “Not good. Questions are being floated about your being the next Jim Jones. In fact, there was an editorial this morning that suggested we ought to close you down right now to protect the people under your thumb. In fact, your only chance of survival is if you start cooperating with us.” I stood up, the adrenaline pumping, a previously negligible tidbit of information suddenly large in the front of my mind. That I was about to pull the rug out from under Spinney was of little consequence at that moment, and I was convinced that in the long run, Spinney would agree with me. I made a lame attempt to end the interview with the upper hand by fixing Sarris with a stern eye and saying, “Think about it-if you meet us halfway, you might be able to salvage something.” Spinney looked at me, his mouth half open in stunned surprise. He struggled quickly to his feet so as not to look completely left out.

I led the way to the door. ‘We’ll show ourselves out.” Spinney waited until we’d both gotten into the car. “What the hell was that all about?

I hadn’t even started with him. He must think we’re out of our minds.”

For the first time since we’d met, Spinney was truly upset.

“You can sweat him later, and you can pat yourself on the back now.”

“Why?” His voice was incredulous.

“Your flowery images do you justice.” I turned on the wipers to brush the snow off the windshield. “The hypothesis so far is that the guy who killed Wingate wouldn’t have killed Rennie because he’d framed Rennie for Wingate’s murder in the first place.” %227 “So?” “What do we know about Rennie’s killer?” Spinney pursed his lips, still mentally switching gears. “He’s a woodsman, or at least an outdoorsman, good at tracking, good at keeping quiet.” “And athletic-probably slim and fit.”

“Okay.” “I think I’ve seen him before.” With no cars parked out front, Nadine’s house looked abandoned. Spinney and I walked up the long ramp to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

The snow had stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the entire countryside blanketed in a thick, white, sound-absorbing shroud.

We waited a long time before the door opened. Nadine looked up at us from her wheelchair and gave us the ghost of a smile. “Hi, Joe.” “Sorry to bother you, Nadine. Are we interrupting anything?” “Just television.” “We can come back.” That was diplomatic; I had no intention of leaving.

She retreated a little from the threshold. “No, please. Come in.” We entered the house, closing the door behind us. I was again startled at how good the air smelled in here, especially in contrast to the Beirut-like front yard. “This is Lester Spinney. He was here earlier.”

Spinney bent over and shook her hand. “I apologize for not introducing myself then. We tend to lose our manners sometimes. I’m sorry about your husband.” She nodded and let her eyes drop to her lap. We were still standing at the door-the high, tinny sound of a television came from somewhere down the hall.

“We were wondering if we could ask you some questions,” I said. “Of course.” She still didn’t move or look up. Her voice was just above a whisper.

“How about over here?” I gestured to a living-room gathering of armchairs and a sofa near the large window I’d sat at before.

She raised her head then, embarrassed. “Of course, I’m sorry. Turn on some lights.” She wheeled over to one of the lamps and switched it on.

I did the same with another, shoving back the gloom of the overcast day outside. Spinney and I settled on the sofa, facing her.

“How’re you holding up?” I asked.

%228 “All right, I guess. I daydream a lot. It’s hard being interested in anything. Buster’s a help.” “He’s been coming over a lot?” “Oh, yes.” She smiled that smile again. “I’ve had to throw him out a couple of times.” “He’s very fond of you-I know that.” I was aware of Spinney staring at me, wondering why I had made a total fool out of him in front of Sarris so that we could both come chat with Nadine about my uncle.

Nadine got a soft look in her eyes. “Buster’s like a surrogate father.

My own father was aloof and judgmental-he’s dead now. But when he was alive, Buster would come over to drink and play cards. On the surface, that made him Dad’s friend, but I always had the feeling that Dad wasn’t the reason Buster came over at all. I think he did it for us, to see how we were doing.” “He had reason to be concerned?” It was an open question, possibly innocent, but we all knew what I meant, and Nadine didn’t duck the darker connotation, even while a faint smile played on her lips, an homage to lost innocence. “Looking back, I think he did.

Earle and I didn’t know it, though; life was what was handed out to you.

Dad yelled a lot, sometimes he’d give me the back of his hand. Earle usually caught worse. I never understood what fueled Dad’s rages, but he never let up. Buster knew what was going on he became our guardian angel.” She chuckled briefly. “Buster’s no saint, of course. He talks too much and drinks too much, and I would guess he’s a terrible businessman, at least that’s what Rennie always said.

But he was a godsend to us.” “How did Buster and Rennie get along?” I had to go slowly here, despite Spinney’s growing restlessness. What I wanted from Nadine had to come naturally; I didn’t want her to later blame herself for what her information would help me to do. “It’s funny you should ask… I think Buster looked at Rennie like a son who’d never measured up. That always made me sad, because they were the two men I loved most. They both had very good qualities that I could see, but which they couldn’t see in each other. Still, there must have been something good between them, or they wouldn’t have spent so much time together. Maybe their problems had to do with competition.” “What about Earle?” I asked, finally getting to where I wanted to be.

“How did he get along with Buster and Rennie?” “He and Buster got along to a point. I think he appreciated that when Buster was here, Dad left him alone. But after Buster left, and %229 Dad would start bad-mouthing him-just like he did everybody-Earle would go along, like a backup singer. Somehow the bad-mouthing kind of stuck, like some oil that won’t wash off.” “And Rennie?” There was a pause at that. Nadine had her head bent, apparently looking at her hands. Only after a few moments did I notice her shoulders gently shaking as she wept.

“I’m sorry, Nadine. Maybe we should go.” I still didn’t mean it. By now, the stimulus that had put me in front of her was strong enough that I was prepared to be ruthless in its pursuit. She raised her head then and reached out to touch my knee, possibly sensing my dilemma. “It’s your job, Joey. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve just been through.” I took hold of her fingers and gave them a squeeze, looking into her tear-stained face. Her gesture allowed me to be more sincere with my regret. “I wish I could be more like Buster and help you, instead of adding to your troubles.” She shook her head and smiled weakly. “One Buster is enough.” I was impressed and touched by her strength. When we’d first met, when suspicion on Rennie verged on conviction, she’d struck me almost as a lost child, caught in her chair, swept aside by events. She’d spoken in a whisper, struggled morally to stand by her man, and had backed up his Wednesday night alibi. But during the course of this conversation, I’d totally changed my view of her. What I had thought was a fear of the unknown had now proven to be a firm grasp on reality: Her husband was dead, she was on her own, and she had the ability and the emotional wherewithal to deal with that.

She took a deep breath. “What did Earle think of Rennie? He hated him.

It was an irrational kind of thing, the kind of thing my father would do.” “Why the hatred?” She looked like someone trying to move a huge weight out of the way. She gave that sad smile and tapped the arm of her chair. “This had a lot to do with it-and those Wednesday nights.” I was stunned.

“You knew what Rennie was up to?” She pursed her lips but her voice was steady. “I had my suspicions. It made me unhappy, but I didn’t blame him.

“We hadn’t had much of a physical relationship since this.” She touched the chair. “And he was a very physical man. I knew he’d replace what we had with someone else, and I appreciated that he tried to spare my feelings.” I crossed the room to the picture of Earle I’d noticed days earlier, %230 the one of him with a looped bandolier of climbing ropes.

“And Earle found out about Rennie’s infidelity?” She shook her head in frustration. “Nobody understood what Rennie and I had. They all thought he was a crude, short-tempered womanizer, and that I was a fool for putting up with him. Earle used to go on and on about him, telling me I deserved everything I got for hanging on. The funny thing was, I agreed with him. I did deserve Rennie, just as he deserved me. What people chose to see as major problems were nothing to us-little glitches, as we saw it. We loved each other. He didn’t change after the accident; people’s view of me did. Just because I was in this chair, people thought he was supposed to become a whole different person. Well, he didn’t and I loved him for that. The fact that life’s disappointments wore him down a bit, and that we no longer had in bed what we once had was our business, and we’d come to terms with it. I love Buster but he looks at me as a cripple. Rennie never did that, and to me that was worth putting up with a lot.” It was an eloquent and suitable note to end on, but I had one question remaining. I noticed Spinney was now sitting on the edge of his chair, watching us carefully.

“What did you mean when you said your wheelchair had a lot to do with Earle hating Rennie?” Nadine took a deep breath and then lifted her eyes to meet mine. “Rennie pushed me down the stairs. It was an accident. He was drunk, didn’t know what he was doing. But Earle never forgave him.” “I never heard Rennie pushed you,” I said. “Word had it you just fell.” “Small town, Joe, you keep things like that to yourself.

Even Earle did, which always surprised me. I didn’t think he had it in him.” I stood up abruptly, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Maybe he had his reasons.” Nadine had said we couldn’t miss it, a single rectangular building, alone among the trees, the only house within a ten-square-mile area, at the end of a rutted, dead-end track in the woods. I stopped the car about a hundred yards away, watching for signs of life.

“No smoke from the chimney,” Spinney said. It was a one-story rectangle with one of the narrow walls facing us. We could see a door, with a small window on either side.

“He could have a bead on us right now.” Spinney scanned the trees all around. They were packed so close together that even without their leaves, they cut what feeble daylight there was in half.

He took his shotgun from the backseat of the car.

%231 “Think we ought to call in the troops?” He chambered a shell and looked at the house again. “We don’t even know he’s in there. I did tell ‘em where we were headed.” We got out at the same time and stood silently for a while on either side of the car, listening. The trees and ground were heavy with undisturbed snow, including around the front door of the house. It was so cold the snow creaked underfoot when we finally began to walk forward. The cold steel of my service revolver caused my bare hand to ache slightly. We kept about fifteen feet apart until we reached the wall. Then, ducking under the windows, we reconvened on either side of the door. Spinney shifted his shotgun and pointed at the door frame.

There was a slight gap-the door was slightly open.

I reached out and pushed inward. The door swung back without a sound.

“Earle? This is the police. We want to talk to you.” Nothing. We strained to hear anything beyond the occasional groaning of a tree and the isolated scurrying of an invisible woods animal.

Spinney cautiously poked his head around the corner, his features etched in nervous strain. Then, slowly, gaining confidence from what he saw, or didn’t see, he nodded to me and made his move, gliding around the edge of the door and to the left, as I did the same to the right.

We both ended up in a kitchen, crouched against the wall, our guns pointed at an empty room with an open doorway opposite. The place was as cold as the outside. On the floor before us lay a short jumble of climbing rope, an Army-type web belt with various pouches, and an empty scabbard. Next to it was an enormous bowie knife. The knife lay slightly to one side, as if thrown there, its otherwise gleaming blade tarnished with smears of dried blood.

We crossed the kitchen to the other door and looked in. The curtains were drawn across the windows, but enough light filtered through to reveal a small, messy living room with an assortment of cast-off furniture and a short, dark hallway beyond. Now well inside the tiny house, we were cut off from even the rare sounds of the frigid forest.

Spinney and I looked nervously at each other. As before, we split to either side and crossed the room to the cavelike opening of the narrow hall.

Keeping our bodies out of sight, we craned our necks to see what lay ahead. The darkness was virtually total, a corridor leading to an absolute black void.

%232 I shut my eyes briefly and then reopened them. What lay ahead was not entirely blacked out; there was something there. I could sense from Spinney’s sudden stiffening that he’d seen the same thing. In the midst of the gloom, barely visible, there was a single tiny red point of light-the tip of a burning cigarette.

“Earle, this is the police. Come on out with your hands up.” Nothing, not a sound nor a movement.

Spinney began to back toward the front of the building. “This stinks.

I’m calling for backup. I’ll bring back a flashlight, too. Wait here.”

I nodded my approval. Not to have asked for backup earlier had been a judgment call, one on which we’d both agreed. Now, there was no alternative. Christ only knew what Earle had waiting for us in that bedroom.

I stared long and hard at the small point of light. “Come on, Earle, give it up. This is stupid.” Again, no sound and no movement. And no brains, I thought suddenly. I grabbed a pillow off the couch beside me and tossed it like a Frisbee into the bedroom, directly at the cigarette. I missed, but not by much, and still the tiny red glow didn’t move a hair.

“Shit we’ve.been had.” I still didn’t dare enter the bedroom; he might be standing in the corner, waiting for one of us to do just that, but I was also afraid for Spinney. If the cigarette had been a lure, it might have been rigged precisely to split us up.

I ran back to the kitchen and looked out the window toward Spinney’s car. I was just in time to see him being handcuffed to the doorframe by a thinner, dirtier version of the man in Nadine’s photograph. As I watched, the man began returning to the house.

He was about one hundred yards away, a distance he would take cautiously since he didn’t know whether I was still standing by the bedroom door, or waiting to blow him away. I didn’t want to kill him, but I thought about putting him in my sights and telling him to drop the rifle he was carrying. But Spinney was directly in my line of fire. If I had to shoot, my bullet could pass right through Earle and hit Spinney. I retreated toward the bedroom, scooping the rope off the kitchen floor as I went.

I quickly pulled back the blanket Earle had rigged across the open window, flooding the place with light. Taped to the iron bed’s headboard, facing the door, was a barely smoldering cigarette. Without pausing to admire the man’s style, I quickly tied one end of the rope around the leg of a side table and passed the rest of it out the window.

Then, poking my head outside to see if the coast was clear, I sat on the %233 windowsill, swung my legs out silently, and let the curtain drop closed behind me.

Without a sound, my gun in one hand and the end of the rope in the other, I moved along the wall, below the windows, until I was just shy of the front corner of the house. Just a few yards away, around that corner, I heard Earle quietly open the front door. I pulled gently on the rope. Barely audibly, I heard a scraping sound come from the back of the house. I counted to three, and looked quickly around the corner.

Earle was gone and Spinney was still at the car, his eyes fixed on me.

With the rope still in hand, I scurried to the door and very carefully looked in. Earle was in the kitchen, crouching by the living room entrance. Again, I pulled on the rope. He tensed and levelled the rifle toward the rear of the building, turning his back to me completely.

Using the doorframe as cover, I pointed my gun at him and spoke softly.

“Don’t move, Earle-not a muscle.” There was that inevitable slow count of three, that endless moment in which fateful decisions are made between life and death. I wasn’t sure of Earle. I didn’t even know the man. He’d had a hard life, had his brains twisted around by the very person who should have lent him guidance, and he’d finally given in to the ultimate act of violence. I was fully expecting him to turn that rifle on me to put his misery forever behind him.

But he didn’t. He laid it on the ground beside him and placed his hands on top of his head. He was smiling when he turned around. “How the hell… ?” I showed him the rope and pulled it. The table moved a bit in the dark beyond him. “Lie down on the floor-hands behind your neck and ankles crossed.” He did as he was told and I put my handcuffs on him. “I didn’t expect your buddy to come out so fast. I was going to nail both of you inside.” His voice was utterly calm, as if he were sorting out the details of some minor housekeeping mishap. I decided to take advantage of what might be just a temporary state of mind.

“Why’d you kill Rennie?” He snorted. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that.” “Why now?” “Dumb luck. I saw him pull into Lemon Road when I was coming down Radar. I was feeling bad, thought a drive might clear my head. It sure did. I saw him, followed him, watched him rig a meeting with those fruitcake bastards, waited ‘til they left, and then I cut him open.

%234 I’ve wanted to do that for more years than I can remember. It felt great. You should have seen him go.” I watched him lying on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the cold wood floor, a smile on his face. Now I knew why he hadn’t challenged me-the life had already gone out of him. He didn’t give a damn anymore.

“The fruitcake bastards was one of them Edward Sarris?” He cocked an eye at me, surprised. “Him and some girl. You got all the answers, don’t you?” Didn’t I wish. “I’m getting there.” Hamilton stopped the car halfway up the hill and watched Sarris’s building. Most of it was dark, with only the windows to the far left brightly lit.

“Looks like somebody’s still at home,” Spinney murmured. “Son of a bitch never leaves the place,” Smith said. I looked at Smith out of the corner of my eye. For the first time, I sensed a small bounce to his voice. And earlier, while Spinney and I were being debriefed on the Earle Renaud bust, I’d felt somehow that the rigidity with which he’d addressed me from the start had melted a couple of degrees. It was nothing measurable, but it was more than my wishful thinking. For some reason, I’d finally been elevated from being a mere 5A investigator and a thorn in Smith’s side. It shouldn’t have mattered to me one way or the other, but I was pleased nevertheless. It justified the number of times I’d resisted simply writing the man off, as I always sensed Spinney had, perhaps to his own loss. We continued up the hill, drove around the edge of the building, and parked next to the Cherokee with the “ORDER” license plate. It was only six at night, but already pitch-dark. Sarris answered our knock with a flashlight in his hand. He led us without uttering a word through the gigantic gloominess of the meeting room to his private inner sanctuary. Hamilton and Smith had never been in that part of the building before, and were obviously surprised by its Greenwich, Connecticut gloss.

Sarris seemed totally distracted, which made me wonder what might have happened during the few hours since Spinney and I had last %235 sat in this room. It might have been that Sarris had had time to mull over Spinney’s dire prediction of his fate and that of his organization, but I sensed there was something more, something tangible that had made him realize just how thin the ice was beneath him.

After we were all seated, he fixed me with his large, dark eyes. At some early point in this case, he had focused on me, first as his primary antagonist, and now I thought, almost as a personal nemesis.

“What do you want?” I looked at the others. Hamilton gave me a slight nod to go ahead.

“We arrested a man named Earle Renaud a few hours ago, for the murder of Rennie Wilson.” “Good for you. Of what interest is that to me?” Sarris crossed his legs nonchalantly, but I felt the gesture belied a subtle tension in his features.

“It turns out Earle had been watching Rennie for quite some time before he stuck him with a knife, long enough to see him meet with you and Julie Wingate.” Sarris remained silent.

“Do you admit to meeting Rennie the day he died?” “You’re the one with the witness, Lieutenant.” “What did you three talk about?” Sarris propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and made a steeple of his fingers in front of his mouth. I recalled his earlier comment that he’d had a lot of practice appearing in court. He had to walk a fine line with us-to appear accommodating and yet stay clear of self-incrimination. But I sensed from his curtness he was also running on limited reserves, and that the game of cat and mouse was becoming increasingly less rewarding. It was a weakness I hoped to work on.

He finally cleared his throat, opting for a half-truth. “Our meeting was clandestine, not illegal. Mr. Wilson invited us there.” “Why?”

“Oh, he was concerned that Julie Wingate was somehow involved in implicating him in her father’s death.” “By planting his lighter under Wingate’s body.” Sarris hesitated. “He did mention a lighter.” “Why did you agree to meet with Rennie at all? You were under no obligation to him, were you?” “Of course not, but Julie was quite upset over her father’s death. I thought this meeting might be of some help to her, maybe shed some light on why Bruce Wingate was killed.” “Weren’t you a little nervous about being alone in the woods with a suspected murderer?” “I had no quarrel with Wilson.” %236 “You had no quarrel with a man who’d been blackmailing you for months?” Sarris sat absolutely still.

“A man to whom you’d been supplying women, including Julie Wingate, because he had information that would shut the Order down overnight?

Seems to me that might constitute grounds for a quarrel, even a rather violent one.” “You said yourself you’d captured Wilson’s murderer.” “But Rennie Wilson had been framed by the man who killed Bruce Wingate.

Wilson wasn’t supposed to die; he was supposed to take the fall for the death of a man that had caused you grievous harm. In fact, Bruce Wingate was a challenge to your credibility within the Order.” I paused here for a theatrical mix of fact and bluff. “He had killed five of your followers, burned one of your houses to the ground, and was intending on kidnapping his own daughter from under your protection.

With Wingate’s death and Rennie taking the blame, you took care of two major problems with one fell swoop. Very efficient.” Sarris’s eyebrows shot up, in what I was afraid was genuine surprise. “You’re saying I killed Wingate?” “It fits. We have a witness to his murder, and another who will testify that Rennie Wilson was blackmailing you.” Sarris was now visibly perturbed. “You have a witness who says I killed Bruce Wingate?” “Paul Gorman was also at the bottom of that ravine. Wingate had asked him to come along for backup. He saw the whole thing.” “Well, he didn’t see me. I was nowhere near that ravine. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to jeopardize all I’ve built to kill Bruce Wingate?

He wasn’t undermining my credibility. The idea’s absurd.” “I hardly thought you’d like it. A jury probably will, though, especially when they hear how far you went to keep Rennie quiet, first by paying him off in sexual favors, and then by framing him for murder.’z My mind was whirling by now, flipping though the facts we’d built up over the past several days, looking for the connections that would widen the cracks in Sarris’s composure. Rennie had begun blackmailing Sarris six months ago, more or less. He’d also lost his lighter to Julie Wingate at that time, and she’d been the first woman Sarris had supplied. What had happened six months ago that gave Rennie the ammunition he needed to put the squeeze on Sarris?

And then it came to me, like a bolt from the blue. It fit perfectly, gave a logic to it all. But it needed to be confirmed. Only Sarris could do that, and only if he believed I was already sure of my facts.

I sat back in my chair and smiled at him, trying to hide my nervousness.

%237 “That must have seemed like a nice piece of irony-framing Rennie for murder-since that’s exactly what he was holding over you.” The room was absolutely still. I could hear my own heartbeat thumping away behind my temples, its rapid rate belying my outward calm.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarris said in a flat voice, devoid of conviction.

“The child that fell from the bridge, the toddler that supposedly shook off his companion and went running to his death on the streambed below.

The child that was actually murdered, and whose murder you conspired to cover up.” “You’re bluffing.” “Really? Did you think Rennie would keep that information to himself, a good-ol’-boy redneck like that? Hell, the first thing he did was share some of those women with his best friend in East Burke. Discretion wasn’t his long suit-he had you by the balls and it tickled him pink.” Sarris dropped his eyes to the floor.

His hands were on his knees, his feet flat on the ground. It was the posture of a far older man, browbeaten and tired, whose resistance had all but drained from his soul. He let out a long sigh. The bluff had worked. “That child was mentally retarded, did you know that?” “Yes, I did.” “In previous centuries, its death would have been seen as a blessing, God calling His own back to His breast. And in the animal world, it wouldn’t have survived its first day of life. We have surely turned the world on its ear, we civilized men.” His voice was bitter.

“Who killed it?” I asked softly.

“His own mother-so hopeful she’d produce something decent and pure, and so shattered when it turned out defective, like herself.” Considering the cast of characters we had, that could only be one person. The realization weighed in my chest like a stone. “Julie Wingate. ” He nodded.

I thought of the monstrosity of Sarris forcing Julie to have sex with his own tormentor. The twisted psychosis that would have seen poetic justice in that arrangement could only have belonged to a colossal egomaniac. It was ironic indeed that the same ego had precluded Sarris from simply handing Julie over to the police at the time she killed her child, thereby washing his hands of the entire affair and making himself look like a responsible citizen to boot. The high price of playing God was that when you stumbled, you brought your world down with you.

%238 I did some more mental mathematics, comparing the age of Julie’s child to when her parents had said she’d first told them of her “new friends,” almost three years ago.

“Julie was pregnant when she joined the Order.” Sarris was still studying the floor. “Yes. I believe Fox overdid it a bit in the recruiting.” “She was living with Fox when he died. I thought you discouraged that kind of attachement.” He shrugged. “He was a close friend, more of a cofounder than a member of the Order. He fell in love with her; I wasn’t going to argue. I have to admit, though, I didn’t see the attraction.” “Where is Julie now?” “I let her go,” he said simply.

I now understood Sarris’s odd mood when we’d first entered his house.

Perhaps Spinney’s little chat earlier had made an impression. By letting Julie go, Sarris had finally rid himself of his major problem, or so he must have thought until we’d returned to his doorstep.

“Where did she go?” Smith asked, speaking for the first time. “I don’t know. I let her loose like a minnow in the ocean, so that she might just disappear forever.” “How did she leave?” Hamilton asked.

Sarris looked up at him, his brow slightly furrowed. “I gave her the keys to one of those cars outside.” “Would you know which one?” “A white VW bus.” Sarris seemed totally disinterested in us now, and perhaps even in himself. The sense of caution which had made him guarded when we’d first begun to chat had vanished utterly, and he seemed content to answer whatever questions were asked of him. Hamilton and Spinney put handcuffs behind his back and escorted him from the room. “Well, that’s good news,” Smith muttered to himself. “What is?” “That she took one of those junkers. They’ve been sitting around for so long, they must be half-rotted inside. I doubt she’ll get very far before somethings breaks.” “Then we can ask her who killed Bruce Wingate.” Smith shot me a surprised look. “You don’t think Sarris did it?” “No, I don’t. I think he’s as much in the dark as we are.” %239 I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t even bother undressing. I just lay on the bed with a blanket over me, staring at the ceiling and playing it over in my mind, time and time again. The picture, as such, was almost complete. Like museum restorers cleaning an old and valuable painting, we’d painstakingly rubbed away the obfuscating layers. But what we saw now was confusing-abstract art where we’d been expecting realism. The missing element, we were convinced, had to be Julie, a fractured, self-abused psychotic. At the end of all our rational deliberations, of all our archaeological thoroughness, we were reduced to combing the countryside in search of a pathetically sick girl with a brain full of secrets.

When Spinney called to say they’d found her vehicle, I was in my coat and out the door in under five minutes. Riding with Spinney through the predawn blackness, watching the icy sheen of the pavement racing beneath our headlights, I wondered what sad conclusion we were rushing to meet.

“So where’re we headed?” “Graniteville, near Barre. Our guess is she was sticking to the backroads-Route 5 to 2; Route 2 to 302 via the Perkinsville town highway; something like that, maybe even more roundabout. No way of telling where she was headed in the long run, but she ran out of luck near Graniteville. Busted radiator hose; Smith was right.” “So she’s on foot?” “That’s what we’re going to find out.

Bishop’s ahead of us with the others. I figured I ought to call you, considering.” “Thanks.” “Bishop’s got a dog with him, and some of Julie’s clothes from Sarris’s place-maybe they can pick up a scent.” We drove in silence for a while. Graniteville is aptly named, being the center for a handful of huge granite quarries, some of which have been producing tor well over a hundred years. I’d heard somewhere that if demand for the stone continued, the whole area could be productive for hundreds of more years. I didn’t see how they could miss, considering that much of their stone ended up marking graves.

There was only the slightest hint of predawn grey in the sky when we pulled up next to a cluster of marked and unmarked police cars by %240

the side of a narrow, black-topped country road. As soon as I got out, I saw John Bishop, surrounded by men with flashlights, holding a wad of clothing to the nose of an excited bloodhound. Keeping the clothes in place, Bishop then pulled the dog over to the driver’s side of a rusty, battered VW bus.

“Why not just track her?” I asked Spinney as we approached the group.

“Take too long. The engine was still a little warm when we found it.

Unless she got another ride, she can’t be too far away.” Bishop released the hound to the end of a ten-foot leash. Everybody stood back as the now whining dog darted feverishly back and forth along the ditch bordering the road. As his lithe body flitted in and out of the bobbing flashlight beams, I thought of what it must be like in Julie’s position, hearing voices, seeing those stabbing points of light, and being aware that a dog was on her scent. Years earlier, I’d heard of how rabbit hunters in Scotland released ferrets into burrows to encourage the residents to flee into a hail of welcoming buckshot. The trick, apparently, was to avoid hitting the one rabbit that would have the ferret firmly attached to the back of its neck. Despite the obvious differences, I still didn’t envy Julie her position.

The dog finally took off into the brush on the other side of the ditch, and with an increased babble of voices, the men crashed in after it.

Spinney jumped the ditch and looked back at me. “Coming?” “I’ll be there.” He waved and vanished into the gloom and the undergrowth. To be honest, I hoped I wasn’t there; there were too many undertones to this kind of pursuit to make me want to join in. Instead, mostly to fight off the early morning chill, I walked up the road a piece, playing my flashlight along the side, not looking for anything in particular.

Eventually, I came across a gravel road heading off to the same side the tracking party had taken. The dust showed the impressions of many wide heavy tires-and a single set of boot prints.

Earlier, off Lemon Road, John Bishop had muttered a pet adage, “There are no sharp edges in nature,” meaning that it didn’t take long for a print’s outline to soften on its way back to becoming undisturbed soil.

The prints I was looking at were very sharp indeed. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should call the others, but they were already tracking Julie. What I had before me were probably the tracks of some quarryman showing up early for work, or maybe a supervisor or watchman.

I walked along the road for a quarter mile or so and came to a chain-link gate with a sign proclaiming, CELESTIAL %241 STONE

COMPANY-ANDREWS PIT. NO TRESPASSING-VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

The sign seemed to confirm my doubts.

I tugged at the lock uniting the chain that held the gate together. It was closed. I pushed at the wire mesh. It swung back a few feet, widening the gap between the two halves of the gate. I looked at the gap appraisingly, contemplating the challenge. Then I saw where the footprints had slipped through ahead of me.

I tried fitting through the gap, with laughable results. I pulled off my coat and sweater and tossed them through ahead of me. If I didn’t make it this time, I’d freeze to death-the ultimate diet. I did make it, though, at the cost of several buttons, and quickly put my clothes back on.

The footprints immediately vanished to the side of the road, back to the safety of the brush, so I stuck to the road, going on the hunch that whoever had come this way had paralleled my route. I knew this still qualified as a wild-goose chase, but my interest was now no longer idle.

Kids on a dare usually travel in packs; it helps holster the courage and affords ready witnesses for later bragging at bull sessions. This had been very clearly one set of tracks, and that, for obvious reasons, was intriguing. Furthermore, I could still hear my colleagues, though faintly, and they sounded like they, too, were headed in roughly the same direction.

About a half mile later, I came to a clearing, bordered by buildings ahead, and trees on either side. It was a large area, big enough to easily turn an 18-wheeler without going into reverse. Yielding to impulse, I walked over to the edge of the gravel and began looking for the footprints to reappear. I followed the perimeter of the parking area to the most distant spot from the buildings, and there I found them again. I began to feel like a bloodhound myself, it didn’t much matter that I probably would end up finding some teenager smoking pot.

There was a large pile of dusty, broken granite blocks that met the bordering trees at a ninety-degree angle. The tracks led me up the pile and over to the other side, and there, glowing slightly in the dawn’s struggling half-light, was a sight that damn near made my heart stop.

It was a huge, round pit, the size and depth of a small canyon, about one thousand feet across, and some four hundred feet deep, yawning and utterly silent. The walls were a series of fifty-foot wide, vertical grooves, interspaced with similarly wide buttresses-what mountain climbers call chimneys and ribs. At twenty-foot intervals, roughly a third of these chimneys and ribs were cut with narrow horizontal terraces, on which ladders had been placed as escape routes so the granite workers could use them in emergencies. Some of the %242

terraces interconnected, but most did not. Here and there, usually in the grooves, especially deep terraces had been cut to allow for the placement of large pieces of equipment-generators, winches, elevator boxes for workers to ride up and down, a*id small wooden foremen shacks.

For the most part, however, the terraces were as narrow as ledges, barely five feet wide.

Around the pit’s edge were about ten towering pole cranes, all harnessed to each other by an overhead spider’s web of steel cables. It gave me the creepy feeling of having an oppressive presence bearing down on me, like a huge, half-seen hand ready to flatten me and flick me into the hole. Instinct told me to quickly extinguish my flashlight and to move as quietly as possible. I crawled down the other side of the pile and reached a broad strip of flat rock that marked the edge. Moving slowly, a foot at a time, sensing my way partly by the growing daylight and partly by feel, I moved toward the pit. The edge, when I finally got there, was as sharp as a knife-one inch beyond where my shoe rested on flat granite, the cliff dropped to some barely visible milky green water about four hundred feet below. The sight was so destabilizing I had to quickly sit down to regain my balance. My stomach was slightly queasy.

Getting onto my hands and knees, I forced myself to look over the edge.

Some twenty feet below me was the first of the narrow ledges, but its ladder was lying flat, instead of connecting it to where I was. It had either fallen with amazing precision, or it had been taken down to prevent pursuit.

I scanned the walls for any activity, but there was nothing. The water-streaked pale gray rock, utterly motionless, seemed to let off a light of its own. This apparent inner glow was in gloomy contrast to the line of dark trees above, and the opaque green water far below. The place was as still as the graveyards it supplied.

Why come here? I thought. I looked to my right, to where the sun was trying to assert some presence. This wasn’t an entirely enclosed circular pit-to the east was a narrow opening to the valley below. If someone had been forced to stop here, say by a blown radiator hose, escape by road would be highly risky, especially so near to a vehicle being sought by police. Similarly, cutting across country wouldn’t work too well; the woods were thick and, conversely, the area was much more populated than the Northeast Kingdom.

But here was a sort of deranged logic-you could scale down the sides of the pit, dumping ladders as you went, and leave through the opening to the east. Progress would be rapid, direct pursuit would be severely handicapped, and you’d end up miles away by road from where the incriminating vehicle had been left. If the bus was found quickly, %243

the warm engine would actually be an asset, implying you were close, and thus encouraging the police cordon to be so tight that it might even exclude you.

I smiled at the thought. There was one problem, though. Bishop, the dog, and everybody else were hot on Julie’s trail, or of someone wearing her clothes. They were way the hell and gone-from what I could hear-on another quadrant of the pit. If they were on the right track, Julie’s track, then who the hell was I following? And if she and my guy were associates, why had they taken separate paths? The first theory-using the pit as an escape route-appealed to me; the second theory had me worried: You don’t split up forces if you’re running for a narrow exit.

But you might if you’re setting up an ambush. I looked at the forbidding walls below and opposite me, visualizing what a perfect target a man would be as he slowly climbed down those ladders.

I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. You don’t ambush the State Police. It would be suicidal; the best you could hope for, even in a perfect spot like this, would be to delay things for a while. I chewed on that for a bit, and finally snapped my fingers silently: That was the whole point-to delay things and attract attention, divert the chase long enough for one of them to get away. A lover’s leap. That’s when I heard the stone fall from somewhere below me. It rattled and bounced and ended as a tiny, distant splash.

I began listening so hard I almost stopped breathing. The escape gap was to the east. I was to the southwest. From what I could guess, the others with the bloodhound would appear to the southeast, or right between me and the escape gap.

Swallowing hard, I leaned out as far as I could without losing my balance. I was at the top of one of the buttresses, or “ribs.” The ledge below, as narrow as it was, still blocked a full view of the one farther down, which in turn totally hid the rest. I checked to both sides of me, hoping I could get over enough to see the cliff face from another angle. The trees growing out to the edge ruled that out-it would take me too long and I would make too much noise trying to gain a proper viewpoint.

Across the pit I could see tiny pinpoints of light flashing among the trees. The search party would soon become a climbing party-and target practice for whoever was below me. If I shouted or fired my pistol to warn them, I’d lose the advantage of surprise and I might scare off my prey: After all, I was just assuming he was boxed in. It was possible he had an escape figured out other than the obvious one of merely climbing back up his set of ladders.

I backed away from the edge and trotted over to the small build %244

ings, looking for something that might help me reach that first ledge.

What I found was a large wooden spool with hundreds of feet of three quarter-inch cable wrapped around it. It was almost taller than I was and probably weighed as much as a truck. I quickly began unlooping cable, thankful I’d packed along a pair of heavy leather gloves.

As quietly as possible, I pulled the cable along behind me, wrapped it around one of the larger granite chunks so the angle would be right, and very quietly paid out about forty feet of cable over the side, making sure the extra twenty didn’t slip over the ledge’s lip. What I couldn’t see was whether the second ladder was standing or had been laid down like the first-the extra cable was insurance. The search party opposite had broken out into the open. That still gave me time. They had to coordinate before deciding to use their own set of ladders, which I’d already noticed had been helpfully left in place.

I checked the cable again. I’d taken mandatory rappelling during some police training course, so long ago now I couldn’t even remember the decade, much less the year. I’d hated it then, even with all the equipment, the safeguards, and the instructors. Now I had none of those. I was going to dangle over four hundred feet of space, the way a boy swings on a rope from an apple tree.

“You are one stupid son of a bitch,” I muttered, as I eased over the side and began to let myself down. I realized I was in trouble one inch after it was too late to do anything about it. Cable, unlike rope, is smooth, and affords no grip for a pair of leather gloves, and as I began to slip faster and faster down the line, I thought that might be the last educational tidbit of my life. I put all my strength into my hands and feet, squeezing as tightly as I could, hoping to at least maintain my speed, if not slow it. It worked, but when I hit the ledge with burning hands, I did so as a solid muscular mass, with no give whatsoever. The shock-wave almost blew the top of my head off. I collapsed into a painful puddle, throbbing from my ankles to my neck, totally oblivious to any noise I might have made.

After lying there for a couple of minutes, my focus returned, along with an absolute, stomach-churning fear. I realized suddenly that not only had I almost killed myself going after someone I only thought might be threatening the others, but that now I was stuck on a horizontal sliver of rock five feet wide with a cliff above and a cliff below. Had I been suspended above a fiery pit by sewing thread, I couldn’t have been more scared. I closed my eyes to concentrate. No point going back now.

Things couldn’t get worse than this. Slowly, I finally got to my hands and knees and peered over to the next landing, hoping I’d find the bastard I was %245 after. Luckily I didn’t-I was fully prepared to shoot him on the spot.

Instead I saw a wooden ladder, its outer rails tapering together into the distance until they reached what appeared to be a dime-sized spot on the ledge below. I was sweating like a pig just looking at it.

The only source of comfort was that the top rung had been attached to the rock with a metal clip. I glanced over to the other side. People were clustered around the top ladder there, obviously preparing to descend. I figured if there was somebody setting them up, he’d wait until he had several of them exposed. I gingerly poked my leg over and felt with my toes for the uppermost rung.

The ladder bounced a little under my weight, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, especially when I remembered to keep my eyes straight in front of me. I also put enormous faith in that clip, probably more than was due, but by the time I set foot on the second ledge, I was convinced nothing shy of dynamite could move that ladder or any of its peers. I’d conveniently forgotten that the top ladder’s attachment had obviously offered no great resistance to my predecessor. I was still scared shitless, but I now figured I could do it. Across the way, one man had already reached the bottom of the first ladder and another was poised to follow him. I quickly looked over the side.

There was a third ledge, but with a difference. Instead of falling off at each end, as mine had, this one wrapped around to the sides. I was on an “rib” clifl, flanked on either side by two “chimneys.” I crawled on my hands and knees to the far end of my ledge-away from the other searchers-and stuck my head over cautiously. Below me, on the same level as the third ledge, was one of the wide stone platforms I’d noticed earlier, cut to support assorted pieces of machinery. More interesting, however, was the fact that the series of ladders I’d been using switched over to this side and continued on down the chimney from that platform. That meant that anyone descending from the platform would be invisible to those across the way. In other words, there was an escape route, but only from that third level below me. By now, convinced I was right, I scuttled over to the other end and took a peek.

There was a matching rock platform, similarly cluttered, including one of those small huts I’d taken to be foremen offices. Daylight was now truly breaking, the weak sun eating away at the darker shadows, but I still couldn’t see any movement. I swore under my breath; I couldn’t believe after all this that I’d been wrong. I looked across the pit again. There were three men on various ladders. If I were a sniper, I’d wait for maybe two more at most, pick off as many as I could %246

quickly, split for the other platform, and climb down my way to freedom.

By the time they saw me running along the edge of the water below toward the exit gap, it would be all but too late. That thought encouraged me about something else: If this wasn’t a suicidal attack, then Julie was still waiting nearby, possibly even at the bottom of the pit, to be joined by her protector. But it was all still theory-I had the plan and the place, but still no shooter. I lay staring at the little hut, the one place that offered good cover. That had to be it. If it wasn’t, however, and I went down there… I interrupted the thought. Slowly, and without a sound, I saw the window facing the opposite cliff swing open. I had him. My earlier fear was flushed away by adrenaline; I trotted back to the ladder and climbed down it quickly to the third level. I knew now I was dealing with a couple of minutes or less. I went over to what I’d mentally coined the escape platform and checked that the ladder going down from it was attached with a clip. It was. I looked around for a tool, something to use as a pry bar. There was a long metal rod lying by one of the machines. I got it under the top rung of the ladder and pulled hard. The wood cracked a little. I repositioned and tried again. This time it split right through, freeing the ladder from the wall. Oblivious to the noise it might make, I shoved the ladder forward, pitching it into the abyss and closing the back door to the shooter. Now, even if I didn’t make it, he could only go back up to those above. There wasn’t much sound, however. The ladder was still sailing through the air by the time I made it back to the narrow connecting ledge, and the first gentle clatters weren’t heard until I’d almost made it to the other chimney’s platform. Still, I was late.

Just as I got to the corner, a rifle shot rang out, deafening against all that rock. I saw a tiny figure-the uppermost one-sag against the ladder and then slowly peel away. I didn’t watch it drop; I didn’t want to waste the time. Instead, I reached around the corner, took aim at the hut with my service.38, and fired two rounds at the shadow behind the window. The glass exploded and the shadow dropped. “This is the police. Throw out your weapon and show yourself.” My eyes shifted to the far wall. I could see minute pale faces looking in our direction. I knew there were binoculars trained on us, so they could see who I was. I also knew they wouldn’t risk firing from there, for fear of hitting me.

I hoped the other guy wouldn’t figure that out, too.

“Come on-give it up.” What he did give up was unexpected. From low on the hut’s wall, a chunk of wood suddenly flew off, blown away by the bullet that %247 smacked into the granite near my head-he’d fired right through the wall.

The rock exploded like a small grenade, spraying my face and eyes with stone splinters. The pain was excruciating. Blinded, I staggered back, tripped and fell on my side. I reached out for support and felt my arm slip over the cliff edge. For a split second, I thought that was it-my body balanced right at the midpoint, undecided on which direction to roll, until I kicked my leg back and swung myself away from the edge. I still couldn’t see well; I could taste the blood seeping over my upper lip. I rubbed my eyes and blinked like mad, knowing it was now or never for my opponent. About every two seconds, I managed to get a half-glimpse of my surroundings before the blood blocked my vision again. I began backing up as rapidly as I dared, keeping one hand on the wall next to me, hoping to get to the shelter of the other platform before the shooter made his move.

I never made it. In one brief clear-eyed second, I saw his figure duck around the corner, carrying his rifle. I heard its blast just as the back of my head collided with the upright ladder behind me. My head exploded with bright light-a blinding, numbing starburst almost matched by the sudden stab of pain in my left side. I knew I was falling, but not in which direction; nor did I know how to counteract it. My arms and legs didn’t respond. I felt almost as if I was falling through water. Only the abrupt contact of my nose to the dusty granite shelf told me I’d fallen on my face. I lay there, motionless, trying to sort out the numbness, the pain, and the dizziness that engulfed me. I heard the other man’s footsteps move around the ladder and disappear to the opposite “escape” platform, out of reach from the State Police. I moved my fingers, trying to feel for my gun. It was gone. I heard him coming back and lay still. He seemed to hesitate, and then began to climb awkwardly to the second ledge, with something clanking and banging against the side of the ladder. I thought, hell; he’s got the pry bar-he’s going to leave me stranded. I rolled onto my back and looked up. My eyes still hurt, and I had to squint, but I could see. He was carrying his rifle, of course, not the pry bar-he no longer gave a damn about me. I got to my hands and knees, and then unsteadily to my feet, pulling myself up with the ladder rungs. I hung there for a few seconds, shaking off the nausea. Even without looking up, I knew he’d reached the next level-the ladder had stopped quivering under his weight. It angered me that he was getting away, it angered me that I still didn’t know who he was, and it angered me to think I’d messed up, that %248 somehow things shouldn’t have turned out this way. I swung myself around to the front of the ladder and began to climb.

The pain in my side brought me to an abrupt halt. I looked down at a broad red swatch that was leaking down my pants leg. His bullet must have hit me just above the belt line. I pressed it with my hand-it hurt, but it wasn’t unbearable, not like the pain in my head, which still gave everything a slightly pink tinge. I continued climbing, slowly, but steadily, hand over hand, foot over foot.

I could hear more shots above me, and several from across the way. We were no longer so close together, and the others could now feel free to try picking him off. But they didn’t have rifles. It didn’t mean their bullets couldn’t reach this far, but any accuracy was reduced to pure luck. By the time I reached the second ledge, he was almost to the top of the first, where the last ladder lay flat. I just hoped to God he was too preoccupied to look down.

I put my hands on the rungs to start climbing again, but then stopped, my head swimming so badly I had to close my eyes. I could feel my heartbeat through my temples, which felt like they must be ready to burst. With my eyes still closed, I began going up. I was beginning to lose the sensation of the wood under my hands, and the toes of my feet caught under the rungs instead of placing themselves confidently on top.

I realized I probably couldn’t make it to the top. No matter, I’d get the son of a bitch. The firing was pretty constant now, more from their side than from his. He, I could tell from the sounds, was struggling to put the last ladder in place. I opened my eyes and concentrated on what I was doing, movement by movement, ignoring that my vision seemed to be closing down from the outside in, and that everything was sounding farther and farther away. I got to the top of ledge number one. He was almost out of the pit.

I grabbed hold of his ladder and shook it. “Stop.” He froze suddenly, clutching the rails, and looked down. For a split second, everything stopped as we stared at each other. With the humming in my head and the increasing dizziness, I halfwondered if I was hallucinating, going back in time and reviewing the faces of the recent dead. For, above me, his eyes narrowed with malice, was Ed Sylvester’s bearded face-Julie’s cherished Fox, back from the grave, and here to kill me as he had Bruce Wingate before me. Idiotically, the only thought that crossed my mind was irritation at having been so stupid-we had all relied on Sarris’s information in determining the burned man’s identity. I was suddenly aware of the silence around us again, we were too %249 close together for them to risk shooting. In my dogged pursuit, I’d been too successful: I’d made of myself the perfect target. Sylvester began to fool with his rifle, bringing it around to bear on me.

I ducked under the ladder and put my back flat against the rock.

My hands were on the underside of the rungs. I heard the rifle’s bolt action snap into place, and the tinkling of a brass cartridge at my feet. All he had to do now was aim and I was dead. With a sudden, convulsive effort, I put all my remaining strength into pushing against the ladder. It trembled and jumped under my hands as Sylvester began to scramble, trying to reach the top. I felt the ladder begin to give, slowly at first, then with more conviction. I looked up and saw sky appear between the wall and the ladder’s top.

Sylvester dropped his rifle, which sailed by me on the way down, and grabbed for the cable I’d rigged earlier. For a moment, we froze there, the ladder angled away from the wall, Sylvester hanging onto the cable, me pushing for all I was worth.

Then, as had happened to me before, the steel line began to slip between his gloved hands. Farther and farther, in gradual slow motion, the ladder tilted into the void. Sylvester began to slip along the cable like a bead along a thread. The ladder twisted away and peeled off to the side; Sylvester continued on his arc out toward the middle of the pit. His gloves were hissing along the cable, smoking with the friction, leaving little plumes than hung in the air. At the end of the forty feet, man and cable separated in sudden, abrupt silence. I watched him spinning, spread-eagled, until he vanished in a geyser of viscous green water. The scream came from elsewhere far below, thin and high-pitched. My vision reduced to a pinhole, I swung my head to look near the edge of the water near the pit’s opening to the east. There was a girl there-half an inch tall from this distance, poised at the escape gap-on her knees with her hands over her face.

I slid down the wall into a sitting position and passed out.

The nurse paused, the paper cup still touching my lips. I followed her gaze to my hospital room door. Greta was standing there, a scowl on her face.

%250 “Hey there, Greta,” Buster spoke from the corner, where he’d enthroned himself in the room’s only armchair, surrounded by magazines.

She ignored him, and the nurse who squeezed past her on the way out. My God, you look like you been hit by a truck.” She shook her head and eyed me with gentle scorn. “I thought you were supposed to be the SA’s guy-a paper pusher.” I raised the one eyebrow that wasn’t bandaged.

“Dumb luckwrong place at the wrong time.” Greta looked across to Buster finally. “So what did he do to himself”’ “He was shot in the side, damaged his right eye, and suffered a concussion. No permanent damage.”

Greta snorted. “They wouldn’t know the difference.” I shook my head gingerly. These were two people I’d known for most of my life, playing roles so engrained, it had become almost impossible to see beyond them, until recently. Even now that it was over-the Natural Order disbanding, the Kingdom Restaurant closed, all within the thirty-six hours of my being shot I sensed a fragility underneath Greta’s familiar gruff veneer, the remnants of what I’d witnessed when she’d decked Gorman and had run off to God knows where.

“So what the hell happened? Did Bruce kill those people?” Based largely on what Spinney had told me that morning on the phone, I related to her what I knew that Bruce Wingate had returned to Fox’s house that night, armed with his.38, to find an unknown man in the house, a newcomer to the Order whom Fox had invited to stay in the house. Fox and Julie, however, were out. Holding the woman and children hostage in the upstairs bedroom, Wingate had sent the man to fetch Julie. When he returned with her, there, on the landing, an argument had broken out.

Julie had pulled the 9 mm, shot at her father, missed and hit the newcomer in the throat, the bullet passing through the collar of his down-filled jacket and picking up the feather Hillstrom later found.

This was the murder attempt Gorman learned about the night of Wingate’s death. Wingate had fled, as had Julie. None of them had paused to think about the smoldering embers spread by the dead man’s falling against the stove, and by the time the fire had broken out, the people upstairs were doomed. “So Bruce lied to me, they both did.” Greta looked crestfallen. “I’m afraid so, to all of us. His only interest was his daughter. That’s why he never told anyone that the burned man wasn’t Fox. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d been in the house later, or that his daughter had killed the man.” %251 Which, of course, had put Fox in the catbird seat. From the supposed grave, he’d orchestrated Wingate’s murder and framed Rennie-in his eyes, the two most flagrant degraders of the woman he loved. Had Sarris not then immediately taken charge of Julie, Fox and she could have been long gone. Indeed, it wasn’t until this morning that the State Police got Ed Sylvester’s dental records from the Bloomington police and found they didn’t match the burned body’s. That was a surprise to Sarris, also.

He too had thought Fox was dead.

“I never believed Rennie did it.” I noticed the set of her chin was almost too defiant. This woman had lost more than she would ever admit.

“I didn’t either, Greta. But he sure didn’t help his cause any, lying about his whereabouts and running off from the police.” I saw her jaw tighten as she fought for composure. “Silly bastardalways had to do it his own way.” “Are you okay, Greta?” I asked, trying to keep the real concern out of my voice. “Better than you are.” “You going to be able to hang on to the Inn?” She looked at me in silence for a moment, pondering whether to deny what was now common knowledge. “We’ll see-the other restaurant closing will probably help.” She looked embarrassed to have been so exposed and glanced toward the door.

I let her go with her dignity intact. “Thanks for coming. Good luck.”

She smiled, then quickly dug into her ample purse and handed me a small bouquet of flowers. She was gone almost before her mumbled “Get well soon” made it out of her mouth. I looked at the tiny, delicate collection of dried flowers and thought of her secret living room, that equally tasteful, feminine, and soothing enclosure buried inside that rotting heap of a building. Christ, I thought-circles within circles.

“How’re you doing’?” Buster asked.

I leaned back against the pillows and shut my one eye, which still ched from the granite splinters. “I don’t know. Kind of empty, like after a funeral.” “Rennie?” I thought about Rennie, another one whose inner soul had been lowly encased in an armature of hard living and bitter experience. But had mourned him already, even before he’d actually died. “Not him o much-more what he represented.” “The good old days.”

“Yeah.” %252 Buster dropped the magazine he’d been holding into his lap.

I didn’t know precisely how long he’d been here, but it had been most of the day.

“The good old days are still there, Joey. You just tried to make more out of ‘em than they deserve. They’re no cure for what ails you. He then grinned. “Speaking of which, is your friend Gail coming up?” I smiled at the thought. “Yup. I called her last night, after some of the drugs wore off. She’s due in a couple of hours.” “There’s your cure, if you ask me.” And how, I thought. The sound of her voice on the phone had done more good for me than anything currently oozing from the dripbag by the side of my bed. I was looking forward to seeing her, both here and back in Brattleboro, and I was looking forward to strengthening the friendship we’d almost dropped between us. Part of my resolve, I knew, stemmed from her own enthusiasm. “I think this has been good for us,” she’d said last night. “It shook things up a little, the way they should be. We were turning into turtles. I want to make love to you in the backseat of a car, or the floor of my office, as soon as you get better.” I’d laughed at that, threatening my stitches and causing myself a good deal of pain. But she was right. Being in love with another person shouldn’t be like standing hand in hand in a minefield, terrified of the slightest movement. Not to do so, however, takes a strong sense of security, and that had only come to me lately, as a result of all this.

I saw Buster was still watching me. “So what happens to Gannet now?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “We go back to work.” It was not a credible line. “You think that’ll do any good?” “Good bad. Who knows? We’re never going to amount to more than what we are. Maybe it’ll just bring us back to normal. I’d settle for that.” “You think Greta’ll pull it oIl?” He laughed and turned the question aside. “Who else would want the dump?”

But I persisted. “The bank might.” “Oh, Joey. I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll take care of things.” By his tone I knew they would, as they always had, for despite the economic forecasts or the demographic predictions, these people were generally pretty good at dealing with what life handed them, and living with the consequences. Be it depression or murder, substance abuse or the visitations of strange outsiders, they managed to hold their stalwart own.

%253 That realization didn’t hold much promise, but I thought it was pretty accurate.

Buster seemed to have read my mind, and turned the tables on me.

“So, did you get anything out of all this?” Interesting question. Back in Brattleboro, feeling thwarted and lonely, I’d begun to contemplate my past, which was, as I saw it, my only monument of consequence. Now, with the endurance ofNadine and Buster and Greta in mind, and with Gail’s help, I knew I’d been grossly self-indulgent. It was time to turn away from what had drawn me back to Gannet. I nodded to him. “I sure as hell hope so.”