Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 21



More Surprises





They were sitting at the Shaker-style cherry trestle table that separated the kitchen area of the long room from the sitting area by the fireplace. They’d started eating, and Kim and Kyle had complimented Madeleine enthusiastically on her spiced shrimp-and-rice dish. Gurney had offered a preoccupied echo of their comments, after which they ate for a while without speaking.

Kyle broke the silence. “These people you’ve been interviewing—do they have much in common?”

Kim chewed thoughtfully, swallowing before she spoke. “Anger.”

“All of them? After all these years?”

“In some it’s more obvious, because they express it more directly. But I think the anger is there in all of them, in some form or other. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

Kyle frowned. “I thought anger was a stage of grief that eventually passed.”

“Not if there’s no emotional closure.”

“Because the Good Shepherd was never caught?”

“Never caught, never identified. And after the crazy Max Clinter car chase, he just evaporated into the night. It’s a story without an ending.”

Gurney made a face. “I think the story may lack more than an ending.”

There was a brief silence around the table as everyone looked at him expectantly.

Kyle finally prompted him. “You think the FBI got part of it wrong?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

Kim looked baffled. “Got what wrong? What part of it?”

“I’m not saying for sure that they got anything wrong. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

Kyle’s expression became more excited. “What part might they have gotten wrong?”

“From what little I know at the moment, it’s just possible they got it all wrong.” He glanced at Madeleine. There was a flicker of conflicting emotions on her face, too subtle for him to identify.

Kim looked alarmed. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I hate using words like this, but the whole thing has kind of a wobbly look. Like a very big building on a very small foundation.”

Kim was shaking her head rapidly in a kind of reflexive disagreement. “But when you say they may have gotten it all wrong, what on earth …?”

Her voice trailed off as the phone in Gurney’s pocket began ringing.

He took it out, glanced at the ID, and smiled. “I have a feeling I’m going to get asked that question again in about five seconds.” He stood up from the table and put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Rebecca. Thanks for getting back to me.”

“ ‘A fatal flaw in the FBI construct’?” There was a cutting edge of anger in her voice. “What was that message all about?”

Gurney stepped away from the table in the direction of the French doors. “Nothing conclusive. I just have questions. There may or may not be a problem, depending on what the answers are.” He stood with his back to the others, looking out toward the western hills and the purple remnants of the sunset without really registering the beauty of what he was seeing. He was focused on one objective: getting invited to a meeting with Agent Trout.

“Questions? What questions?”

“Actually, I have quite a few. You have time to listen?”

“Not really. But I’m curious. Go ahead.”

“The first is the biggest. Did you ever have any doubts about the case?”

“Doubts? Like what?”

“Like what it was really all about.”

“You’re not making sense. Be more specific.”

“You, the FBI, the forensic-psych community, criminologists, sociologists—just about everyone but Max Clinter—all seem to agree on everything. I’ve never seen such a cozy level of consensus around what is essentially an unsolved series of crimes.”

“Cozy?” There was acid in her voice.

“I’m not implying anything corrupt. It just seems as if everyone—with the conspicuous exception of Clinter—is perfectly happy with the existing narrative. All I’m asking is whether this agreement is as universal as it seems and how certain you are about it personally.”

“Look, David, I don’t have all evening for this conversation. Cut to the chase and tell me what’s bothering you.”

Gurney took a deep breath, trying to defuse his irritation at her irritation. “What’s bothering me is that there are a lot of elements in the case and they all have to be interpreted in a particular way in order to support the overarching narrative. And I get the impression that it’s the narrative that’s driving the interpretation of its elements, rather than the other way around.” Rather than the way a sane, objective, reliable analysis should be conducted, he was tempted to add but didn’t.

Holdenfield hesitated. “Be more specific.”

“There are obvious questions raised by each data point, each bit of evidence, each fact. The answers to all of them appear to be coming from the investigative premise instead of the investigative premise coming from the answers to the questions.”

“You call that being more specific?”

“Okay. Questions. Why only Mercedeses? Why stop at six? Why a Desert Eagle? Why more than one Desert Eagle? Why the little plastic animals? Why the manifesto? Why the combination of cool rational argument with hot religious language? Why the rigid repetition of—”

Holdenfield broke in, sounding exasperated. “David, each of those issues has been examined and discussed in detail—every one of them. The answers are clear, they make perfect sense, they form a coherent picture. I really don’t understand your point at all.”

“So you’re telling me that there was never a competing investigative premise?”

“There was never any basis for one. What the hell is your problem here?”

“Can you picture him?”

“Picture who?”

“The Good Shepherd.”

“Can I picture him? I don’t know. Is that a meaningful question?”

“I think so. What’s your answer?”

“My answer is that I don’t agree that it’s meaningful.”

“It sounds to me like you can’t picture him. Neither can I. Which makes me think there may be contradictions in the profile that are screwing up the gut-level process of imagining a face. Of course, he might be a woman. A woman strong enough to handle a Desert Eagle. Or he might be more than one person. But we’ll put that aside for now.”

“A woman? That’s absurd.”

“No time to argue that right now. I have one last question for you. Amid all the professional consensus, did you or any of your forensic-psych colleagues or anyone at the Behavioral Analysis Unit ever disagree among yourselves about anything in the case hypothesis?”

“Of course we did. There are always diverse opinions, differences in emphasis.”

“For example?”

“For example, the concept of pattern resonance emphasizes the transference of energy from an original trauma into a current situation—which makes the current manifestation essentially an inanimate vehicle that is given life by the past. The application of the imitation-instinct paradigm would give the current situation a greater validity of its own. It’s a repetition of a past pattern, but it does have life and energy of its own. Another concept that might apply is the transgenerational transmission of violence theory, which is a traditional learned-behavior model. There was ample discussion of all those ideas.”

Gurney laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“I can picture you guys staring out at a palm tree on the horizon and debating the number of coconuts on it.”

“Your point being?”

“What if the palm tree itself is a mirage? A group delusion?”

“David, if anyone in this conversation is delusional, it’s not me. Is that it for the questions?”

“Who benefits from the existing hypothesis?”

“What?”

“Who benefits from the—”

“I heard you. What the hell do you mean?”

“I have this sense of a sticky synergy connecting the facts of the case with the weak points of FBI methodology and the career dynamics of the professional forensic community.”

“I can’t believe you said that. I really can’t. It’s so insulting. Look, I’m about to hang up on you. I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself before I do. Speak to me. Quickly.”

“Rebecca, we all fool ourselves from time to time. God knows I do. There’s no insult intended in my observation about this. When you look at the Good Shepherd case, you see a simple story of a brilliant psycho whose buried rage has found tragic expression in his attacks on symbols of wealth and power. When I look at the same case, I’m not sure what I see—maybe a case that people shouldn’t be as sure about as they seem to be. That’s all. I just think too many conclusions have been reached—and embraced—too quickly.”

“And where does that take you?”

“I don’t know where it takes me. But it does make me curious.”

“Curious like Max Clinter?”

“Is that a real question?”

“Oh, definitely a real question.”

“At least Max understands that the case isn’t nearly as sewn up as you and your FBI buddies think it is. At least he understands that there could be another connection among the victims beyond the fact of Mercedes ownership.”

“David, what do you have against the FBI?”

“Sometimes they get carried away by their way of doing things, their way of making decisions, their obsession with control, their process.”

“The simple reality is, they’re excellent at what they do. They’re smart, objective, disciplined, receptive to good ideas.”

“Does that mean they pay your consultancy fees on time without complaining?”

“Is that supposed to be just another observation with no insult intended?”

“It’s an observation that we tend to see the good in people who see the good in us.”

“You know, David, you’re so full of shit you ought to be a lawyer.”

He laughed. “That’s funny. I like that. But I’ll tell you something. If I were a lawyer, I’d like to have the Good Shepherd as a client. Because I have a feeling that the FBI concept of the case is about as solid as smoke in the wind. In fact, I’m getting kind of itchy to prove it.”

“I see. Lots of luck with that.”

The connection was broken.

Gurney slipped his phone back into his pocket, his unusually aggressive tone echoing in his head. Slowly his gaze moved to the far landscape. All that was left of the sunset was a purplish smudge across the gray sky, like a darkening bruise above the line of hills.

“Who was that?” The voice was Kim’s.

He turned around. She, Madeleine, and Kyle were still sitting at the table, their eyes on him. They all looked concerned, Kim more than the others.

“A forensic psychologist who’s written a lot about the Good Shepherd case and consulted with the FBI on other serial-killer issues.”

“What are you … what are you doing?” There was a pressure in her lowered voice, as though she were furious and trying not to show it.

“I want to know everything there is to know about the case.”

“What was all that stuff about everybody’s understanding of it being wrong?”

“Not wrong necessarily, just poorly supported by the facts.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I already told you Rudy Getz is going ahead with my documentary, with the set of test interviews I did. Rudy wants to use the raw footage I shot with my own camera. He says it enhances the reality. I told you this—that he’s going ahead with the program—nationally, on the RAM News Network. Now you’re telling me it’s all wrong, or it might all be wrong? I don’t get where you’re going with this. This isn’t what I asked you to do. You’re turning everything upside down. Why are you doing this?”

“Nothing has been turned upside down. I’m just trying to get a grip on what’s going on. Some disturbing things have happened, to you and to me, and I don’t want—”

“That’s no reason to go charging headfirst into the project, ripping it up, trying to prove it’s all wrong!”

“The only place I went headfirst was down your stairs. I don’t want either of us to get blindsided like that again.”

“Then just keep an eye on my idiot boyfriend!” She corrected herself. “My idiot ex-boyfriend.”

“Suppose it wasn’t him. Suppose—”

“Don’t be silly! Who else could it be?”

“Someone who knows about the project and doesn’t want you to complete it.”

“Who? Why?”

“Two excellent questions. Let’s start with the first. How many people know what you’re working on?”

“Know about the documentary? Maybe a million?”

“What?”

“A million, at least. Maybe a lot more. The RAM website, Internet news releases, e-mail blasts that go out to all the local stations and local newspapers, RAM Facebook pages, my own Facebook page, Connie’s Facebook page, my Twitter account—God, there’s so much—all the prospective participants, all their contacts …”

“So just about anyone could have access to the information.”

“Of course. Maximum exposure. That’s the goal.”

“Okay. That means we need to come at it from a different direction.”

Kim stared at him with a pained expression. “We don’t need to ‘come at it’ at all—not the way you’re talking about it. God, Dave …” Tears were coming to her eyes. “This is a critical moment. Don’t you see that? I can’t believe this. My first episode is set to run in a couple of days, and you’re on the phone telling people that the whole Good Shepherd case is … is … what? I can’t even follow what you’re telling them.” She shook her head, pressing the tears away from her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “I’m sorry. I don’t … I don’t … Shit! Excuse me.”

She hurried out of the room, and a few seconds later Gurney heard the bathroom door slam shut.

He looked at Kyle, who had pushed his chair a foot or so back from the table and seemed to be studying a spot on the floor. He looked at Madeleine, who was gazing at him with a concern that he found unsettling.

He turned up his palms in a questioning gesture. “What did I do?”

“Think about it,” she said. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Kyle?”

The young man looked up, gave a small shrug. “I think you scared the shit out of her.”

Gurney frowned. “By suggesting to someone on the phone that the FBI concept of the case might be flawed?”

When Kyle didn’t answer, Madeleine said softly, “You did more than that.”

“Like what?”

She ignored the question and began moving some of the dinner dishes from the table to the sink.

Gurney persisted, addressing his question to a midpoint in the space between her and Kyle. “What did I do that’s so awful?”

This time Kyle answered. “You didn’t do anything awful, not intentionally, but … I think Kim got the impression that you were bringing her project to a screeching halt.”

“You didn’t just say there might be a little flaw somewhere,” added Madeleine. “You implied that the whole thing was completely wrong, and not only that, you were going the prove it. In other words, you planned to tear the whole case apart.”

Gurney took a deep breath. “There was a reason for that.”

“A reason?” Madeleine looked amused. “Of course. You always have a reason.”

He closed his eyes for a moment as if patience were more easily found in darkness. “I wanted to upset Holdenfield enough that she’d get in touch with the FBI agent in charge, a cold fish by the name of Trout, and upset him enough that he’d want to get in touch with me.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“To find out if I really know something about the case that might embarrass him. And that would give me an opportunity to find out if he knows things about the case that haven’t been made public.”

“Well, if your strategy was to upset people, you can consider yourself a success.” She pointed at his plate, still heaped with shrimp and rice. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No.” He heard the abrupt defensiveness in his own tone and added, “Not right now. I think maybe I’ll step outside for a bit, get some air, clear my head.”

He left the table, went to the mudroom, and put on a light jacket. As he was going out the side door into the deepening dusk, he heard Kyle saying something to Madeleine, his voice low, the tone tentative, the words largely indistinguishable.

The only two he heard clearly were “Dad” and “angry.”


As Gurney sat on the bench by the pond, the evening rapidly descended into darkness. A fragile moon sliver behind a heavy overcast offered only the dimmest, most uncertain sense of the world around him.

The pain in his forearm had returned. It was intermittent, having no apparent relationship with the arm’s angle, position, or muscle tension. The feeling magnified the frustration he felt at Holdenfield’s attitude on the phone, at his own combativeness, at Kim’s severe reaction.

He knew two things—two facts in collision with each other. First, a cool and rigorous objectivity had always been at the root of his success as a detective. Second, his objectivity was now questionable. He suspected that the slowness of his recovery, the feeling of vulnerability, the impression of being sidelined—the fear of irrelevance—had filled him with an agitation and anger that could easily warp his judgment.

He rubbed his forearm with no noticeable effect on the ache. It was as though the source of it were elsewhere, perhaps in a pinched nerve in his spine, and his brain was misreporting the location of the inflammation. It was like the tinnitus situation, in which his brain was misinterpreting a neural disturbance as a tinny, echoey sound.

Still, despite these self-doubts, these termites of uncertainty, if he were forced to wager all he had one way or the other, he’d bet there was something screwy about the Good Shepherd case, something that didn’t fit. His finely tuned sense of discrepancy had never let him down, and he didn’t think …

His train of thought was interrupted by a sound like footsteps that seemed to come from somewhere in the general area of the barn. When he looked in that direction, he saw a small light moving in the pasture between the barn and the house. As he watched, he realized it was a flashlight being held by someone coming down the pasture path.

“Dad?” The voice was Kyle’s.

“I’m over here,” Gurney called back. “By the pond.”

The flashlight beam moved toward him, found him. “Are there any animals out here at night?”

Gurney smiled. “None that would have any interest in meeting you.”

A minute later Kyle arrived at the bench.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Course not.” Gurney moved a bit to make more room.

“Man, this is really dark out here.” There was the sound of something falling in the woods on the other side of the pond. “Oh, shit! What the hell was that?”

“No idea.”

“You sure there are no animals in those woods?”

“The woods are full of animals. Deer, bears, foxes, coyotes, bobcats.”

“Bears?”

“Black bears. Generally harmless. Unless they have cubs.”

“And you really have bobcats?”

“One or two. Sometimes I’ll see one in my headlights as I’m coming up the hill.”

“Wow. That’s pretty wild. I’ve never seen a bobcat, not a real one.” He fell silent for a minute or so. Gurney was about to ask him what was on his mind when he continued. “You really think there’s more to the Shepherd case than people realize?”

“Could be.”

“You sounded pretty sure on the phone. I think that’s why Kim got so bothered.”

“Yeah, well …”

“So what do you think everybody’s missing?”

“How much do you know about the case?”

“Like I told you before dinner—everything. At least everything that was on TV.”

Gurney shook his head in the dark. “It’s funny—I don’t recall you as being that interested at the time.”

“Well, I was. But there’s no reason you’d remember that. I mean, you were never really there.”

“I was around when you came on weekends. Sundays anyway.”

“You were there physically, but you always seemed … I don’t know, like, mentally you were always tied up in something important.”

After a pause Gurney said, a little haltingly, “And … I guess … after you got involved with Stacey Marx … you weren’t coming every weekend.”

“No, I guess not.”

“After you broke up, did you stay in touch with her?”

“Didn’t I ever tell you about that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Stacey got all f*cked up. In and out of rehabs. Kinda fried, actually. Saw her at Eddie Burke’s wedding. You remember Eddie Burke, right?”

“Sort of. Redheaded kid?”

“No, that was his brother Jimmy. Anyway, no matter. Basically, Stacey is fried.”

A long silence fell between them. Gurney’s mind felt empty, unfocused, uneasy.

“It’s kind of chilly down here,” said Kyle. “You want to come back up to the house?”

“Yeah. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Neither of them moved.

“So … you never finished saying what it is about the Good Shepherd case that’s getting to you. You seem to be the only person who has a problem with it.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“That’s way too Zen for me.”

Gurney uttered a sharp, one-syllable laugh. “The problem is a gaping lack of critical thinking. The whole goddamn thing is too neatly packaged, too simple, and way too useful to too many people. It hasn’t been challenged, argued, tested, ripped, and kicked, because too many experts in too many positions of power and influence like it the way it is—a textbook crime spree by a textbook psycho.”

After a short silence, Kyle said, “You sound pissed off.”

“You ever see what someone looks like who’s taken a .50-caliber hollow-point round in the side of the head?”

“Pretty bad, I guess.”

“It’s the most dehumanizing thing imaginable. The so-called Good Shepherd did that to six people. He didn’t just kill them. He mangled them, turned them into something pathetic and horrible.” Gurney stared off into the darkness for a long minute before going on. “Those people deserve more than they’ve gotten. They deserve a more serious debate. They deserve questions.”

“So what’s the plan? Find loose ends and yank on them?”

“If I can.”

“Well, that’s what you’re good at, right?”

“I used to be. We’ll see.”

“You’ll succeed. You’ve never failed at anything.”

“Of course I have.”

Again there was a brief silence, broken by Kyle. “What kinds of questions?”

“Hmm?” Gurney’s mind had drifted into the depths of his shortcomings.

“Just wondering—what kinds of questions do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some big amorphous questions about the sort of personality that could be behind the language in the manifesto, the attack logistics, the choice of weapon. And lots of smaller questions, like why all the cars were the same make—”

“Or why they all came from Sindelfingen?”

“Why they all … what?”

“All six cars were built in the Mercedes plant in Sindelfingen, just outside Stuttgart. Probably doesn’t mean anything. Just an odd little factoid.”

“How on earth would you know a thing like that?”

“I told you I paid a lot of attention.”

“That Sindelfingen thing was in the news?”

“No. The years and models of the cars were in the news. I was … you know … trying to figure things out. I wondered what the cars might have in common beyond what was obvious. Mercedes has a lot of assembly plants, in a lot of countries. But those six cars all came from Sindelfingen. Just a coincidence, right?”

Even though it was too dark to make out his face, Gurney turned toward Kyle on the bench. “I still don’t get why you …”

“Why I bothered to look into that? I don’t know. I guess I … I mean, I looked into a lot of stuff like that … like crimes … murders … stuff like that.”

Gurney was stunned into silence. Ten years ago his son had been playing detective. And how long before that? Or after that? And why the hell hadn’t he known about it? How had it escaped his attention?

Jesus F*cking Christ, was I that unapproachable? That lost in my career, my thoughts, my personal priorities?

He felt tears coming, didn’t know what to do.

He coughed, cleared his throat. “What do they make at Sindelfingen?”

“Their top-of-the-line stuff. Which would explain it as a common factor, I guess. I mean, if the Shepherd was targeting only the most expensive Mercedes models, then that’s the plant they all would have been made in.”

“Still, it’s an interesting point. And you took the time to discover it.”

“So you want to come up to the house?” said Kyle after a pause. “Feels like it might rain.”

“In a minute. You go ahead.”

“You want me to leave the flashlight with you?” Kyle switched it on, shining it up the slope toward the asparagus patch.

“No need. I know the obstructions between here and there pretty well.”

“Okay.” Kyle stood up slowly, testing the evenness of the ground in front of the bench. There was a small splash at the edge of the pond.

“The hell was that?”

“Frog.”

“You sure? Are there any snakes?”

“Hardly any. All small, all harmless.”

Kyle seemed to think about this for a while. “Okay,” he said. “See you up at the house.”

Gurney watched him, or rather the beam of his flashlight, moving gradually up the pasture path. Then he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, inhaling the damp air, emotionally drained.

His eyes opened suddenly at the sound of a small branch breaking somewhere in the woods behind the barn. Perhaps ten seconds later, he heard the sound again. He got up from the bench and listened, straining his eyes into the depthless black masses and ill-defined spaces that represented the area around him.

Hearing nothing more for the next minute or two, stepping tentatively, he walked carefully from the bench to the barn, which was about a hundred yards away. Once he reached the near corner of the big wooden structure, he walked slowly around it on the grassy verge that bordered it, stopping every so often to listen. Each time he stopped, he considered withdrawing the Beretta from its holster. But each time the thought was followed by a sense of overreaction.

The silence of the night now seemed absolute. The condensation in the grass was beginning to penetrate the seams of his shoes and seep into his socks. He wondered what he’d expected to discover, why he’d even bothered to circle the barn. He glanced up the slope toward the house. The amber light in the windows looked inviting.

Taking a shortcut through the field, he stumbled over a groundhog burrow and fell, which brought back for a few seconds the electric pain between his elbow and wrist. When he entered the house, he realized from Madeleine’s expression that he must look disheveled.

“I tripped,” he explained, smoothing out his shirt. “Where is everyone?”

She seemed surprised. “You didn’t see Kim outside?”

“Outside? Where?”

“She stepped out a few minutes ago. I thought maybe she wanted a private word with you.”

“She’s out there in the dark by herself?”

“Well, she’s not in here.”

“Where’s Kyle?”

“He went upstairs for something.”

Her tone sounded odd to him. “Upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“He’s staying overnight?”

“Apparently. I offered him the yellow bedroom.”

“And Kim’s taking the other one?”

It was a silly question. Of course she was taking the other one. But before Madeleine could answer, he heard the side door opening and shutting, followed by the soft rustling sound of a jacket being hung up. A moment later Kim entered the kitchen.

“Did you get lost out there?” asked Gurney.

“No. I was just looking around.”

“In the dark?”

“Looking to see if I could see any stars. Breathing the country air.” She sounded uneasy.

“Not a good night for stars.”

“No, not very good. Actually, it was kind of spooky out there.” She hesitated. “Look … I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you before.”

“No need. In fact, I want to apologize for upsetting you. I understand how important this thing is to you.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have said what I said the way I said it.” She gave her head an embarrassed little shake. “My timing is really lousy.”

He didn’t understand what the “timing” reference meant, but he didn’t question it, lest it prolong the exchange of apologies, which he found awkward. “I’m going to have some coffee. How about you?”

“Sure.” She seemed relieved. “Good idea.”

“Why don’t you both have a seat at the table,” said Madeleine firmly. “I’ll put on enough for all of us.”

They took their seats. Madeleine plugged in the coffeemaker. Two seconds later the kitchen lights went out.

“The hell happened?” said Gurney.

Neither Madeleine nor Kim answered.

“Maybe that thing tripped a circuit breaker?” he suggested.

He started to get up, but Madeleine stopped him. “The circuit breaker’s fine.”

“Then what could …?” A low, flickering light came from the hall that led to the stairway.

The flickering light grew stronger. Then he heard Kyle’s voice, singing, and a moment later the young man came in through the arched doorway, carrying a cake covered with lit candles, his voice growing louder with each word.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Daa-aad, happy birthday to you.”

“My God …” muttered Gurney, blinking. “Is today … really …?”

“Happy birthday,” said Madeleine softly.

“Happy birthday!” cried Kim with nervous enthusiasm, adding, “Now you know why I feel like such a total idiot for behaving the way I did, tonight of all nights.”

“Jesus,” said Gurney, shaking his head. “Bit of a surprise.”

With a broad grin, Kyle laid the blazing cake gingerly in the middle of the table. “I used to get pissed when he’d forget my birthday. But then I realized he couldn’t even remember his own, so it wasn’t so bad.”

Kim laughed.

“Make a wish and blow them out,” said Kyle.

“Okay,” said Gurney. Then, silently, he made his wish: God help me say the right thing. He paused, took the deepest breath he could, and blew out about two-thirds of the candles. He took a second breath and finished the job.

“You did it!” said Kyle. He went out to the hall, to the main switch for the kitchen lights, and flipped it back on.

“I thought I was supposed to get them all with one blow,” said Gurney.

“Not when there are that many. Nobody could blow out forty-nine candles with one breath. The rule says you get a second try for any number over twenty-five.”

Gurney looked at Kyle and at the smoldering candles with bewilderment and, once again, felt the threat of an oncoming tear. “Thank you.”

The coffee machine began making sputtering sounds. Madeleine went over to tend to it.

“You know,” said Kim, “you don’t look anywhere near forty-nine. If I had to guess, I would have said thirty-nine.”

“That would make me thirteen when Kyle was born,” said Gurney, “and eleven when I married his mother.”

“Hey, I almost forgot,” said Kyle abruptly. He reached down under his chair and brought up a gift box of the size that might contain a shirt or a scarf. It was wrapped in shiny blue paper with a white ribbon. Stuck under the ribbon was a birthday-card-size envelope. He handed it across the table.

“Jesus,” said Gurney, accepting it awkwardly. He and Kyle hadn’t exchanged birthday gifts for … how many years?

Kyle looked anxiously excited. “Just something I came upon that I thought you should have.”

Gurney undid the ribbon.

“Check out the card first,” said Kyle.

Gurney opened the envelope and began to withdraw the card.

On the front in a happily cursive script, it said, “A Birthday Melody Just for You.”

He could feel a hard lump in the center—no doubt one of those little scratchy singing things. He assumed that when he opened the card, he would be treated to another rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”

But he didn’t have a chance to find out.

Kim, whose attention had evidently been drawn to something outside the house, stood up so suddenly from the table that her chair toppled over backward. Ignoring the crash, she rushed to the French doors.

“What’s that?” she cried in a rising panic, staring wide-eyed down the pasture slope, her hands coming up to her face. “God, oh, my God, what is that?”