Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 25



Love and Hate





Gurney was slipping his phone back into his pocket when there was a light knock at the open den door behind him. He turned and saw Kim standing there. “Could I interrupt you for just a minute?”

“Come in. You’re not interrupting anything.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?

“For taking that ride on the back of Kyle’s motorcycle.”

“Apologize?”

“It wasn’t the right thing to do. I mean, my timing was really thoughtless—going out for a silly motorcycle ride—when there’s all this serious stuff going on. You must think I’m a selfish airhead.”

“Taking a little break in the middle of a big mess seems pretty reasonable to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it was appropriate for me to be out there acting like nothing happened, especially if there’s a chance that your barn was destroyed because of me.”

“Do you think Robby Meese is capable of that?”

“There was a time when I would have said, ‘Not in a million years.’ Now I’m not sure.” She looked confused and helpless. “Do you think it was him?”

Kyle appeared in the doorway behind her, listening but saying nothing.

“Yes and no,” said Gurney.

Kim nodded, as though his answer meant more than it did. “There’s one more thing I need to say. I hope you realize that I had no idea a week ago what I was dragging you into. At this point I would totally understand and accept your decision if you wanted out.”

“Because of the fire?”

“The fire, plus the booby trap in the basement.”

Gurney smiled.

She frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Those are the reasons I don’t want out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Kyle spoke up. “The harder it gets, the more determined he gets.”

She turned, startled.

He went on. “For my dad, difficulty is a magnet. Impossibility is irresistible.”

She looked from Kyle back to Gurney. “Does that mean you’re willing to stay involved in my project?”

“At least until we get things sorted out. What’s next on your agenda?”

“More meetings. With Sharon Stone’s son, Eric. And with Bruno Mellani’s son, Paul.”

“When are they supposed to happen?”

“Saturday.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No, Sat—Oh, my God, tomorrow is Saturday. I lost a day. Do you think you’ll be available?”

“As long as there are no new surprises.”

“Okay. Great. I’d better get going. Time is disappearing. As soon as I get home, I’ll confirm the appointments and call you with the addresses. Tomorrow we’ll meet at the first interview location. That okay with you?”

“You’re going back to your apartment in Syracuse?”

“I need clothes, other things.” She appeared uncomfortable. “I probably won’t stay there overnight.”

“How are you getting there?”

She looked at Kyle. “You didn’t tell them?”

“I guess I forgot.” He grinned, blushed. “I’m giving Kim a ride home.”

“On the back of the bike?”

“The sun’s coming out. It’ll be fine.”

Gurney glanced out the window. The trees at the edge of the field were casting weak shadows over the dead grass.

Kyle added, “Madeleine’s going to lend her a jacket and gloves.”

“What about a helmet?”

“We can pick one up for her right down in the village at the Harley dealer. Maybe a big black Darth Vader thing with a skull and crossbones.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Kim with a cute imitation of sarcasm, poking his arm with her finger.

There were a number of things Gurney wanted to say. On second thought, none seemed as advisable as silence.

“Come on,” said Kyle.

Kim smiled nervously at Gurney. “I’ll call you with the interview schedule.”

After they left, Gurney leaned back in his chair and stared out at the hillside, which was as motionless and muted as a sepia photograph. The landline phone on the far side of the desk rang, but he made no move to answer it. It rang a second time. And a third. The fourth ring was interrupted halfway through, evidently by Madeleine’s picking up the handset in the kitchen. He heard her voice, but the words were indistinct.

A few moments later, she entered the den. “Man by the name of Trout,” she whispered, handing Gurney the phone. “Like the fish.”

He’d half expected the call but was surprised at how quickly it had come.

“Gurney here.” It was the way he’d answered his phone on the job. In retirement he’d found it a hard habit to break.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gurney. I’m Matthew Trout, special supervisory agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The words rolled out of the man like artillery fire.

“Yes?”

“I’m agent in charge on the Good Shepherd multiple-murder investigation. I believe you’re already aware of that?” When Gurney didn’t answer, he went on. “I’ve been informed by Dr. Holdenfield that you and a client of yours are involving yourselves in that investigation.”

Gurney said nothing.

“Would you agree that’s an accurate statement?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked if your statement was accurate. I said it wasn’t.”

“In what way wasn’t it?”

“You implied that a journalist I’m advising on matters of police procedure is trying to step into your investigation and that I myself am trying to do the same thing. Both those assertions are false.”

“Perhaps I was misinformed. I was told you’d expressed a strong interest in the case.”

“That’s true. The case fascinates me. I’d like to understand it better. I’d also like to understand why you’re calling me.”

There was a pause, as though the man had been jarred by Gurney’s brusque tone. “Dr. Holdenfield told me that you wanted to see me.”

“That’s also true. Is there a time that would be convenient for you?”

“Not really. But convenience is an irrelevant issue. I happen to be on a working vacation at our family lodge in the Adirondacks. Do you know where Lake Sorrow is?”

“Yes.”

“That’s surprising.” There was something snobbish and disbelieving in his tone. “Very few people have ever heard of it.”

“My brain is full of useless facts.”

Trout did not respond to the not-so-subtle insult. “Can you be here at nine tomorrow morning?”

“No. How about Sunday?”

There was another pause. When Trout finally spoke, it was in a tightly controlled way, as though he were forcing his mouth into a smile to keep the sound of anger out of his voice. “What time Sunday can you be here?”

“Anytime you want. Earlier the better.”

“Fine. Be here at nine.”

“Be where at nine?”

“There’s no posted address. Hold on and my assistant will provide directions. I advise you to write them down carefully, word for word. The roads up here are tricky, and the lakes are deep. And very cold. You wouldn’t want to get lost.”

The warning was almost comical.

Almost.


By the time he’d copied down the Lake Sorrow directions and returned to the kitchen, Kim and Kyle were on their way down through the low pasture on the BSA. A pale sun was breaking through the thinning overcast, and the bike’s chrome was glittering.

Gurney’s mind shot off into a branching pattern of anxious what-ifs—interrupted by the sound of a hanger dropping on the floor in the mudroom.

“Maddie?”

“Yes?” A moment later she appeared at the mudroom door, dressed more conservatively than usual—which is to say, less like a rainbow.

“Where are you off to?”

“Where do you think I might be off to?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“What day is today?”

“Friday?”

“And?”

“And? Ah. Right. One of your group things at the clinic.”

She stood there looking at him with one of her complex expressions that seemed to contain elements of amusement, exasperation, love, concern.

“Do you need me to do anything regarding the insurance?” she asked. “Or do you want to take care of it? I assume we have to call someone?”

“Right. I guess our broker in town. I’ll find out.” It was a simple chore that had come and gone from his mind several times since the previous evening. “In fact, I’ll do it now before I forget.”

She smiled. “Whatever is happening, we’ll get through it. You know that, don’t you?”

He laid the directions to Lake Sorrow on the table, went over and hugged her, kissed her cheek and neck, then just held her tightly. She returned the hug, pressing her body against him in a way that made him wish she weren’t leaving for work.

She stepped back, looked in his eyes, and laughed—just a small laugh, an affectionate murmur of a laugh. Then she turned and went through the short hallway to the side door and out to her car.

He stared out the window until her car was well out of sight.

It was then that his gaze fell on a piece of notepaper that had been Scotch-taped to the wall above the sideboard. There was a short sentence written on it in pencil. He leaned closer and recognized Kyle’s handwriting.

It said, “Don’t forget your birthday card.” Under this was a little arrow pointing downward. On the sideboard directly below it was the blue envelope that had been attached to Gurney’s gift. The distinctive Tiffany blue brought back his uncomfortable feeling about Kyle’s need to spend that kind of money.

He withdrew the card from the envelope and once again read the words on the front: “A Birthday Melody Just for You.”

He opened the card, still expecting that its embedded device would produce an irritating rendition of “Happy Birthday.” But for three or four seconds there was no sound at all—perhaps to allow time for reading a second message on the inside: “Peace and Joy on Your Special Day.”

And then the music began—nearly a full minute of a remarkable melodic passage from the “Spring” segment of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

Considering the size of the sound device, smaller than a poker chip, the tonal quality was wonderful. But it wasn’t the quality of it that stunned Gurney—it was the vividness of the memories it brought to life.

Kyle was eleven or twelve and still coming every weekend from his mother’s house on Long Island to Dave and Madeleine’s apartment in the city. He was starting to show an interest in the kind of music that to a parental ear sounded criminal, crude, and downright stupid. So Gurney made a rule: Kyle could listen to whatever music he chose, so long as he gave equal time to a classical composer. This had the dual effect of limiting his exposure to the dreadful music his junior-high ears seemed drawn to and exposing him to masterpieces he would never otherwise have listened to.

The arrangement was not without tension and disputes. But it also produced a happy surprise. Kyle discovered that he liked one of the classical composers whose works Gurney made available. He liked Vivaldi. He especially liked The Four Seasons. And of the four, he liked “Spring” best. Listening to it became the price he willingly paid for listening to the cacophonous garbage he claimed to prefer.

And then something happened—so gradually that Gurney hardly noticed. Kyle began listening, on and off, not only to Vivaldi but also to Haydn, Handel, Mozart, Bach—not as the price he had to pay for listening to junk but because he wanted to.

Years later he mentioned casually, not to Gurney but to Madeleine, that “Spring” had opened a magic door for him and that exposing him to it was one of the best things his father had ever done for him.

Gurney remembered Madeleine passing the comment along to him. He remembered how odd it had made him feel. Glad, of course, that he’d done something that had generated such a positive reaction. But also sad that it was such a small thing—a thing that required so little of himself. He wondered if the reason for its high ranking in his son’s mind was that there were so few paternal gestures competing with it.

That same collision of emotions filled him now, as he held the open card in his hand, as the lovely baroque melody faded. His vision blurred, and he realized with some alarm that once again tears were about to flow.

What the hell is the matter with me? Christ, Gurney, get a grip!

He went to the kitchen sink and wiped his eyes roughly with a paper towel. He’d come close to crying more often in the past couple of months, he thought, than in all the years of his adult life put together.

I need to do something—anything. Movement. Accomplishment.

The first action that came to mind was to take inventory of the main items lost in the fire. The insurance company was sure to ask for that.

He didn’t feel like doing it, but he pushed himself. He got a yellow pad and a pen from the desk in the den, got into his car, and drove down to the charred ruins of the barn.

As he got out of the car, he grimaced at the acrid odor of wet ashes. From somewhere far down the road came the intermittent whine of a chain saw.

Reluctantly, he stepped closer to the heaps of burned boards that lay within the warped but still-standing framework of the barn. In the area where their bright yellow kayaks had once rested atop a pair of sawhorses, there was now an unidentifiable brownish, bubbled, hardened mass of whatever the kayaks had been made of. He’d never been especially fond of them, but he knew that Madeleine was and that being out on the river, paddling along under a summer sky, was one of her special delights. Seeing the little boats destroyed—reduced to a solidified petrochemical glop—saddened and angered him. The sight of her bicycle was worse. The tires, seat, and cables had melted. The wheel rims were warped.

He forced himself to move slowly through the ugly scene with his pad and pen, making notes of the major tool and equipment casualties. When he finished, he turned away in disgust and got back into his car.

His mind was full of questions. Most of them were reducible to one word: Why?

None of the obvious hypotheses was persuasive.

Especially not the enraged-hunter theory. The local countryside was full of No Hunting signs, but it wasn’t full of burned barns.

So what else could it be?

A mistake by an arsonist who’d gotten his target address wrong? A pyromaniac, hot to convert something big into flames? Mindless teenage vandals? An enemy from Gurney’s law-enforcement past, acting out a revenge fantasy?

Or did it have something to do with Kim and Robby Meese and The Orphans of Murder? Was the arsonist the basement whisperer?

Let the devil sleep. If that quote was taken from a story Kim’s father had told her in her childhood, as she claimed, then the admonition must have been meant for her. It would have special meaning only for her. Why whisper it to Gurney?

Could the intruder have believed that it was Kim who had fallen down the stairs?

Such an error seemed nearly impossible. When Dave fell, the first thing he heard was Kim’s voice in the little passageway at the top of the stairs—screaming, calling to him frantically—then the sound of her footsteps running for the flashlight. It was only after that, lying on the basement floor, that he heard, quite close to him, the ominously hushed voice—the voice of someone who at that point must have known he wasn’t talking to Kim.

But if he knew the person on the floor wasn’t Kim, then why …?

The answer struck Gurney like a slap in the face.

More accurately, it struck him like a crystal-clear melody from a Vivaldi violin concerto.

He drove back up to the house in such a hurry that he bottomed out the frame of the car twice on groundhog holes.

He went straight to his musical birthday card, looked at the back, and saw what he hoped to see—a company name and website: KustomKardz.com.

A minute later he was looking at the website on his laptop. Kustom Kardz was in the business of providing just that—individualized greeting cards bearing an embedded battery-driven digital playback device “with your choice of over a hundred different melodies from the world’s best-loved classical compositions and traditional folk tunes.”

In addition to the e-mail link on the “Contact Us” site page, there was an 800 number, which Gurney called. To start with, he had one key question for the customer-service representative. Rather than customizing the playback chip with a piece of music, could it be customized with spoken words?

The answer was yes, certainly. It would just be a matter of recording the message—which could be done over the phone—putting it in the proper audio format, and downloading it to the device.

He had two more questions, if she didn’t mind. What were the options for triggering the playback if such a device were used in something other than a greeting card? And how much of a delay between the triggering and the playback could be built into the device?

She explained that triggering could be done in a number of ways—by pressure, by release of pressure, even by sound, like those light switches that respond to clapped hands. Other possibilities could be explored with Mr. Emtar Gumadin, their tech guru.

One final question. Someone he knew had received an interesting talking card that said, “Let the devil sleep.” Had Kustom Kardz by any chance processed that particular message onto one of their sound chips?

She didn’t think so, but if Gurney would hold on, she’d check with Emtar.

After a minute or two, she reported back that no one there could remember anything like that—unless perhaps Gurney was referring to the lullaby that began, “Go to sleep, dear one, rest …”

Did their company have a lot of competition?

Unfortunately, yes. The cost of the technology was dropping and its use was exploding.

As soon as Gurney ended his Kustom Kardz call, he placed a call to Kyle. He had no expectation of reaching anything other than voice mail, since he assumed that the BSA by now would be buzzing along I-88 and not even an impatient twenty-six-year-old would be likely to pull his phone out of his pocket on a speeding motorcycle.

But, as if to prove the futility of expectations, Kyle answered immediately. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“In a gas station by the interstate. I think the town is called Afton.”

“Glad you could pick up. I’d like you to do something for me when you get to Kim’s place in Syracuse. That voice I heard in her basement? I think it was a recording—probably on a miniature playback device, something like the one in the card you gave me.”

“Jeez. How’d you figure that out?”

“The card gave me the idea. Here’s what I want you to do. When you get to the apartment, go down in the basement—assuming the lights are working and there are no new signs of intrusions. Look around in the vicinity of the staircase for places where something the size of a fifty-cent piece could be concealed. Somewhere near the bottom of the stairs. The voice I heard was definitely within a few feet of where I fell.”

“How concealed could it be? I mean, for the sound to be clear …”

“You’re right—it couldn’t be completely buried in the wall, but it could be in a shallow recess of some kind, maybe covered with paper or a painted fabric to blend in with the wall—something like that.”

“Not in the floor, though, right?”

“No, the voice came from somewhere above me—as though someone were bending over me.”

“Could it be in the staircase itself?”

“Could be, yes.”

“Okay. Wow. We’ll get going. I’ll call you as soon as we get there.”

“Don’t speed. Half an hour one way or the other won’t make any difference.”

“Right.” There was a pause. “So … did you like the card?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, absolutely. Thank you.”

“You recognized the ‘Spring’ thing?”

“Of course I did.”

“Okay. Great. Call you in a little while.”

To prevent “the ‘Spring’ thing” and its memories from pulling him into an emotional morass, Gurney searched for something to do until he heard back from Kyle.

He went to the file cabinet in the den, got the phone number of their local insurance broker, and made the call. After several branching options, the automated answering system gave him another number to call “to report an accident, fire, or other loss covered by your homeowners policy.”

As he was about the enter the new number, the phone rang in his hand. He glanced at the ID screen, saw that it was Hardwick. He debated the choice for about three seconds and decided the insurance call could wait.

The instant he pressed TALK, Hardwick started speaking.

“Shit, Gurney, everything you ask for is a pain in the ass, you realize that?”

“I figure your lazy ass needs the exercise.”

“I need this like I need a vegan diet.”

“What do you have for me, besides bullshit?”

Hardwick cleared his throat with his customary thoroughness. “Most of the original autopsy notes are buried deeper than I can get to today. Like I said, this is a giant—”

“I know what you said, Jack. The question is what do you have?”

“You remember Wally Thrasher?”

“The ME on the Mellery case?”

“The very one. Arrogant, wise-ass bastard.”

“Like someone I know.”

“F*ck you. Among his other fine qualities, Wally is obsessively-compulsively organized. And it just so happens that he did the autopsy on the big, flashy real-estate lady.”

“Sharon Stone?”

“The very one.”

“And?”

“Bull’s-eye.”

“You mean—”

“Entry wound was dead center in the side of her head. I mean, dead f*cking center. Course, the exit wound was a whole other thing. Hard to find the center of something when there’s nothing left to find the center of.”

“It’s the entry wound that matters.”

“Right. So now you have the two bull’s-eyes you already knew about, plus one more. You think that’s good enough to prove whatever brilliant point you want to prove?”

“It just might be. I appreciate the input.”

“I exist only to serve.”

The connection was broken.