Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 28



Darker, Colder, Deeper





At dawn the next morning, Gurney was back at the table with his first coffee of the day. Sitting by the French doors, he was watching a daddy longlegs dragging a captured earwig along the edge of the stone patio. The earwig was still putting up a fight.

For a moment Gurney was tempted to intervene—until he realized that his impulse was neither kind nor empathetic. It was nothing more than a desire to brush the struggle out of sight.

“What’s the matter?” It was Madeleine’s voice.

He looked up with a start to find her in a pink T-shirt and green madras shorts, fresh from her shower, standing next to him.

“Just observing the horrors of nature,” he said.

She looked out through the glass doors at the eastern sky. “It’s going to be a nice day.”

He nodded without really hearing her. Another thought had absorbed his attention. “Before I went to bed last night, Kyle said something about going back to Manhattan this morning. Do you recall if he mentioned what time he was planning to leave?”

“They left an hour ago.”

“What?”

“They left an hour ago. You were sound asleep. They didn’t want to wake you.”

“They?”

Madeleine gave him a look that seemed to convey her surprise at his surprise. “Kim has to be in the city this afternoon to record something for The Orphans of Murder. Kyle persuaded her to go down early with him, so they could spend the day doing things together. She didn’t appear to need much persuading. In fact, I think the plan is for her to stay over at his apartment tonight. I can’t believe you didn’t see this coming.”

“Maybe I did, but not so fast.”

Madeleine went to the coffeemaker on the sink island and poured herself a cup. “Does it worry you?”

“Unknowns worry me. Surprises worry me.”

She took a sip and returned to the table. “Unfortunately, life is full of them.”

“So I’ve discovered.”

She stood by the table, gazing through the far window toward the widening swath of light above the ridge. “Does Kim worry you?”

“To some extent. I wonder about the Robby Meese thing. I mean, that guy is pretty warped, and she let him move in with her. There’s something wrong with that picture.”

“I agree, but maybe not the way you mean it. A lot of people, mostly women, are attracted to damaged individuals. The more damage, the better. They get involved with criminals, drug addicts. They want to fix somebody. It’s a horrible basis for a relationship, but not that unusual. I see it every day at the clinic. Maybe that’s what was going on with Kim and Robby Meese—until she found the strength and sanity to get him out of her life.”


With his detailed route directions in hand, Gurney left shortly after sunrise for Lake Sorrow. The drive through the Catskill foothills and rolling Schoharie farmlands up into the Adirondacks was a journey into discomfiting memories. Memories of preteen vacations at Brant Lake with his mother at the height of her emotional estrangement from his father. An estrangement that left her needy, anxious, and physically clingy. Even now, close to forty years later, the memories cast an unsettling pall.

As he drove farther north, the pitch of the mountain slopes increased, the valleys narrowed, and the shadows deepened. According to the instructions he’d been given by Trout’s assistant, the last road he’d be taking with any posted identification would be Shutter Spur. From that point on, he’d have to rely on precise odometer readings to make the proper turns in a maze of old logging roads. The forest was part of a vast private landholding in which there were only a few seasonal cabins, no stores, no gas stations, no people, and major gaps in cell service.

The AWD system on Gurney’s Outback was barely adequate to negotiate the terrain. After the fifth turn, which his instructions indicated would take him directly to Trout’s cabin, he found himself instead in a small clearing.

He got out of the car and walked around the perimeter. There were four rough trails leading from the clearing into the forest in various directions, but no way of telling which one he was supposed to take. It was 8:58 A.M.—just two minutes shy of his projected arrival time.

He was sure he’d followed all the instructions accurately and reasonably sure that the punctilious-sounding man on the phone was not likely to have made a mistake. That left a couple of possible explanations, but only one he considered probable.

He returned to his car, got in, opened the side window for a bit of fresh air, reclined the seat as far as it would go, lay back, and closed his eyes. Every so often he checked the time. At nine-fifteen he heard the engine of an approaching vehicle. It stopped not far away.

When the expected knock came, he opened his eyes, yawned, raised his seat, and lowered the window. The man standing there had a lean, hard appearance, with sharp brown eyes and close-cropped black hair.

“You David Gurney?”

“You expecting anyone else?”

“You need to leave your car here and come up in the ATV.” He gestured toward a camouflage-painted Kawasaki Mule.

“You didn’t mention this to me on the phone.”

The man’s eyelids twitched. Maybe he didn’t expect his voice to be so easily recognized. “The direct route isn’t passable at the current time.”

Gurney smiled. He followed the man to the ATV and got into the passenger seat. “You know what I’d be tempted to do if I had a place up here? Every once in a while, I might be tempted play a little game with one of my guests. Make him think he was lost, maybe missed a turn, see if he’d panic—you know, out in the middle of nowhere with no cell coverage. Because if he screwed up on his way in, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out, would he? Always fun to see who panics and who doesn’t in a situation like that. Know what I mean?”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Of course not. How could you? For someone to appreciate what I’m talking about, he’d have to be a real control freak.”

Three minutes later—a jouncy half mile up and down a rocky trail, during which the man’s angry gaze never left the treacherous terrain—they arrived at a chain-link fence with a sliding gate that opened as they approached it.

Inside the fence the trail faded into a broad bed of pine needles. Then, quite suddenly through the trees, the “cabin” appeared in front of them. It was a two-story structure in the modified Swiss-chalet style of some traditional Adirondack camps—rustic log construction with recessed porches, green doors and window trim, and a green shingle roof. The façade was so dark, and the porch in so much shadow, that it wasn’t until the ATV pulled up to the front steps that Gurney saw Agent Trout—or the man he presumed to be Agent Trout—standing proprietarily in the center of the dismal porch, feet planted wide apart. He held a large Doberman on a short black leash. Accidentally or purposely, the arrogant pose and the imposing guard dog made Gurney think of a prison-camp commandant.

“Welcome to Lake Sorrow.” The voice, emotionless and bureaucratic, conveyed no hint of welcome. “I’m Matthew Trout.”

The few rays of sunlight that penetrated the huge pines were far apart and thin as icicles. The evergreen scent in the air was powerful. The low, persistent sound of an internal-combustion engine, most likely a generator, came from the direction of an outbuilding off to the right of the main house.

“Nice spot you have here.”

“Yes. Please come inside.” Trout issued a sharp command, the Doberman turned around, and together they preceded Gurney into the house.

The front door led directly into a spacious sitting room dominated by a stone fireplace. In the center of the rough-hewn mantel was a stuffed bird of prey with furious yellow eyes and extended talons, flanked by twin wildcats poised to leap.

“They’re coming back,” said Trout significantly. “New sightings in these mountains every week.”

Gurney followed the man’s gaze. “Wildcats?”

“Remarkable animals. Ninety pounds of muscle. Claws like steel razors.” There was a definite excitement in his eyes as he looked up at the stuffed monsters on the mantel.

He was a small man, Gurney noted, perhaps five-five at the most, but with the well-developed shoulders of a bodybuilder.

He bent over and unclasped the Doberman’s leash. A guttural command sent the dog trotting silently out of sight behind a leather couch, where he offered Gurney a seat.

Gurney sat without hesitation. Trout’s transparent efforts at intimidation struck him as silly but also made him wonder what was coming next.

“I hope you understand how unofficial all this is,” said Trout, still standing.

“How artificial …?” said Gurney, pretending to have misunderstood.

“No. Unofficial.”

“Sorry. Touch of tinnitus. Stopped a bullet with my head.”

“So I heard.” He paused, regarding Gurney’s head with the sort of concern one might exhibit in the selection of a questionable melon. “How’s the recovery going?”

“Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“My head wound. You said you’d heard about it.”

The low ring of a cell phone came from Trout’s shirt pocket. He took it out and checked the screen. He frowned, presumably at the ID. For a moment he looked indecisive; then he pressed the TALK button.

“Trout here. Where are you?” As he held the phone to his ear for the next minute, his jaw muscles tensed several times. “Then we’ll see you very soon.” He pressed another button and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“That was the answer to your question.”

“The person who told you I’d been shot is coming here now?”

“Exactly.”

Gurney smiled. “That’s impressive. I didn’t think she worked on Sundays.”

The comment produced a surprised blink and pause. Trout cleared his throat. “As I was saying a moment ago, our little get-together is completely unofficial. I decided to meet with you for three reasons. First, because you asked Dr. Holdenfield if a meeting could be arranged. Second, because I felt that it was appropriate to extend a simple courtesy to someone formerly in law enforcement. Third, because I hope that our informal discussion will avert any confusion regarding the authority and responsibility for the investigation of the Good Shepherd murders. Good intentions can sometimes end up impeding an official process. You’d be amazed at what DOJ lawyers can construe as obstructions of justice.”

Trout shook his head, as if in despair at those overscrupulous government attorneys who might come down on Gurney like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Gurney flashed a big, earnest smile. “Matt, believe me, I’m with you on that issue one hundred percent. Crossed wires are nothing but trouble. I’m a fan of full disclosure. Cards on the table. Open kimono. No secrets, no lies, no bullshit.”

“Good.” Trout’s chilly tone drained any sense of agreement out of the word. “If you’ll excuse me, there something I need to take care of. I won’t be long.” He exited the room through a door to the left of the fireplace.

The Doberman emitted a low, rumbling growl.

Gurney leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and contemplated his game plan, such as it was.

When Trout returned fifteen minutes later, he was accompanied by Rebecca Holdenfield. Instead of looking harried or resentful at having her weekend interrupted, she looked energized and very intense.

Trout smiled with the closest thing to cordiality he’d shown so far. “I asked Dr. Holdenfield to join us here today. I believe together we can address the strange concerns you seem to have and put them to rest. I want you to understand, Mr. Gurney, that this is a highly unusual accommodation. I’ve also asked Daker to sit in. An extra pair of ears, an extra perspective.”

On cue, Trout’s assistant appeared in the doorway by the fireplace—where he remained as Trout and Holdenfield took seats in leather armchairs facing Gurney.

“Well now,” said Trout. “Let’s get right to these peculiar problems you have with the Good Shepherd case. The sooner we dispose of them, the sooner we go home.” He gestured for Gurney to begin.

“I’d like to start with a question. During the course of your investigation, did you uncover any facts that struck you as inconsistent with your basic hypothesis? Little questions that weren’t answerable?”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Was there any debate about the necessity for sniper goggles?” Trout frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Or the absurd choice of weapon? Or how many weapons there actually were? Or where he disposed of them?”

Despite a conspicuous effort at impassivity, Trout’s eyes filled with a succession of concerns and calculations.

Gurney went on. “And then there’s the fascinating conflict between the shooter’s proven risk aversion and his stated fanaticism. As well as the conflict between his perfectly logical planning and completely illogical goals.”

“Suicide bombings are full of similar contradictions,” said Trout with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“The bombings may be, but the individuals involved in them aren’t. The guy at the top with a political objective, the strategic thinker who chooses the target and lays out the plan, the recruiter, the trainer, the hands-on supervisor in the field, the martyr who volunteers to be blown up—they may function as a team, but each one is who he is. The net result may be crazy and counterproductive, but each component is internally consistent and understandable.”

Trout shook his head. “I don’t see the relevance.”

In the doorway Daker yawned.

“The relevance is obvious,” said Gurney. “The Osama bin Ladens of the world do not become pilots and fly planes into skyscrapers. The psychological components that create one do not create the other. Either the so-called Good Shepherd is more than one person or the unifying inferences you’ve made about his motives and personality structure are wrong.”

Trout exhaled a loud sigh. “Very interesting. But you know what I find most interesting? Your comment about the gun—or guns. It reveals access to restricted information.” He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully under his chin. “That’s a problem. A problem for you, being in possession of it, and a problem—perhaps a career-ending one—for whoever leaked it to you. Let me ask you a straightforward question: Do you have any other information from restricted federal law-enforcement files, pertaining to this case or to any other case?”

“Good Lord, Trout, don’t be absurd.”

The sinews in the man’s neck tightened, but he said nothing.

Gurney went on. “I came here to talk about a potentially huge misunderstanding of a huge murder case. Do you really want to reduce this to a pissing contest over a hypothetical bureaucratic violation?”

Holdenfield raised her right hand in the traditional traffic-cop “Stop” gesture. “Could I make a suggestion here? Could we take this down a notch? We’re here to discuss facts, evidence, reasonable interpretations. The emotional component is getting in the way. Maybe we could just—”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Trout with a tight smile. “I think we should let Mr. Gurney—Dave—have his say, put everything on the table. If there’s a problem with our interpretation of the evidence, let’s get to the bottom of it. Dave? I’m sure you have more to tell us. Please go ahead.”

Trout’s eagerness to get him to incriminate himself with a prosecutable admission of receiving stolen files was so transparent that Gurney came close to laughing in the man’s face.

Trout added, “Maybe for the past ten years I’ve been too close to all of this. You’re coming at it with fresh eyes. Tell me, what am I missing?”

“How about the fact that you’ve built a very big hypothesis on very few data points?”

“That’s what the art of constructing an investigative premise is all about.”

“It’s also what schizophrenic delusions are all about.”

“Dave …” Holdenfield’s cautionary hand rose from her lap.

“Sorry. My concern is that the case study that’s become enshrined in the annals of contemporary psych is just a giant circle dance. The manifesto, the details of the shootings, the offender profile, media mythmaking, popular imagination, and academic theorizing have all been contributing to the story—shaping it, polishing it, turning it into unassailable truth. Problem is, there’s nothing solid to support this unassailable truth.”

“Except, of course,” said Holdenfield sharply, “the first two items you mentioned, which are very solid indeed—the manifesto and the details of the shootings.”

“But suppose the details and the manifesto were specifically designed to reflect and reinforce each other? Suppose the killer is twice as smart as anyone thinks he is? Suppose he’s been laughing his ass off at Agent Trout’s team for the past ten years?”

Trout’s eyes hardened. “You mentioned that you’d read the profile?”

Gurney grinned. “Which sounds to you like more proof of illegal access to precious files? Actually, that’s not what I said. I referred to the profile, but I didn’t say I’d read it. Let me just speculate for a minute. I bet the profile tries to explain how the killer is both efficient and inefficient, stable and crazy, atheistic and biblical. How am I doing?”

Trout sighed impatiently. “No comment.”

“The problem is, you accepted the killer’s manifesto as a legitimate expression of his thinking—because it confirmed your own thinking. It validated the ideas you were already forming about the case. It never occurred to you that the manifesto was a charade, that you were being played for fools. The Good Shepherd was telling you your conclusions were right. So of course you believed him.”

Trout shook his head in a bad imitation of sad resignation. “I’m afraid we’re on different planets here. I’d have thought from your background that we’d be on the same side.”

“Nice thought. Bit out of touch with reality.”

The head shaking continued. “The FBI goal with the Good Shepherd case—as it is with every case, and as it should be with every honest law-enforcement officer on every case—is to discover the truth. If we shared the integrity of our profession, then we’d be on the same side.”

“You believe that?”

“It’s the foundation of everything we do.”

“Look, Trout, I’ve been around as long as you have, maybe longer. You’re talking to a cop, not the goddamn Rotary Club. Sure, the goal is to discover the truth—except when another goal gets in the way. In most cases we don’t get to the truth. What we get to, if we’re lucky, is a satisfactory conclusion. We get to a credible way of characterizing something. We get to a way of convicting someone. You know damn well that the real-world structure of police agencies doesn’t reward the pursuit of truth and justice. It rewards satisfactory conclusions. The goal in the heart of an individual cop may be to get to the truth. But the goal he’s rewarded for is clearing the case. Hand the DA’s office a perp to prosecute, preferably with a coherent narrative of fact and motive, best of all with a signed confession—that’s the real game.”

Trout rolled his eyes and looked at his watch.

“The point is,” said Gurney, leaning forward, “you had a coherent narrative. In a way you had a signed confession—the manifesto. Of course, the fly in the ointment was the elusiveness of the perp. But what the hell. You came up with your offender profile. You had his detailed statement of intent. You had six murders that were consistent with what you and your Behavioral Analysis Unit knew about the Good Shepherd. Solid work, logical conclusions. Coherent, professional, defensible.”

“What, precisely, is your problem with that?”

“Unless you have evidence you haven’t revealed, everything you think you know is based on fiction. I’m hoping, by the way, that I’m wrong. Tell me you’ve got stuff in your files that nobody knows about.”

“You’re not making sense, Gurney. And I’m out of time. So if you don’t mind—”

“Ask yourself two questions, Trout. First, what other theory of the case might you have developed if you’d never received the manifesto? Second, what if every word of that precious document is bullshit?”

“Interesting questions, I’m sure. Let me ask you one before you leave.” The steepled hands returned to his chin. It was a professorial pose. “Considering your lack of any official standing or any basis for being involved in this in any way … where does all this hostile theorizing take you, other than into a world of trouble?”

Perhaps it was the threat in Trout’s gaze. Or the smirk on Daker’s lips as he leaned against the doorpost. Or the nettling reminder of his own lack of a badge. Whatever the root of the impulse, it pushed Gurney to say something he hadn’t planned to say.

“It may force me to accept an offer I hadn’t considered seriously until now. An opportunity at RAM News. They want to build a program segment around me.”

“Around you?”

“Yes. Or my image. Using my arrest statistics.”

Trout glanced curiously at Daker, who shrugged but said nothing.

“They seem to be overly impressed by the fact that I had the highest homicide-clearing rate in the history of the department.”

Trout’s mouth opened, but he closed it again without speaking.

“They want me to review famous unsolved cases and offer my opinion on where I think the investigations went off the tracks. Starting with the Good Shepherd case. They plan to call the series In the Absence of Justice. Catchy, eh?”

Trout examined his steepled fingers for a long minute, concluding with another sad shake of his head. “Everything keeps bringing me back to the problem of leaked documents, unauthorized access, transmission of confidential information, violations of regulations, violations of federal and state laws. Endless unpleasant complications.”

“Small price to pay. After all, as you said before, the main thing is justice. Or was it truth? Something like that, right?”

Trout gave him a cold stare and repeated with slow emphasis, “Endless … unpleasant … complications.” His gaze traveled to the mounted wildcats on the mantel. “Not such a small price. Not something I’d want to be in your shoes for. Especially not right now. Not on top of having to deal with that arson business.”

“Excuse me?”

“I heard about your barn.”

“How does that relate to what we’re talking about?”

“Just another kind of pressure in your life, that’s all. Another complication.” He made a show of consulting his watch again. “We’re definitely out of time.” He stood up.

So did Gurney. So did Holdenfield.

Trout’s mouth widened into an empty smile. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, Mr. Gurney. Daker will get you back to your car.” He turned to Holdenfield. “Can you stay for a few minutes? I have a few items I need to discuss with you.”

“Certainly.” She stepped between Trout and Gurney and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again. Someday you’ll have to tell me more about your barn problem. First I’ve heard of it.”

When he took her hand, he felt a folded piece of paper being pressed against his palm. He accepted it, keeping it out of sight.

Daker was watching him but showed no sign of noticing the transfer. He pointed at the front door. “Time to go.”

Gurney didn’t take the paper out of his pocket until he was in his car, the engine was running, and Daker had disappeared back up the trail in the Kawasaki.

Unfolded, it was barely two inches across. There was one sentence on it: “Wait for me in Branville at the Eagle’s Nest.”

He’d never been to the Eagle’s Nest. He’d heard it was a new restaurant, part of Branville’s struggling renaissance from rural slum to quaint hamlet. It was convenient enough, located on a route he’d be taking anyway.


The main street of Branville was at the bottom of a valley next to a picturesque stream that provided the place with its sole source of charm, as well as occasional ruinous floods. The county road that connected Branville with the interstate made a long, winding descent from a line of hills and teed into the main street just a block from the Eagle’s Nest. Although it was close to noon when Gurney walked in, only one of its dozen tables was occupied. He sat at a table for two by a bay window looking out on the street and ordered—a rarity for him—a Bloody Mary. He was still surprised by his choice when the server delivered it a few minutes later.

It was a generous drink, in a tall glass. It tasted exactly the way he expected it would. It brought a pleasant smile to his lips—another rarity in recent months. He savored it slowly, finishing it at 12:15.

At 12:16 Rebecca walked in. She sat down immediately. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” The way she smiled emphasized the taut contours of her mouth. Everything about her was controlled and alert.

“Just got here a few minutes ago.”

She glanced around the room with that cool assessment with which she always greeted her surroundings. “What are you drinking?”

“Bloody Mary.”

“Perfect.” She turned and waved to the young female server.

When the girl arrived with a pair of menus, Holdenfield gave her a skeptical look. “Are you old enough to be serving drinks?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she announced, sounding baffled by the question and depressed by the number.

“That old?” said Holdenfield with unappreciated irony. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary.” She pointed at Gurney’s glass with a question mark in her eyes.

“No more for me.”

The server departed.

Holdenfield, as usual, didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “How come you were so aggressive with our FBI friends? And what was all that stuff about sniper goggles, the disposing of the guns, problems with the profile?”

“Just trying to nudge him off balance.”

“Nudge? More like an elbow in the face.”

“I’m a little frustrated.”

“And where do you think your frustration is coming from?”

“I’m getting sick of explaining it.”

“Humor me.”

“You’re all treating the manifesto like holy writ. It’s not. It’s a pose. Actions speak louder than words. The actions of this killer were super-rational, steady as a rock. The planning was patient and pragmatic. The manifesto is another matter altogether. It’s a work of fiction, an effort to create a persona and a set of motivations that you and your buddies in the Behavioral Analysis Unit could analyze and regurgitate into that sophomoric profile.”

“Look, David—”

“Just a second, I’m still ‘humoring’ you. The fiction took on a life of its own. There was something in it for everyone. Endless articles in the American Journal of Theoretical Bullshit. And now no one can back down. You’re all desperate to shore up the house of cards. If it collapses, careers collapse with it.”

“Finished?”

“You asked me to explain my frustration.”

She leaned toward him and spoke softly. “David, I don’t think I’m the one who’s ‘desperate’ here.” She paused and sat back up straight as the server arrived with her Bloody Mary. When the young woman retreated to the back of the room, she continued. “I’ve worked with you before. You were always the calmest, most reasonable person in the room. The Dave Gurney I remember wouldn’t have threatened a senior FBI agent this morning. He wouldn’t be claiming that my professional opinions are bullshit. Accusing me of dishonesty and stupidity. It makes me wonder what’s really going on in your head. To be perfectly honest with you, this new Dave Gurney worries me.”

“Is that so? You think the bullet that creased my brain knocked out a few logic circuits?”

“All I’m saying is that your thought process is being driven by a bigger emotional component than it used to be. Do you disagree with that?”

“What I disagree with is your effort to make my thought process the issue when the real problem is that you and your colleagues attached your names and reputations to a crock of shit that allowed a mass murderer to escape.”

“That’s colorful, David. You know who else speaks about the case in colorful terms? Max Clinter.”

“Is that supposed to be a devastating criticism?”

She sipped her drink. “Just popped into my mind. Free association. So many similarities. Both of you seriously injured, both incapacitated for at least a month, both intensely distrustful of others, both with your official police days behind you, both obsessed with proving that the accepted view of the Good Shepherd case is wrong, both natural-born hunters who hate being marginalized.” She took another sip. “Have you ever been evaluated for PTSD?”

He stared at her. The question took him by surprise, although it shouldn’t have, not after her comparing him to Clinter. “Is that what you’re doing here? Checking off diagnostic boxes? Did you and Trout discuss my emotional stability?”

She returned the stare. “I’ve never felt this kind of hostility from you before.”

“Let me ask you something. Why did you want to meet me here?”

She blinked, looked down at the table, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Our phone conversation the other day? It was very disturbing. Frankly, I’m concerned about you.” She picked up her Bloody Mary and drank down more than half of it.

When their eyes met again, she spoke in a softened voice. “Being shot is a shock. Our minds keep reliving that moment, the threat, the impact. Our natural reactions are fear and anger. Most men would rather be angry than afraid. They find it easier to express anger. I think the discovery of your own vulnerability, the fact that you’re not perfect, not superman … has made you absolutely furious. And the slowness of your recovery is stoking that fury.”

Was this earnest psychologist as authentic as she sounded at that moment? Was she offering him her honest and caring opinion? Did she actually give a damn? Or was this another step in an increasingly ugly effort to make him question himself rather than the case theory?

Searching for the answer, he looked into her eyes.

Her intelligent gaze was steady, unblinking.

He started to feel the fury she had mentioned. It was time to get the hell out of there before he said something he’d regret.





Prologue





It had taken time to get the wording right, more time than he’d expected. There had been so much going on, so much to manage. But he was finally satisfied. The message finally said everything it needed to say:

Greed spreads in a family like septic blood in bathwater. It infects everyone it touches. Therefore the wives and children you hold up as objects of sorrow and pity shall also be cut down. The children of greed are evil, and evil are those whom they embrace. Therefore they, too, shall be cut down. Whomsoever you hold up for the fools of the world to console, they all shall be cut down, whether related by blood or by marriage to the children of greed.

To consume the product of greed is to consume its stain. The fruit leaves its mark. The beneficiaries of greed bear the guilt of greed, and they must bear its punishment. They will die in the spotlight of your praise. Your praise shall be their undoing. Your pity is a poison. Your sympathy condemns them to death.

Can you not see the truth? Have you gone blind?

The world has gone mad. Greed masquerades as laudable ambition. Wealth pretends to be proof of talent and worth. The channels of communication have fallen into the hands of monsters. The worst of the worst are exalted.

With devils in pulpits and angels ignored, it falls to the honest to punish what the mad world rewards.

These are the true and final words of the Good Shepherd.

He printed two copies to be sent by overnight mail. One to Corazon, one to Gurney. Then he carried the printer out in back of the house and smashed it with a brick. He gathered the pieces, even shards of plastic as small as fingernail clippings, and put them in a garbage bag, along with the remaining printer paper, to be buried in the woods.

An investment in caution was always wise.