Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 32



The Multiplier





As Gurney rounded the first bend in the road, the body shop came into view. He slowed as he passed it, noting the sign on the concrete-block building: LAKESIDE COLLISION. He was still convinced it was the perfect place to park a car inconspicuously.

Halfway to Walnut Crossing, he passed a billboard for Verizon Cellular, and it reminded him that he’d switched off his phone when he sat down at the kitchen table with Bullard. He switched it back on to check for messages. The screen said there were seven. Before he had a chance to listen to any of them, a new call came in.

Gurney pressed TALK.

The caller was Kyle, and he sounded agitated. “We’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Kim is really freaked out. She’s been trying to get you. She’s already left three messages for you.”

“Is it about Ruth Blum?”

“Mainly that. But also The Orphans of Murder thing last night on TV. She hated how they put it together, what they cut and what they added, especially those two jerks. She’s really upset.”

“Where is she?”

“In the bathroom, crying. Again. Wait, no. I hear the door opening. Hold on.”

Gurney heard Kim asking Kyle who he was talking to, Kyle’s voice saying, “My dad.” Kim sniffling in the background, blowing her nose. The sound of the phone being handed from one to the other. Muffled voices. More nose blowing, throat clearing.

Finally she was speaking to him. “Dave?”

“I’m here.”

“This is a nightmare. I can’t believe it’s happening. I want to go to sleep and wake up again and discover that none of it is real.”

“I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened to Ruth.”

“Of course I am!”

“You’re not responsible for—”

Kim interrupted, her voice rising. “She wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t talked her into doing this stupid program!”

“You’re not responsible for her death, and you’re not responsible for what RAM News did with your interview, or what they put in, or how they—”

“They cut my interview in half and surrounded it with all that pompous nonsense from their so-called experts.” She made the word sound like someone spitting. “Oh, God, I just want to disappear. I want to erase everything. Erase everything that killed Ruthie.”

“A murderer killed her.”

“But it wouldn’t have happened if—”

“Listen to me, Kim. A murderer killed Ruth Blum. A murderer with his own agenda. Probably the same murderer who killed her husband ten years ago.”

She didn’t say anything. He could hear her breathing. Slow, shaky breaths. When she finally spoke, her near hysteria had declined into plain misery. “It’s what Larry Sterne kept telling me—it all turned out to be true. He said RAM would twist everything and make it cheap and ugly and awful. He said they’d be better at using me than I’d be at using them, that all they cared about was getting the largest possible audience, that the price of my project would outweigh its rewards. And he was right. Totally right.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Do? I want to get as far away from RAM as I can. I want out.”

“Have you told Rudy Getz?”

“Yes.” There was something uncertain in her voice.

“Yes … but?”

“I called him this morning—before I got your message about Ruth. I told him how disappointed I was, that the program was nothing like what we’d talked about.”

“And?”

“I told him if that’s the way it was going to be, then I didn’t want to do it.”

“And?”

“He said that he wanted me to meet with him, it wasn’t something we could resolve on the phone, we had to talk about it face-to-face.”

“You agreed to meet with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him again, after you found out about Ruth’s murder?”

“Yes. He said that made it even more important for us to get together. He said the murder was a multiplier.”

“A what?”

“A multiplier. He said that it raised the stakes, that we had to talk about it.”

“It raised the stakes?”

“That’s what he said.”

“When are you getting together?”

“At noon on Wednesday. At his place in Ashokan Heights.”

Gurney had the impression she was leaving something out. “And?”

There was a pause. “Oh, God … I hate to ask you this. I feel like such a naïve, helpless little idiot.”

Gurney waited, pretty sure he knew what was coming.

“My vision of what this was going to be like … my assumptions … the way I thought … What I’m trying to say is … my thinking about all of this is obviously not very sound. I need … I need the support, the input of a clearer mind. I have no right to ask you this, but … please …?”

“You want me to come to your Wednesday meeting with Getz?”

“Very much so. Would you? Could you?”