Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 33



Getting the Message





At the sign on Franklin Mountain welcoming him back into Delaware County, Gurney left the afternoon sun behind him and descended into a clouded valley. Weather in the mountains seemed to change hourly.

During the remainder of his drive home, he had to keep switching his wipers on and off. He hated driving in the rain—heavy rain, light rain, drizzle, anything gray and wet. Grayness and wetness tended to fertilize his worries.

He became aware of a soreness in his jaw muscles. He’d been clenching his teeth—a side effect of the tension and anger propelling his thoughts.

PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Three unnerving words. If Holdenfield was right, if his thinking was damaged …

What was it Kim said she needed from him? The input of a clearer mind than hers? He let out a sharp little laugh. Clarity was not currently his strong point.

The thought of their phone conversation reminded him of the seven messages in his voice mail he hadn’t listened to. He was just turning up the mountain lane to his farmhouse, telling himself he’d listen to the messages as soon as he got there. But, afraid of forgetting again, he decided to pull over and go through them.

The first three were from Kim—increasingly stressed requests for him to call her.

The fourth was from Kim’s mother, Connie Clarke.

“David! What on earth is going on? All this crazy stuff on the news today? About Ruth what’s-her-name getting killed after Kim’s interview? And the talking heads all screaming that the Good Shepherd is back? Jeez! Give me a call, let me know what’s going on. I just got a totally hysterical message from Kim—that she wants to quit, back out of the show, throw it all away. Completely out of control. I don’t understand any of this. I called her back, couldn’t get through, left a message, but I haven’t heard back. I assume that you’re in touch with her? That you know what the hell is happening? I mean, that was the whole idea, right? For Christ’s sake, call me!”

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. He definitely didn’t feel like spending half an hour on the phone with her, filling her in on all the chaos, all the unanswered questions, just because her daughter wasn’t returning her calls.

The fifth message had no ID beyond WIRELESS CALLER. But there was no mistaking the manic intensity of Max Clinter’s voice.

“Mr. Gurney, so sorry you couldn’t pick up. I was looking forward to some give-and-take. So much has happened since last we talked. The Shepherd would appear to be among us once again. Little Corazon brought him back to life. Heard your name invoked on that vile Orphans thing on TV. Ram-shit. But from what was said, it sounded like you had ideas. Ideas of your own. Maybe not unlike mine. Want to share and share alike? Win or lose, time to choose. The finale isn’t far off now. This time I’ll be ready. Final question: Is David Gurney friend or foe?”

Dave listened to that one three times. He still wasn’t sure whether Clinter was a nutcase or just found it a comfortable role to play. Holdenfield had insisted that he was a mentally disturbed pain in the ass. But Gurney wasn’t quite ready to discount the man who had talked himself into that little room in Buffalo and left five armed mobsters dead on the floor.

He looked at his dashboard clock. It was a minute past four. The mist had stopped, at least temporarily. He pulled back onto the gravel-and-dirt lane and headed up the mountain.

When he got to the little parking area by their side door, he saw that the light was on in the upstairs room that Madeleine sometimes used for her knitting and crocheting. She’d gone back to using it only in the last month or two. It had been the site of a threatening intrusion into the house during the course of the Perry investigation the previous September—the investigation that ended with Gurney being shot.

The thought of it brought his hand to the numb spot on his forearm, checking automatically for any change in feeling—a habit that the busyness of the past week had derailed. It would be nice to keep it derailed. He got out of the car and went into the house.

Madeleine wasn’t knitting after all. He could hear her playing her guitar.

“I’m home!” he called out.

“I’ll be down soon,” came the voice from the second floor.

He listened as she played through a few more bars of something pleasantly melodic, ending in a loud resolving chord.

After a few seconds of silence she called down to him, “Listen to number three on the machine.”

Jesus. Not another disturbing message. He’d had more than his fill for the day. He hoped this one would be innocuous. He went into the den to the old landline phone, pressed the button to get to number three, and listened.

“I hope I’m reaching the right Detective Gurney. I’m really sorry if I’ve got the wrong one. The Detective Gurney I’m looking for has been f*cking a whore by the name of Kim Corazon. He’s a pathetic, disgusting old fool who’s at least twice the whore’s age. If you’re the wrong Detective Gurney, maybe you could pass along a question to the right one. Ask him if he knows that his son is f*cking the same whore. Like father, like son. Maybe Rudy Getz could turn it into a RAM reality show—Gurney Family Gang Bang. Have a nice day, Detective.”

It was the voice of Robby Meese, all pretense of smoothness stripped away, the vocal equivalent of a serrated knife.

As he was replaying the message, Madeleine appeared at the den door, her expression unreadable. “Do you know who that is?” she asked.

“Kim’s ex.”

She nodded grimly, as though the idea had already occurred to her. “He seems to know there’s some sort of relationship between Kim and Kyle. How would he know that?”

“Maybe he saw them together.”

“Where?”

“Maybe in Syracuse?”

“How would he know Kyle was your son?”

“If he’s the one who bugged her apartment, he’d know a lot.”

She folded her arms tightly. “Do you think he might have followed them back here?”

“Possibly.”

“So he could also have followed them yesterday to Kyle’s apartment?”

“Tailing someone in city traffic isn’t as simple as it sounds, especially for someone not used to driving in Manhattan. It’s too easy to get separated with all the stoplights.”

“He sounds motivated.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he sounds like he really hates you.”