Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 50



Apocalypse





Gurney’s reflexive jerk away from the flash and the deafening blast would have sent his chair toppling over backward if it weren’t for the edge of the table. For a minute he couldn’t see anything, and all he could hear was the harsh, ringing echo of the gunshot.

He felt some wetness on the left side of his neck, a slight trickle. He put his hand to the side of his face, felt more wetness on his earlobe. As he moved his fingers higher, he discovered a searing, stinging spot at the very top of the ear—the source of the blood.

“Put your hands back on top of your head. Now.” The whispery voice seemed far away, lost in the reverberation in his ears.

But he did his best to comply.

“You hear me, yes?” said the distant, muffled voice.

“Yes,” said Gurney.

“Good. Listen carefully. I will ask you my question again. You must answer it. I am a good judge of what is true and what is not. If I hear truth, we go on, harmlessly. Just a nice conversation, you know? But if I hear a lie, I pull the trigger again. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“Each time I hear a lie, you lose something. Next time not just a little nick from your ear. You lose more important things. You understand?”

“I understand.” Gurney’s eyesight was starting to recover from the muzzle flash, and he could again make out a dim swath of moonlight across the middle of the room.

“Good. I want to know everything about this so-called mistake at Lakeside Collision. No riddles. Pure truth.” In the moonlight the silver-plated pistol barrel gradually descended until it was aligned with Gurney’s right ankle.

He gritted his teeth to keep from trembling at the thought of what a Desert Eagle slug would do to that joint. The immediate loss of his foot would be bad enough. But the arterial bleeding would be the real problem. And telling the truth or not, in response to this or any subsequent question, was not the lever that would control the outcome. The lever was the Good Shepherd’s sense of personal security. And that lever could now move in only one direction. Because there was no possible scenario in which Gurney alive could pose a lesser risk to the Good Shepherd than Gurney dead.

The only variable yet to be determined was how many body parts would be severed before he bled to death. Before he bled to death, alone, on the floor of Max Clinter’s cabin, in the middle of a swamp, in the middle of nowhere.

He closed his eyes and saw Madeleine on the hillside.

In fuchsia, violet, pink, blue, orange, scarlet … all shimmering in the sunlight.

He walked toward her, through grass that was as green as every living thing and smelled as sweet as heaven must smell.

She put her fingers lightly on his lips and smiled.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she said. “Absolutely brilliant.”

And a moment later he was dead.


Or so he thought.

Through his closed eyelids, he sensed a sudden illumination. It was accompanied by the sound of distant music rising through the ringing in his ears, and, above and through it all, the throbbing of a great drum.

And then he heard the voice.

The voice that brought him back to the cabin in the swamp in the middle of nowhere. A voice amplified mightily by a bullhorn.

“POLICE … NEW YORK STATE POLICE … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR … DO IT NOW … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR … THIS IS THE NEW YORK STATE POLICE … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR.”

Gurney opened his eyes. Instead of moonlight, a spotlight was shining in the window. He looked across the room at where his formidable, invisible captor had been standing ninja-like in the darkness. In his place was a man of average stature in brown slacks and a tan cardigan, with one hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare. It was hard for Gurney to associate this modest figure with the homicidal monster of his imagination. But in the man’s other hand was the undeniable link to the monster: a gleaming .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol. The pistol responsible for the blood still trickling down the side of Gurney’s neck, the acrid smell of gunpowder in the room, the ringing in his ears.

The gun that had come so close to ending his life.

The man turned a little away from the spotlight and calmly lowered the hand he’d been holding in front of his eyes, revealing an impassive, unlined face. It was a face without distinction, without strong emotions, without any particularly prominent feature. It was a balanced, ordinary face. A face that was essentially forgettable.

Yet Gurney knew he had seen it before.

When he was finally able to place it, when he could finally attach a name to it, his first reaction was to think he must be mistaken. He blinked several times, trying to wrap his mind around the identity of the man facing him. He was having a hard time uniting that inoffensive, quiet identity with the words and actions of the Good Shepherd. Especially one of those actions.

But as his certainty increased and he was sure there was no mistake, he could almost feel the puzzle pieces being jarred into new positions, shifting into more interesting relationships, clicking together.

Larry Sterne gazed back at him, his expression more thoughtful than fearful. Larry Sterne who had reminded him of Mister Rogers. Larry Sterne, the soft-spoken dentist. Larry Sterne, the serene dental-medical entrepreneur. Larry Sterne, the son of Ian Sterne, who’d built a multimillion-dollar beauty-bestowing empire.

Larry Sterne, the son of Ian Sterne, who’d invited a lovely young Russian pianist to share his Woodstock home. And almost certainly his bed. And, potentially, a place in his will.

Dear God, was that what this was all about?

Had Larry Sterne simply been securing his inheritance?

Protecting his financial future from his father’s unpredictable affections?

It was, of course, a substantial inheritance. An inheritance worth worrying about. A money machine, in fact. Not something one would want to lose.

Had the calm and gentle Larry been avoiding, through the simple expedient of killing his father, any risk of that money machine ending up in the hands of the lovely young Russian pianist? And then, by cluttering the landscape with five additional bodies, had he simply been avoiding any risk of the police asking what would have been their first question if Ian Sterne had been the only victim—the damning question that would have led them straight to Larry:

Cui bono?

In the weird combination of moonlight and shifting floodlights shining through the window, Gurney could see that Sterne’s grip on his gun was still firm and steady, but the man’s eyes were unmistakably focused on a world of diminishing options. It was hard to identify the emotion in those eyes. Was it terror? Rage? The fierce determination of the proverbial cornered rat? Or was it just that the icy calculator had gone into overdrive—giving the man’s racing mental processes a frantic appearance?

Gurney concluded that he was in the presence of an essentially heartless, mechanical process. The same heartless, mechanical process that had been responsible for … how many deaths?

How many deaths? That was the question that brought the White Mountain Strangler case into sudden focus. It fit the pattern—the pattern of a case in which one murder mattered, a murder hidden by others that didn’t matter at all—all tied together in a psycho-killer package with a white silk scarf. Gurney wondered, what had Larry’s girlfriend done to make her life an inconvenience to him? Perhaps she’d gotten pregnant? Or perhaps it wasn’t anything that serious. For a man like Larry—the White Mountain Strangler, the Good Shepherd—murder did not require a serious cause. It required only the prospect of producing a benefit greater than its cost.

The words of the RAM evangelist came back to Gurney with a chill: To extinguish life, to blow it away like a wisp of smoke, to trample it like a piece of dirt, that is the essence of evil.

Outside, out past the beaver pond, a pulsing siren was turned on for five seconds, then off. The previous bullhorn announcement was then repeated at full volume.

Gurney turned in his chair and peered out the front window. Powerful spotlights were illuminating the property from the far side of the causeway. He realized that the sound of the siren was what he must have heard earlier. In the intensity of his emotional confusion, with the pistol blast still ringing in his ears, it was the sound he’d taken for music. And then he’d heard what was no doubt the sound he’d imagined to be a great drumbeat—which he now recognized as the thumping rotor of a circling helicopter. A helicopter that was sweeping its airborne searchlight back and forth over the cabin, over the tangled swamp grass, over the stark tree trunks sticking up out of the black water.

Gurney turned to Sterne. He had two questions vying with each other at the top of his list of forty or fifty. The first was the most urgent.

“What are you going to do now, Larry?”

“Proceed as reasonably as possible.”

The answer, in all its rational tranquillity, couldn’t have sounded crazier.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Surrender. Play the game. Prevail.”

Gurney’s fear was that he was witnessing the calm before the storm—that the sweet light of reason and surrender was about to explode in a lunatic bloodbath.

“Prevail?”

“I always have. I always will.”

“But you do … intend to surrender?”

“Of course.” Sterne smiled, as though he were trying to soothe a kindergartner’s fear of getting on the bus. “What were you thinking? That I’d take you hostage, use you as a human shield to make my escape?”

“It’s been done.”

“Not by me, not with you.” He appeared genuinely amused. “Be realistic, Detective. What kind of shield would you make? From what I hear, your professional colleagues would be delighted to have an opportunity to shoot you. I’d be better off shielding myself with a sack of potatoes.”

Gurney was speechless at the man’s composure. Was he totally insane? “You’re pretty cheery for a guy whose case could end the state moratorium on executions. I hear that lethal injections aren’t very pleasant.” Even as he was saying this, frustrated by Sterne’s attitude, he realized how dangerous and inadvisable a comment it was.

Apparently he need not have worried. Sterne just shook his head. “Don’t be silly, Detective. Morons with third-rate lawyers have managed to put off their executions for twenty years or more. I can do better than that. Much better. I have money. A lot of money. I have connections both visible and invisible. Most important of all, I know how the legal system works. How it really works. And I have something of great value to offer that system. Something to trade, shall we say.” He was radiating a composure that fell somewhere between yogic peace and madness.

“What do you have?”

“Knowledge.”

“Of?”

“Certain unsolved cases.”

Outside, five seconds of a pulsing police siren preceded another bullhorn announcement. The wording had become more urgent. “THIS IS THE STATE POLICE … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS NOW … OPEN THE DOOR NOW … DO IT NOW … PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS IMMEDIATELY AND OPEN THE DOOR … OPEN THE DOOR NOW.”

“Unsolved cases … such as?”

“You were wondering a few minutes ago how many people I might have killed—how many more than you’ve already counted.”

The thudding roar of the helicopter was growing louder above the cabin, its searchlight brighter. Sterne seemed oblivious to it. His attention was entirely on Gurney, who in turn was trying to analyze and respond to the latest twist in what was becoming one of the most unsettling cases of his career.

“I don’t follow the logic, Larry. If they can hang the Good Shepherd murders on you—”

“Big if, by the way.”

“Okay, big if. But if they can, I don’t see how you get much leverage out of confessing to a couple more.”

Sterne smiled his transcendental smile. “I see what you’re doing. You’re ridiculing my offer to get me to show my hand. Silly little ploy. But that’s all right. No secrets among friends. Let me ask you a hypothetical question: How important would it be to a state police agency to clear—again, quite hypothetically—twenty or maybe thirty unsolved cases?”

Gurney was disheartened. Larry Sterne was either flat-out delusional or an impulsive liar with the kind of megalomania that told him he could make up anything and make people believe it.

Sterne seemed to sense Gurney’s skepticism. His reaction was to double down. “I’m thinking that there should be some leverage in putting thirty cases in the ‘solved’ file. Dramatically improving department statistics. Providing closure for the families. If thirty isn’t a big enough number, we might even be able to offer forty. Whatever it takes to make the kind of deal I have in mind.”

“What kind of deal would that be, Larry?”

“Nothing unreasonable. I think you’ll find me the most reasonable man you’ve ever met. No need to get into the specifics at this point. All I’m talking about is an imprisonment with certain fundamental amenities. A comfortable cell of my own. Basic conveniences. The relaxation of only the most unnecessary rules. I wouldn’t ask for anything that men of goodwill couldn’t easily negotiate.”

“And in return for that, you’d be willing to confess to twenty or thirty or forty unsolved murders? With full corroborative details on motive and method?”

“Hypothetically.”

The bullhorn announced, “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR. YOU MUST DO IT NOW.”

Gurney tried a wild swing from another direction. “Including the White Mountain Strangler case?”

“Hypothetically.”

“And the number of victims is as high as it is because the basic method was always the same—to kill five or six people each time, to obscure the motive for the one that mattered?”

“Hypothetically.”

“I see. But there’s a question I’d like to clear up—just to be sure I understand the risk calculation driving the MO. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that one well-planned murder would pose less chance of exposure than five or six?”

“The answer to that is no. However well planned one murder may be, it still focuses attention on that one victim and the consequences of that one death. There is no escape from the singularity of the event. However, the additional murders remove virtually all risk that the central murder will receive the focus it requires—and they create virtually no additional risk. Murderers are caught primarily because of their connections with their victims. If there are no connections … well, I’m sure you understand the concept.”

“And the cost—the lives ended—that never concerned you?”

Sterne said nothing. His bland smile said it all.

Gurney wondered how long it would take a tough state prison to wipe it off his face.

The smile widened, as Sterne again seemed to sense Gurney’s train of thought. “I’m actually looking forward to my interactions with the penal system and its population. I’m a positive thinker, Detective. I embrace the reality that’s been placed in front of me. A penitentiary is a new world to conquer. I have an ability to attract people who can be of use. You seem to have noted my success with Robby Meese. Think about that. Penal institutions are full of Robby Meeses—susceptible young men looking for a father figure, for someone who understands them, someone who’s on their side, who can channel their energies, their fears, their resentments. Think about it, Detective. With appropriate guidance, young men like that could become a kind of palace guard. It’s an exciting prospect, one I’ve had occasion to think about many times over the years. In short, I believe that prison life will be quite manageable. I might even become a bit of a celebrity. I have a feeling I may become the darling of the psychological community all over again—as they try to rehabilitate themselves with profound new insights into the true story of the Good Shepherd. And don’t forget the books. Authorized and unauthorized biographies. RAM specials. And you know something? I may end up a lot better off than you in the long run. You’ve earned yourself more enemies on the outside than I’ll have on the inside. Not such a great victory for you, when you think about it. I can pay people to watch my back. People who are very good at that sort of thing. But how about your back? If I were you, I’d be concerned.”

“PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR NOW.”

Gurney stared across the room at the plain little man in the tan cardigan. “Tell me something, Larry. Do you have any regrets at all?”

He looked surprised. “Of course not. Everything I did makes perfect sense.”

“Including Lila?”

“Pardon?”

“Including killing your wife, Lila?”

“What about it?”

“That made perfect sense, too?”

“Of course. Or I wouldn’t have done it—hypothetically speaking. Actually, we had more of a business arrangement than a traditional marriage. Lila was a sexual athlete of high refinement. But that’s another story.” He produced a small, speculative smile. “Might make an exciting film.”

He walked past Gurney to the front door, opened it, and tossed the big pistol out onto the grass.

“OPEN YOUR HANDS … RAISE THEM ABOVE YOUR HEAD … WALK FORWARD SLOWLY.”

Sterne raised his hands and stepped out of the cabin. As he walked toward the causeway path, the helicopter searchlight fastened on him. A vehicle at the far end of the causeway—with headlights, fog lights, and two spotlights all on—began to move forward.

That was odd. In conditions like this, you’d want to maintain your position and let the perp come to you. To a preselected spot where you and your backup team could most safely control the situation.

Speaking of which, where the hell was the backup team? In the chopper hovering over the cabin? No team leader in his right mind would handle it that way.

There were a number of spotlights set up out there, but no other headlights. No trooper cruisers. Christ, if there was one, there ought to be a dozen.

Gurney picked up his Beretta off the table and watched from the window.

It was hard to see much of the vehicle creeping forward on the causeway, with all its lights pointing straight ahead. But one thing was evident: The position of the headlights made it too wide to be a cruiser. The NYSP did have a variety of SUVs—but the thing on the causeway was too wide to be any of them.

It was, however, just wide enough to be Clinter’s Humvee.

Meaning that the chopper overhead wasn’t NYSP either.

What the f*ck?

Sterne was out on the causeway now, hands still raised, about twenty feet from the approaching vehicle.

Gurney stepped out of the cabin, holding the Beretta in his jacket pocket, and looked up. Despite the downward glare of the chopper’s searchlight, he easily recognized the giant RAM logo on its belly.

The searchlight swept along the causeway, first illuminating Sterne, then the vehicle in front of him—which did in fact appear to be Clinter’s Humvee. There was something mounted on the hood. Maybe some kind of weapon? The chopper’s light swept out over the water, back over the cabin, and back toward the causeway.

What the hell was going on out there? What was Clinter up to?

The answer came with a hideous shock. From the contraption on the hood, a stream of fire shot forward, instantly engulfing Sterne from head to foot in a billowing orange blaze. The man began reeling, shrieking. The helicopter made a steep pivot, coming down closer, but the rotor downdraft intensified the swirling flames, and the craft swung away, rising steeply.

Gurney sprinted from the cabin out onto the causeway path. But by the time he got close to Sterne, the man had already crumpled to the ground, blessedly unconscious, engulfed in a fire raging with the blinding heat of homemade napalm.

When Gurney looked up from the burning body, Max Clinter was standing next to the open door of the Humvee in his camouflage uniform and snakeskin boots. His lips were drawn back and his teeth bared. He was holding a machine gun of the sort Gurney had seen only in old war movies, and then only set on a supporting base. It appeared too large, too heavy, for a man to carry, but Clinter seemed unaware of its weight as he took several long strides away from the Humvee and raised the huge gun’s muzzle toward the sky.

The angle of the weapon and the insane ferocity in Clinter’s eyes created a momentary impression that the man was about to assault the moon itself. But then the muzzle moved steadily toward the RAM helicopter, whose roaring downdraft was turning the placid surface of the pond into a mass of vibrating ripples.

As soon as Gurney realized Clinter’s objective, he screamed, “Max! No!”

But Clinter was beyond reach, beyond listening, beyond stopping. He set his feet wide apart and, shouting something Gurney could not decipher in the din, began to fire.

At first the stream of bullets seemed to have no effect. Then the helicopter lurched sideways and started to descend in small, swooping arcs. Max kept firing. Gurney was trying to get to him, but the blaze spreading out from Sterne’s body was blocking the way. The heat and the stench of burning flesh were horrendous.

Then, with an abrupt shudder, the helicopter pitched ninety degrees over onto its side, exploded into flames, and smashed down onto the causeway behind the Humvee. There was a second explosion and then a third, as Clinter’s vehicle was enveloped in the conflagration. Clinter seemed not to notice that he had been caught in a spray of burning fuel.

Gurney jumped into the pond to get around Sterne’s body, lurching through the waist-high water with the bottom slime sucking at his feet. By the time he’d scrambled back up onto the causeway, half crawling, half stumbling toward Clinter, the man’s clothes and hair were in flames. Still gripping the machine gun, Clinter began to run wildly in the direction of the cabin, the air from his rapid movement feeding the fire that was consuming him. Gurney propelled himself forward, trying to drive him off the path and into the pond, but they fell together on the ground just short of the water’s edge with the huge gun between them, spraying bullets out into the night.