“It could be Sarita,” Gaynor said. “She doesn’t own a cell phone. She uses other people’s phones.”
The phone continued to ring in Sturgess’s hand. “Maybe I should answer it, ask her if she’s where Kemper said she is.”
“I guess you could. . . .”
“A joke,” Sturgess said.
“I don’t see much very funny about this.”
Sturgess powered the phone off, tucked it into his own pocket. “We don’t want anyone doing any triangulating,” he said. “I’ll turn it back on later, far from here, then ditch it.”
“With the van?” Gaynor asked.
That had been why Sturgess needed someone else along. He couldn’t have done this alone. He needed another driver, so Kemper’s van wouldn’t be left sitting here and lead the police to his body.
“Whose property is this?” Gaynor asked. “Who’s Boone?”
“Patient of mine,” he said. “Taylor Boone. Rich old guy, got a nice house way up that lane, up top of a hill. Beautiful view.”
“How the hell do you know he’s not going to turn in that drive any second now?”
“I picked this spot because I know Taylor’s off in Europe right now, and because this is as good a place as any to get rid of him.”
Gaynor looked down at the dead man. “What the hell did you inject him with?”
“Are you writing a report?” Sturgess said. “It did the job. Come on; we have to get this done, then go find your nanny.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” he said. And then he was, violently.
“That’s great,” Sturgess said. “Litter the scene with your DNA. Cover that mess up with some dirt.”
“I don’t know if I can do this. I just don’t know.”
“You need me to remind you what we’d have been facing if everything came out? Disgrace would be the least of it. Jail time, more than likely. And now, well, we’d hardly get off with a slap on the wrist now, would we?”
“I’m not the one who gave him a fatal injection.”
“That’s right,” Sturgess said. “You’re an innocent bystander. Grab his legs.”
The doctor got Kemper under the arms. The man was heavy, and they couldn’t help dragging his butt across the forest floor. When they reached the hole, they heaved the body in. A shovel was sticking out of the dirt pile next to it.
“Okay, fill it in,” Sturgess said.
“You,” he said. “I told you, my hands are raw.”
Sturgess took two handkerchiefs from his suit jacket, wrapped them around his hands, and took a turn with the shovel.
“We can’t do this to Sarita,” said Gaynor.
“No one said we had to,” Sturgess said. “I’m sure we can talk some sense into her.”
“Like you tried with this guy?”
“He was blackmailing you. Some people can’t be reasoned with.”
“I can’t believe Sarita put him up to this. She’s a decent person.”
Sturgess stopped shoveling to catch his breath. “Really? And look at the shitstorm she’s brought down on you. On us.”
“We don’t know for sure it was her,” Gaynor said.
“Who else could it be? Who else could have known? More than once, when you and I were having a conversation at your house, I’d come out a door and there she was. She’s all ears, that woman. She’s a sneak.”
Sturgess shook his head tiredly, and tossed the shovel at Gaynor, who fumbled the catch. The tool landed in the dirt. Sturgess offered the two handkerchiefs.
“These’ll help.”
Gaynor wrapped them around his palms. “How does a guy like you become a doctor?”
“I help people,” he said. “I’ve always helped people. I helped you and Rosemary. I’ve dedicated my life to helping people.”
Gaynor continued to throw dirt onto Marshall Kemper. Once the body was fully covered, he patted down the earth with the back of the shovel. Sturgess walked across the grave, compressing the dirt.
“We need to pull some brush over this, too,” he said.
Both of them worked at that.
Gaynor suddenly stopped, raised his head, like a deer sensing an approaching hunter. “Wait, I think I heard something.”
Sturgess held his breath, listened. In the distance, the sound of a baby crying.
“It’s Matthew,” Gaynor said. “He must have woke up.”
They’d driven out here in Gaynor’s Audi. Since he still had no one to look after his son, he’d brought him along, and Sturgess didn’t have a child safety seat in the back of his Cadillac. The car was parked a hundred feet farther up the driveway, where it bore left and disappeared behind the trees.
“He’s probably hungry,” the father said.
Sturgess sighed. “Go—go look after your boy. Take the shovel, throw it in the trunk. I’ll catch up.”
It had crossed his mind earlier to take the shovel himself and hit Gaynor across the head with it. He could have tossed him into the grave along with Kemper. But then he’d have had the problem of how to get the Audi, and the van, away from here.
Not to mention the problem of what to do with the baby.