Wolf Lake

by John Verdon

  “I’m not sure. He has a hard edge, which he doesn’t try to hide. I need to spend more time with him, maybe ask why he dropped the drug-dealer bit off the resume he shared with me.” Gurney checked his phone. “I think I’m about to lose my cell signal, so let me mention a few more issues you might want to look into.”

  “Pile the shit on, boss. I live to serve.”

  “Couple of things I’m curious about. These three dead guys who came to Hammond for stop-smoking hypnotherapy—did it work? In that week or so after they went home and before they ended up with sliced wrists, had they stopped smoking or not?”

  “You suggesting I drive around Jersey, Queens, and Florida looking for folks who may have checked the dead guys’ ashtrays?”

  “You worked your magic in the hunt for Angela. I have infinite confidence in you.”

  “That makes everything so much better.”

  “Speaking of Angela, maybe we should think twice about making a surprise visit. If you’ve actually found her, the last thing we want to do is spook her. If she runs you might not find her again, and she’s the closest thing we’ve got to an eyewitness.”

  “Okay, what’s the alternative?”

  “Hang back a little. Give her options. Let her feel in control of the situation.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “You could leave an envelope addressed to her in her brother’s mailbox. Include a note explaining who we are, that we have a client who doesn’t believe the official suicide theory of Steven’s death, that it would be very helpful to us in discovering what really happened—and thus ensuring her own safety—if we could meet with her, or just speak with her, whichever she’s comfortable with. Include our cell numbers, our landline numbers, our email addresses, our home addresses. Very important, that last one. The home address thing makes us seem not only reachable on her terms but, in a way, vulnerable. Emphasize that how and when she chooses to get in touch with us—and how much she wants to tell us—is all up to her.”

  Hardwick was silent for several long seconds. “Sounds like overkill—all those numbers and contact options.”

  “It’s overkill with a purpose. Give someone a bunch of open doors, they feel like they’re making a real choice. They may not notice that all the doors lead to the same room.”

  “Or the same chute into the shitter.”

  “That’s another way of looking at it.”

  More silence, followed by Hardwick’s grunt of agreement. “I’ll do it your way. But remember, if it goes south, I piss all over you. Any other requests?”

  “I’d very much like to know who in BCI brass approved Fenton’s press strategy. Had to be someone high up. It’s so far out of the conservative box those guys live in, Fenton would need to have his ass covered. Sooner or later, I’d like to know why it was approved—but to begin with I’d be happy knowing the who part. And find out what you can about a guy by the name of Norris Landon. Country gentleman type. Partridge hunter, et cetera. Spent a lot of time at Wolf Lake Lodge over the past couple of years.”

  “Like Hammond.”

  “Exactly. Be nice to know if there’s a connection.” Gurney paused. “And one more question in case you find yourself with time on your hands. The big one: What benefit would Hammond get from inducing the deaths of those four people?”

  Hardwick was silent so long Gurney thought they’d lost their cell connection. “Jack?”

  “I’m thinking about the benefit.”

  “And?”

  “I’m thinking that if some fucker could really do that . . . if he could concoct and implant a fatal nightmare in another person . . . then he might do it . . . just to prove he could do it.”

  “For the feeling of power?”

  “Yeah. For the feeling of absolute godlike power.”

  CHAPTER 21

  By the time Gurney reached the state route that wound down out of the mountains toward Plattsburgh, the sun was up and the color of the sky was shifting from pinkish gray to pure blue.

  He was organizing the various conundrums of the case in the order in which he imagined they’d need to be explored and solved. This mental process so thoroughly absorbed him that forty minutes later he nearly drove past the sign for the Cold Brook Inn.

  At the front desk a pudgy woman with a welcoming innkeeper’s smile answered his inquiry about the location of the dining room with a graceful sweep of her hand in the direction of an open archway at the side of the reception area.

  “Black-current scones with clotted cream today,” she said in a lowered voice, as though sharing a valuable confidence.

  He spotted Rebecca at a table next to a window overlooking Lake Champlain. Next to her coffee cup was a laptop on which she was typing rapidly. Her auburn hair had that look of casual beauty that comes from good genes and good taste. Good genes had also given her a sharp, linear intellect—a quality he found dangerously attractive.

  She flipped the laptop shut and smiled a bright, businesslike smile. The warm, sculpted appearance of her lips looked like it had been enhanced with a subtle lipstick, but he knew from interested observation on past occasions that she never wore makeup.

  “You’re right on time.” Her voice was on the low side of the female register.

  He nodded at the computer. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Nothing important. Just dashing off a scathing review of an article on the survival value of guilt. The research design was flawed, the conclusions inconclusive, and the interpretation pathetic.” Her eyes flashed with the competitive spark that made her such a formidable presence in her field. “So you’re working on an incredible case. Everything you’ve told me about it is nuts. Sit down and tell me more.”

  He sat across from her, her contagious energy making him feel like he’d had three cups of coffee. “Not a lot more to tell. I met a local lunatic, connected with the lodge, eager to offer me a supernatural view of things.”

  “Like Dalton Gall’s wolf dream and its supposed fulfillment?”

  “Did I tell you about that?”

  “Found it in an online historical blog—‘Strange Tales of the Mountains’—popped up in a ‘Gall’ Internet search. It’s the kind of story stupid people love. Even some smart people.”

  “Speaking of wolf dreams—”

  “What do I think about Wenzel’s, as narrated by Cox?” She uttered a derisive little laugh. “A candy store for a Freudian analyst. But I’m not a Freudian analyst. Dreams are useless vehicles for getting to the truth about anything. Dreams are the dust kicked up by the brain as it catalogs the experiences of the day.”

  “Then why—”

  “Why do dreams seem like narrative scenes in weird movies? Because in addition to being a cataloger the brain is a coherence seeker. It’s always trying to connect the dots, even when the dots have no natural connection. The brain takes those random dust specks it’s stirring up with its right hand, and tries to arrange them in order with its left hand. That’s why ‘dream interpretation’ is total nonsense. You might as well throw a handful of goulash at the wall and pretend it’s a map of Hungary.”

  A young waitress arrived at their table. “Can I get you folks some breakfast?”

  “Oatmeal, coffee, whole wheat toast,” said Rebecca.

  “Same,” said Gurney.

  The waitress jotted a few words on her order pad and hurried off.

  Rebecca continued. “Dreams are as random as raindrops. So, you ask, how could four people have the same one? The answer is, I have no idea. Everything I know tells me it’s impossible.”

  When their breakfasts arrived they ate briefly in silence. At one point, they held each other’s gaze long enough that if they’d held it any longer it would have taken on an inescapable significance. Gurney broke the mood with a question.

  “You told me on the phone that some of Hammond’s work was ‘on the cutting edge’—something about his using hypnotherapy to form new neural pathways, changing people’s behavior in
radical ways?”

  “I don’t honestly know that much about it. But I’ve seen the abstracts of technical papers he’s published recently that suggest he’s exploring areas of behavior modification that are beyond the generally accepted limits of hypnotherapy. It struck me that he wasn’t being completely open about his latest achievements.”

  “That’s interesting. Look, I know how busy you are, but—”

  She grinned unexpectedly. “If you want to get something done, ask a busy person.”

  “It’s a huge favor, actually. Could you take a closer look at Hammond’s published work and see if anything pops out at you?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything that might relate to the police theory of the four deaths. Anything that . . . Jesus, Rebecca, I don’t even know what questions to ask. I have no idea what’s new and scary in that field.”

  “I love a helpless man.” Her grin widened briefly, then disappeared. “There’s some potentially disturbing work being done these days in the area of manipulating memories, especially manipulating the emotional tags on certain memories.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that a person’s feelings about past events can be changed by altering the neurochemical components of their stored emotions.”

  “Christ. That’s really—”

  “Weird-ass, brave-new-world stuff? I agree. But it’s happening. Of course, it’s positioned in the most positive therapeutic language you can imagine. Ideal way to cure PTSD panic, and so forth. Just separate the specific event from the feeling it generates.”

  Gurney was quiet for long while.

  Rebecca was watching him. “What are you thinking?”

  “If the emotional charge on the memory of a past event could be altered, could the same technique be used to change how a person might feel about a hypothetical future event?”

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  “I’m wondering whether someone who normally would be appalled by the idea of suicide . . . could be made more receptive to it.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Within the first few miles of Gurney’s drive back up into the Adirondack wilderness, the possibility of artificially altering something as basic as the value a person put on life itself began to seem unlikely, even absurd. On the other hand, it wasn’t any more unlikely or absurd than the so-called “facts” of the case.

  As he drove farther into the mountains, the excitement he’d felt in his meeting with Rebecca morphed into a kind of uneasiness, which he attributed in part to the overcast that was diluting the blue of the sky and hinting at the approach of another winter storm.

  When he arrived at the lodge, Austen Steckle was on the phone behind the reception counter. He ended his call quietly this time.

  “Good to see you back. There’s a storm warning in effect. Do you know where Mrs. Gurney went?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your wife—she took one of the lodge Jeeps we have for our guests. Said she planned to do some sightseeing.”

  “Sightseeing?”

  “Yeah. Lot of people do that. See the mountains. She left right after you.”

  “Did she say anything about any specific area? Ask you for any directions?”

  “Nope. Nothing like that.”

  Gurney checked his watch. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  Steckle shook his head. “She didn’t say much at all.”

  “Does the vehicle she took have a GPS?”

  “Of course. So there’s nothing to worry about, right?”

  “Right.” In fact, he felt he had all sorts of things to worry about. But he made an effort to fasten his attention on something he could actually do. Seeing Steckle standing there on front of him brought a possibility to mind.

  “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to finish the conversation we were having this morning.”

  Steckle glanced around quickly. “Okay.”

  They took the same seats in Steckle’s office on opposite sides of the pine-slab desk. “So. What’s on your mind?”

  Gurney smiled. “I’m confused. About the relationships here.”

  “What relationships?”

  “To start with, the relationship between Ethan and Peyton. I’ve been told there were problems between them. Can you tell me what kind of problems?”

  Steckle leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head thoughtfully. “The kind of problems you’d expect between a super-achiever and a wild-ass addict.”

  “Ethan didn’t approve of Peyton’s lifestyle?”

  “He sure as hell didn’t. Ethan threatened to disinherit him. Tough love.”

  “Ethan had control of the Gall fortune?”

  “Essentially, yeah. Ethan had a lock on the money. Their parents always saw him as the responsible one, so the bulk of the fortune went to him, with the understanding that he’d do the right thing by Peyton. And a little while back he figured the right thing would be to use the threat of disinheritance to get Peyton straight.”

  “Did he plan to go through with the threat?”

  “I think so. The thing is, he gave Peyton a taste of what could happen. In Ethan’s original will, the Gall New Life Foundation was supposed to get one third of the estate and Peyton two thirds. Then Ethan revised it, so Peyton would only get one third. He told him he’d change it back if he got off drugs for ninety days.”

  “How did Peyton react?”

  “He actually stayed clean for something like sixty, sixty-one days.”

  “Then he picked up drugs again?”

  “No. Then Ethan committed suicide, or whatever the hell you want to call it.”

  “While Peyton was still clean?”

  “Yeah. He did pick up the shit again, but that was like a few days after Ethan . . . after he ended up dead.”

  “So even though Peyton was staying clean, Ethan didn’t live long enough to change the will back in his favor?”

  “Life’s unfair, right?”

  “So who gets that other third? The foundation?”

  “I don’t think I have the right to tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “All I can say is I’d rather not disclose that information. It could be misinterpreted. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any wrong impression, you understand?”

  “But you do know for sure what was specified in the altered will?”

  “The Gall family has relied on me, and continues to rely on me, in many ways. Because of that trust, I know a lot. That’s all I can say.”

  Gurney thought it best not to pursue the point. There’d be other ways to get the information. In the meantime, he had more questions.

  “Wenzel, Balzac, Pardosa—how well do you remember them?”

  Steckle shrugged. “In what way?”

  “When you hear each name, what comes to mind?”

  “The face. The voice. Clothes. Things like that. What do you want to know?”

  “Had any of them been to the lodge before?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “That’s something I’d be aware of.”

  “How did they know about Richard Hammond?”

  “He’s famous, right? People know about him.”

  “Did they strike you as the kind of people who normally come to Wolf Lake Lodge?”

  “We get all kinds of people.”

  “Not many people of limited financial means visit thousand-dollar-a-day resorts.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Wenzel’s means were that limited.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read about him in the paper—you know, afterward—something about a million-dollar condo in Florida.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “Our guests’ private finances are none of my business. They could have money without looking like it. It’s not something I ask about.”

  “What if they can’t pay you?”

  “We run their credit cards when
they arrive. We make sure the full amount is approved. If not, they’re required to pay cash up front.”

  “Did Wenzel, Balzac, and Pardosa pay by cash or credit card?”

  “I have no memory of that kind of detail.”

  “Easy enough to check.”

  “Now?”

  “It could be very helpful.”

  Steckle appeared to be considering just how cooperative he wanted to be. He turned his chair around to face a computer on a second desk against the wall. After a minute or two he turned back to Gurney looking like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Wenzel paid with Amex. Balzac paid with a debit card. Pardosa paid cash.”

  “How unusual is it for someone to pay cash?”

  “Cash is unusual, but no big deal. I mean, some people don’t like plastic.”

  Or the trail it leaves, thought Gurney. “How long did they stay?”

  With noticeable impatience Steckle consulted his computer again. “Wenzel, two nights. Balzac, one night. Pardosa, one night.”

  “And Hammond’s stop-smoking treatment consisted of just one session?”

  “Right. An intensive three-hour session.” He pulled back his neatly pressed flannel cuff and frowned at his Rolex. “Are we done?”

  “Yes . . . unless you know of anything that happened here that could have resulted in those four deaths.”

  Steckle shook his head slowly and turned up his empty palms. “I wish I could be more helpful, but . . .” He fell silent, still shaking his head.

  “Actually, you’ve been very helpful.” Gurney stood up to leave. “One last thing. Kind of a crazy question. Did any of them make any negative remarks about homosexuals, or gay marriage, or anything like that?”

  Steckle looked bewildered and annoyed. “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “Just a crazy angle on the case. Probably doesn’t mean anything. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Gurney went upstairs, hoping to find a note from Madeleine explaining the nature of her sightseeing excursion—perhaps its route and when he could expect her back.

  There was no note.