by John Verdon
The items fell into two main categories. Devices that purportedly enabled the user to observe and record anything that anyone did or said, just about anywhere. And devices designed to defeat all the capabilities of the first category. The underlying sales pitch seemed to be, “Spy on everyone. Be spied on by no one.”
The perfect industry for a paranoid world.
He failed to find anything that looked like the little black gadget with the eight minuscule lenses—if that’s what they were.
He examined it again. There seemed to be no way of opening it. He could detect no battery warmth in it. The number etched on the side offered no clue. It did, however, prompt him to try a long shot. He entered the serial number in his Internet search engine.
It produced one result, a website with the obscure address, “www.a1z2b3y4c5x.net.”
He went to the site and found nothing there but an otherwise blank page with four data-entry boxes asking for a current ID, previous ID, current password, and previous password.
In a way, it was a dead end. But the wall of security it presented was noteworthy. At the very least, it was a reinforcement of Robin Wigg’s warning. And Gilbert Fenton’s warning. Not to mention the scribbled warning that arrived in the package.
Thinking of Wigg prompted him to get his phone, take photos of the device from several angles, and email them to her along with the serial number and website URL.
He received a reply less than two minutes later: “Pics inadequate. Site locked. Send item.” He was pleased by her interest but saw no timely way to comply with her request.
“How long have you been up?” Madeleine’s voice startled him.
He turned and saw her standing by the bathroom door in her tee shirt and pajama bottoms.
“Maybe an hour or so?”
“We’re due at the Hammonds at eight.”
She went into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. She stayed well away from the tub and went straight to the shower stall in the far corner.
Her willingness to use the room at all struck him as a positive sign.
While she was showering, he began thinking about the breakfast they’d be having with Richard and Jane, and how, despite his misgivings about the visit, he might make use of it. There were questions he could ask, reactions he could assess. He could bring up the theory of the four deaths being a form of revenge for a long-ago tragedy. A tragedy involving the disappearance of a gay teenager. It would be interesting to see what Richard had to say about that.
THE WIND GUSTING OVER THE SNOW-COVERED ROAD HAD ONLY partly obscured the tire tracks of the pickup truck that had traveled the same way earlier. Gurney’s curiosity was intensified when he saw that the tracks turned off the road toward Richard’s chalet and curved around the back of it. The vehicle that made those tracks must still be there. He was tempted to investigate on the spot but changed his mind when he saw how cold Madeleine looked.
Jane, as usual, welcomed them at the front door with an anxious smile. After they hung up their jackets, she led them into the big cathedral-ceilinged living area. “I had the chef at the lodge prepare a few different breakfast items for us—scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, oatmeal, mixed fruits. He delivered it all himself. The kitchen helper and housemaid stayed home in Bearston today, with the terrible weather, and he’s leaving for home himself before it gets any worse. I asked him to put everything downstairs in the rec room, at your friend’s suggestion.”
“Excuse me?”
A familiar voice intervened. “I said you’d understand, because you’re an understanding guy.”
Jack Hardwick, grinning brightly, got up from the chair by the hearth. “Actually,” he said, glancing significantly at the lamp with the bloodstone finial that Gurney had told him housed one of the bugs, “I thought you might prefer to be downstairs. Closer to the furnace. Feels warmer.”
Jane added, “Richard was taking a quick shower. Let me see if he’s ready.”
As soon as she left the room, Hardwick lowered his voice. “With both of us here, maybe we can double our progress.”
“You’re not worried about Fenton finding out you’re here?”
“I’m done worrying about Fenton. As soon as we get to the truth of this case, his ship sinks. And if he tries to swim, I’ll piss in his face.”
“Assuming our truth is different from his truth.”
“It has to be—”
He was interrupted by Jane calling to them from a doorway on the far side of the stone hearth. “Richard’s on his way. Let’s go downstairs before the breakfast things get cold.”
Once Jane was again out of sight, Madeleine turned to Hardwick. She spoke softly, calmly. “Richard Hammond isn’t guilty of anything.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You look pale. You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with Richard.”
“Are you sick?”
“Maybe.”
Hardwick seemed bewildered by her. He paused. “What makes you say that about Hammond?”
“I just know.”
He looked at Gurney, as if seeking a translation.
THE SO-CALLED “REC ROOM” WAS A BIG SQUARE SPACE. THERE WAS an exercise area with a weight machine and a pair of treadmills; a media area with plush seats in front of a wide screen; a conversation area with a couch and armchairs; and an eating area with a sideboard, a dining table, and half a dozen Windsor chairs.
Richard and Jane were sitting across the table from Dave and Madeleine, and Jack was sitting at the end. They’d all gotten what they wanted from the sideboard and had briefly discussed the weather and the dreadful blizzard to come. It quickly became apparent that no one really wanted to talk about it, and the group fell into an edgy silence.
Finally, with her throat sounding painfully raw, Jane spoke up. “I was wondering . . . with all you’ve been looking into . . . if you might possibly have some good news for us?”
“We do have some ‘news,’” said Gurney. “We’ve discovered that the four deaths may be related to the disappearance of a teenage boy in upstate New York thirteen years ago.”
Richard appeared curious, Jane puzzled.
Gurney recounted the story of the tragic summer at Camp Brightwater—in all the detail provided by Moe Blumberg and Kimberly Fallon.
At the mention of Scott Fallon’s almost-certain death, Jane’s hand went to her heart. “How awful!”
Richard’s expression was hard to read. “You’re saying that Wenzel, Balzac, and Pardosa were all at Brightwater that summer?”
“It looks that way.”
“So what’s the connection to Ethan?”
“We’re thinking he may have been there as well.”
“You must be joking.”
“Why is that?”
“Ethan spent his summers from age twelve to twenty-one in Switzerland. Then, when his mother died and he inherited the Wolf Lake estate, he worked here day and night, fifty-two weeks a year, turning the lodge into the going concern it is today.”
“What was he doing in Switzerland?”
“Equestrian school, French and German language schools, trap shooting, fly fishing, et cetera. Opportunities to mingle with other young people of good breeding. The notion that Ethan Gall would have been sent to a blue-collar camp in the Catskills is ludicrous.” Hammond paused, his faint smile fading. “Wait a second, your question about Brightwater—were you thinking that Ethan could have been involved with those other three in something that rotten, that despicable?”
“It was a possibility I had to consider.”
Richard looked accusingly at Hardwick. “You too?”
“My own experience is that any kind of person can be the kind of person you never thought they could be.” There was something cold and assessing in Hardwick’s eyes.
“I agree, theoretically. But the idea that he could be part of a band of gay-bashing bullies is just so . . . so . . .” His voice trailed off, and he began
again. “A couple of years ago, around the time Ethan persuaded me to come to Wolf Lake, he was about to give away everything, all his assets. He intended to transfer ownership of everything to the Gall New Life Foundation in the form of an irrevocable trust—with only a modest annual income from the investment proceeds to continue for himself and Peyton during their lifetimes.”
Hardwick reacted with a raised eyebrow.
Gurney smiled encouragingly. “That sounds very generous.”
“That’s my point. That’s who Ethan was. A wealthy man with no love of wealth, except for what good it could accomplish in the world.”
Hardwick barked out a loud cough. “You said he was ‘about to’ do that. Which means he didn’t actually do it, right?”
“Austen persuaded him that he could do more good if he retained control of the assets.”
Gurney stepped in again. “What sort of ‘good’ are we talking about?”
“If everything went into an irrevocable trust for the foundation, Ethan would lose what little power he had over Peyton’s behavior.”
“He couldn’t threaten to disinherit him if there was nothing left to be inherited?”
“Exactly. And Austen’s final point, the one that really tipped the scales with Ethan, was that the foundation’s primary support shouldn’t come from the generosity of its founder. It should come from the contributions of the successful ‘graduates’ of its rehabilitation program. Austen made a strong case for the ‘giving back’ concept.”
“Why was Austen involved?” asked Gurney.
“Austen was involved because money was involved. Of course, Ethan made his own decision. But he always respected Austen’s input.”
Jane was twisting her napkin. “The three young men you say were at that camp together . . . and came up to see Richard? Were you able to find out anything else about them?”
“Odd things. All three despised gay men. And at least one was informed that you were gay—before he made his appointment to see you. It’s possible all three had the same information—since they all got calls from the same cell number before coming here.”
Hammond and Jane looked at each other, perplexed.
Jane voiced the obvious question. “Why would someone like that want to see Richard?”
“There’s evidence that all three experienced dramatic financial improvements in their lives right around the time of their sessions with Richard.”
Hammond looked baffled. “Are you implying someone paid them to meet with me?”
Gurney shrugged. “I’m just telling you what we discovered.”
Hardwick gave Hammond an assessing look. “Suppose you learned the identity of three shit-bags who’d beaten a boy to death for the crime of being gay. Suppose you had no doubt about their guilt. But the proof, because of some technicality, would not be allowed in court; so you believed they would escape punishment. What would you do?”
Hammond gazed sadly at Hardwick. “You may have intended that as a trick question. But it’s a very painful question.”
“And the answer is . . .?”
“Nothing. I wouldn’t do anything. I’d want to kill them, but I wouldn’t be able to.”
“Why not?”
Tears welled in Hammond’s extraordinary blue-green eyes. “I simply wouldn’t have the courage.”
A silence enveloped the table.
Hardwick nodded thoughtfully, as if the answer made sense to him, as if he now trusted Hammond a little more than he had before.
Gurney felt the same way. He felt that Hammond was probably innocent.
If he wasn’t innocent, he was just about the best liar on earth.
CHAPTER 46
Half an hour later, sitting in the Outback in front of the chalet with Madeleine and Hardwick, Gurney pointedly emphasized the need for objectivity.
Hardwick agreed. “I got the impression he was being straight with us. Your gut telling you anything different?”
“My gut is delivering pretty much the same message as yours,” said Gurney. “But my brain is telling me my gut shouldn’t be the final authority.”
Gurney reached into the glove box and took out the small cylindrical device that had arrived in the package on the balcony. He explained his near-certainty that it had been one of two pieces of electronic equipment installed over the bathroom in their suite. He concluded by asking Hardwick if he’d ever seen anything like it.
Hardwick switched on the dome light and studied the device. “Never. You send a photo of it to Wigg?”
“I did. But the thing is, she wants to see the object itself.”
Hardwick grimaced. “You suggesting I should hand-deliver it?”
“It’s just a quick run down to Albany.”
Hardwick put it in his jacket pocket. “Goddamn pain in the ass. You realize this contradicts your request that I hang close by?”
“Your not being here makes me nervous. But not knowing what that thing is makes me more nervous.”
“Better not turn out to be a fucking flashlight.”
“By the way, that pickup truck in back of the chalet is yours, right?”
“Actually belongs to Esti Moreno, love of my life.”
“She’s still living with you?”
“You doubt my ability to maintain a stable relationship?”
“Yes.”
“I gave her a list of all the key players we know of. She’s digging up whatever she can. In fact, she’s the one who dug up Steckle’s drug-dealing background. She lent me her truck. Hate to leave the GTO at home, but my favorite machine is shit in the snow. Forecast says a ton of that’s on the way. Which reminds me of Moe Blumberg.”
“Excuse me?”
“The timing. Shouldn’t we be worried that a man with a Brightwater background, who probably knows more than he’s telling us, just happens to be leaving the country?”
“I hadn’t thought to worry about that; but now that you mention it, I probably will.”
“And how about the dead kid’s mother? When you think about possible motives, wouldn’t she have the strongest one of all—to kill the fuckheads who killed her son?”
“From a pure motive point of view, I guess we can keep her in the picture. Problem is, she’d have a credible motive to kill the three who were at Brightwater. But why kill Ethan? And why now? Why not thirteen years ago?”
“That question would apply not just to Kimberly Fallon but to anyone who wanted to get even. The more I think about the old saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ the less credible it seems as a practical reason to put something off that long. Which makes the revenge motive pretty damn doubtful.”
“I don’t disagree, Jack. But if revenge has nothing to do with it, then what’s the Brightwater connection all about?”
“Fucked if I know. Too many questions in this case. And I’ll give you one more. How come Ethan’s dream description, which he wrote in the form of a letter, was never mailed?”
“Maybe he intended to deliver it personally to whoever asked him for it.”
“You mean, like to some therapist he was secretly seeing in Plattsburgh?”
“Or to Richard—a possibility we seem to be minimizing.”
“This conversation is nothing but question marks. If I’m going to get to Albany and back before everything is snowed in, I better leave. I’ll let the Hammonds know I’m going.”
“Stay in touch.”
Hardwick nodded, got out of the car, and headed into the chalet. Gurney pulled out onto the lake road.
WHEN THEY ARRIVED BACK AT THE LODGE, THE GRANDFATHER clock in the reception area was striking the final note of 10:00 AM. There was a deep stillness about the place, an empty feeling. They headed up the stairs. Madeleine’s arms were hugging her body tightly. “What are you going to do about the bathroom?”
“There’s not a lot to be done.”
“You said there was an opening by the light.”
“Just a narrow gap between the fixture medallion and
the ceiling.”
“Can you close it up?”
It was the first thing he did after they went into the suite. All he had to do was nudge the medallion a quarter inch sideways, which he did with a few sharp taps with the handle of his toothbrush.
When he came out of the bathroom he found Madeleine at one of the windows, gazing out toward Devil’s Fang. The angle of the light against her cheek was making the tic more noticeable. She was still wearing her jacket and gloves.
“Could you do me a favor and type an email for me to my sister? I don’t want to take my gloves off. My fingers are aching with the cold as it is.”
“No problem. I’ll use my laptop. I hate using the screen keyboard on your tablet.”
When he was ready, she dictated the message while still facing the window.
It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. For that I apologize. This may seem a strange way to begin, after so long a silence, but I have a huge request. I need you to look back to the time when I was a teenager—when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. What do you remember about me in those years? What kind of person was I? Were you worried about me? What did I seem to want from you, from Mom and Dad, from my friends . . . from boys? Do you remember what made me angry? Or happy? Or sad? I need to know these things. Please think about them. Please tell me as much as you can. I need to know who I was back then.
She took a deep breath and let out a slow sigh. She wiped her face—seemed to be wiping away tears—with her still-gloved hands.
He felt helpless. After a few moments he asked, “Is there a particular way you want me to sign this for you?”
“No. Just save it, and I’ll take care of it before I send it. I had to get those questions written down while they were clear in my mind.” She finally turned away from the window. “I’m going to take a hot shower to get the chill out of my bones.”
She went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and turned on the shower taps. She went to the corner of the room farthest from the tub and began taking off her clothes.
He saved the email to her sister and put his laptop to sleep.
He remembered that he’d gotten a call from Rebecca, the call he’d chosen not to take the previous evening in the middle of his conversation with Madeleine. He decided to listen to it now.