Wolf Lake

by John Verdon

  “A secure position . . .” She repeated the words as though she were trying to absorb a measure of confidence from them. She nodded, gazing over at Landon’s rifle—frozen to the ground and now barely visible through the swirling snow. “Do you think he might have some other guns in his room?”

  “There’s a good chance he does. I ought to get hold of them for our own defense—and to keep Tarr or anyone else from getting them.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “It seems pretty likely that Tarr killed Landon and Steckle, but we don’t know that for sure. There’s always Peyton, or someone working for Peyton. These two new murders aren’t making much sense to me yet.”

  CHAPTER 58

  In addition to locating and retrieving any other guns Landon may have brought to the lodge, Gurney was hoping he might find among the man’s things some clue to the reason for his death—and possibly for Steckle’s death as well.

  The timing of the murders suggested that the killer may have had access to the transmissions of one of the audio bugs and was aware not only of what Steckle had admitted to, but of Gurney’s temporary absence from the suite. That made Gurney wonder if they’d been grossly underestimating Tarr all along.

  To his surprise, Madeleine insisted on remaining in their new room while he conducted the search of Landon’s possessions.

  Before going down the hall, he made a final security check of their windows and balcony. Two differences from the suite—positive differences, under the circumstances—were that the balcony door in this room was solid wood with no glass panel, and the windows were significantly smaller. Breaking in here would be a lot more difficult.

  He checked the Beretta to confirm there was a round in the chamber and that the magazine was filled to its fifteen-round capacity. He considered putting the pistol down in his ankle holster, then decided to keep it in his jacket pocket—a bit closer to hand.

  He picked up the large Maglite and the master room key and stepped out into the dark corridor. He waited until he heard Madeleine double-lock the door behind him, then proceeded to Landon’s room.

  He tried the door. It was locked, as he expected it would be. He inserted the key, turned it, and the door opened.

  He stepped inside and swept his flashlight beam around the space, which appeared to be a smaller version of the suite, similar to the room they were now occupying. The same kinds of furnishings were arranged in the same way. He saw a kerosene lamp at each end of the fireplace mantle. There was a propane igniter on the log rack, and he used it to light the lamps.

  On the coffee table between the couch and the hearth there were three laptops, three smartphones, a scanner, and a locked metal file box—unusual equipment for a vacationing hunter.

  He explored the bedroom alcove. The bed was neatly made. There was a closet full of expensive-looking sports clothes. Behind the hanging shirts and jackets was a portable walnut gun cabinet with a combination lock. The overall impression was very refined, very upscale.

  Except for the smell.

  It was faint but repulsive.

  Like sour sweat. With a hint of decay.

  Mindful of his reason for being there, he removed the gun cabinet from the closet and brought it out into the main room. He laid it on the floor and got an iron poker from the hearth. As he was about to pry the lock off, one of the laptops on the coffee table caught his eye. A small pulsing light indicated it hadn’t been shut down, only closed and put to sleep.

  He lifted the lid. The screen lit up. There were twenty or so folders as well as dozens of document icons—mostly photo and video files.

  Before clicking on any of them, he opened the other two laptops and pressed their power buttons. After a few seconds each displayed a screen asking for an ID and a password. Within a few seconds of his failure to enter anything, both screens went blank and both computers shut down completely. He was unable to restart them.

  That level of security was interesting, to say the least.

  He went back to the first laptop. He wondered if it was more accessible than the other two because its files didn’t matter, or because Landon had left the room in such a hurry he’d neglected to shut it down properly. Hoping it was the latter reason, he began opening the photo files.

  The first nine were aerial images of rural roads. Examining the images closely, he saw that there was a common factor among them. The presence of his Outback.

  The next half dozen showed the Outback in various locations at Wolf Lake: emerging from under the lodge portico, on the lake road going toward the chalet, parked at the chalet, returning from the chalet.

  As he was about to go to the next image, the date on one of the other folders caught his eye. It was that very day. He opened the folder and in it was one audio file. He opened it and clicked on the “Play” icon. He immediately recognized his own voice and Steckle’s—the confrontation they’d had in the suite. Steckle’s self-incriminating statements. His Brightwater admissions. His history with Wenzel, Pardosa, and Balzac. All bugged and recorded by Landon.

  Gurney went back to the remaining icons on the screen and began opening them. There were three aerial videos he could see were taken at Grayson Lake: he and Madeleine emerging from the Outback, then standing in front of a tumbledown house, then standing by the lake itself.

  Next was an aerial video that appeared to have been taken from the perspective of a rapidly moving, swooping camera—a video of Madeleine, turning, running, terrified out on the middle of Wolf Lake. Plus a quick passing shot of himself, Beretta pointing at the camera.

  Lastly, there was a folder containing a series of Photoshopped images of a young man with a crooked smile and a scar through one eyebrow, wearing a leather jacket. The series started with an image that might have appeared in a school yearbook and, step by digital step, ended with an image that looked very much like a bloated corpse.

  Gurney’s jaw muscles tightened as he gazed in quiet anger at this final proof.

  Proof that it was Norris Landon who was responsible for the sophisticated surveillance. Proof that it was Norris Landon who had inflicted all that pain on Madeleine. He wished that the man could be brought back to life—so he could have the pleasure of killing him.

  So he could wield that fatal hatchet himself.

  Then, when his visceral reaction to what Landon had done subsided sufficiently for him to think clearly, a more complicated thought process took over. He began to wonder about Landon’s overall role in the affair.

  What was his relationship with the other players? With Steckle? With Fenton? With Hammond? With the four dead men?

  What, ultimately, was the game that involved them all?

  And then a more immediate question intruded into Gurney’s consciousness: What the hell was that odor?

  Its source was proving elusive. It seemed to be everywhere. He checked the closet, the drawers in the bureau, the bed, the chairs, the couch, the end tables, the wet bar, the bathroom, the shower stall—even the floors, the walls, the windows.

  He looked under the bed, under the armchairs, under the couch, under the coffee table, under the throw rugs. Unable to locate the source, he focused on trying to identify the smell itself. It was acrid, faintly rotten . . . and slightly familiar. Like an elusive word or name, it was more likely to come to him once he stopped chasing it. To change his focus, he sat on the couch in front of Landon’s laptops and once again went through the accessible photo and video files.

  They only confirmed Gurney’s growing certainty that Landon was a representative of the anonymous “national security” interests that Fenton and Wigg had alluded to. If so, then he may well have been the force endorsing Fenton’s view of the case and promoting the importance of securing a confession from Hammond.

  It reminded Gurney of the New York Times story about the CIA leaker, Sylvan Marschalk, and his claim that a clandestine group at the agency was researching ways of inducing suicide through hypnosis. Marschalk’s nasty demise within days of making his al
legations gave them a disturbing credibility.

  Other bits of information began stirring in Gurney’s memory. The fact that Richard had been at Wolf Lake Lodge for two years, and that Landon had been making visits to the lodge for the same two years. The fact that Richard had written papers that pushed the boundaries of hypnotic technique. The fact of his expertise in the fatal psychology of voodoo. Jane’s mention that Richard had been approached several times by research entities whose structure and goals were less than transparent.

  Those little dots were certainly not conclusive individually, but they could be connected in a way that suggested Richard’s expertise had for some time been on the radar screen of a clandestine group not unlike the one Sylvan Marschalk had tried to expose. Landon would fit into that scenario as their undercover representative on the scene, the man whose original purpose would have been to monitor Richard’s “cutting edge” progress in hypnotherapy and ultimately to draw him into their orbit.

  As Gurney sat there on Landon’s couch, his mind racing through the possibilities, he began to see how the case elements arose from two wholly separate interests. Steckle’s interest in the Gall fortune. And the government’s interest in Richard Hammond.

  Those interests might never have intersected—if only Austen Steckle hadn’t made it seem that Hammond was responsible for four suicides, and if only Norris Landon had been less eager to believe it.

  Gurney was confident that he understood what Steckle had done, and why. The man had been remarkably clever and successful, up to a point. What he couldn’t have anticipated, however, was the intense interest the “fatal nightmare” aspect of the case would attract in that shadowy corner of the government represented by Landon. And how that interest would influence the investigation.

  Something else occurred to him there on the couch with the coffee table and laptops in front of him. The room’s unpleasant odor seemed to be the strongest in that very area.

  He stood up and removed the cushions. As he was examining them individually, he heard something behind him that sounded like a drop of water striking a hard surface. He turned toward the fireplace.

  When he was about to attribute it to his imagination, he heard it again.

  He stepped over to the hearth, aiming his flashlight into the big sooty firebox, then down at the iron grate designed to support the logs. There was a dark shiny spot on one of the dusty bars in the grate. As he bent over for a better look, another drop descended onto that same spot.

  He assumed the chimney was leaking. A bit of melting ice, perhaps.

  But when he moved the flashlight closer to the dark spot for a final check, he discovered that the liquid on the grate was actually dark red. He touched it lightly with his forefinger.

  It had the unmistakable stickiness of blood.

  He lowered himself to his knees, and, with gritted teeth, pointed the beam of the Maglite up into the flue.

  It was hard to tell what he looking at. It appeared to be something with matted hair. In the midst of the hair there was an irregular splotch of wet blood.

  The first chilling thought that came to mind was that he was looking at the top of a human head—which would mean that someone’s head or, improbably, their entire body had been jammed upside down into the chimney.

  That seemed impossible.

  As he leaned in for a closer examination, the odor became more repellant.

  Reluctantly he lay down on the hearthstone in front of the firebox for the best viewing angle and aimed the flashlight directly up at the hairy, bloody thing.

  It was plainly larger than a human head. Perhaps it was an animal. If so, it was a large one. The matted hair was gray.

  Could it be a gray timber wolf?

  Wolves had been circling around the case from the beginning.

  He retrieved a pair of tongs from the iron stand by the log rack and used them to get a solid grip on the object.

  When he pulled down sharply, it came loose, dropping down into the firebox and seeming for a moment to be alive and expanding. Gurney recoiled, then realized what he was staring at was a rolled-up pile of rough winter clothing—a stained fur hat, a dirty canvas coat, battered leather boots. With the help of the tongs he dragged the fur hat from the ashy firebox out onto the floor. The back half of the hat was saturated with half-congealed blood.

  Next he pulled out the canvas coat and the boots.

  It didn’t take long for him to conclude that these were the garments worn by Barlow Tarr.

  So why the hell were they hidden in Norris Landon’s fireplace?

  And where was Tarr?

  Had he been killed, too?

  The amount of blood on the hat would make it more than a possibility.

  But who could have killed him?

  Gurney recalled his own comment to Madeleine: I think Tarr found Landon before Landon found Tarr.

  But suppose it was the other way around.

  Suppose that bloody scene by the generator wasn’t what it appeared to be.

  As the new scenario dawned on Gurney, bringing with it a surge of fear for Madeleine’s safety, there was a small sound behind him—the tiniest squeaking of a hinge. Gurney stood quickly, turning toward the suite door.

  Half in the darkness of the corridor, half in the low amber light cast by the kerosene lamps, the face of Norris Landon was just barely discernible.

  The man took a step forward into the doorway. He had a sleek small-caliber pistol in his hand with a miniature suppressor, an up-close assassin’s gun—light, quiet, easily concealable. His gaze moved slowly from Gurney to the open laptop on the coffee table, then to the bloodied coyote-pelt hat on the floor, then back to Gurney.

  His eyes were full of cold hatred.

  Gurney met his gaze. He said nothing. He needed to get a clearer sense of the moment before deciding on the best approach to save his life.

  Landon spoke. “In an ideal world, I’d have you prosecuted for treason.”

  “For solving four murders and saving an innocent man?”

  “Hell, Gurney, you have no idea what problems you’re causing—the wreckage I’m trying to fix. You have no idea what’s at stake. You’re worse than that lunatic, Tarr.”

  “The lunatic who gave me your projector?”

  Landon paused, giving Gurney a long appraising look. “People like Tarr are sand in the gears. It’s people like you that create real problems.”

  Gurney picked that moment to cast a split-second glance down at his right ankle, then blinked a few times as if in an effort to hide the movement of his eyes. He wanted to convey the impression of a man thinking about a gun in his ankle holster.

  The Beretta was at that moment in Gurney’s jacket pocket, a fact he didn’t want Landon to suspect. He hoped the slight downward glance had been seen as something not intended to be seen. It was a subtle game.

  “What do you mean, people like me?”

  “People wearing blinders,” said Landon. “People who refuse to see the reality of the world we live in.”

  Echoes of Fenton, thought Gurney. Or Fenton echoing Landon.

  “It’s a war, Gurney, the largest and deadliest war of all time. Our enemy is determined, obsessed, driven by the hope of destroying us. We need every advantage we can lay our hands on.”

  “Like TIS?” As Gurney spoke, he moved his right ankle ever so slightly forward. He saw the movement register in Landon’s eyes just before he blinked at the mention of the acronym for the CIA’s suicide-research program.

  Landon raised his pistol, pointing it at the center of Gurney’s chest. “Sit down.”

  “Where?”

  “On the floor. Facing me. Next to the coffee table. Keep your hands above your waist. Well above your waist. I hate firing a gun in an enclosed space. It leaves a ringing in my ears.”

  Gurney complied.

  “Now extend your legs straight out in front of you.”

  Again Gurney complied. The movement revealed the bottom half inch of the ankle holster
. He expected Landon to approach him to remove the gun he would believe was there. Instead, Landon told him to drag the heavy coffee table across his extended legs and place his hands on top of the table. He did so, discovering that the position was an effective way of making it impossible for him to reach the holster.

  Landon looked pleased, then adopted a quizzical expression. “What were those initials you mentioned?”

  “TIS. Trance-induced suicide. The program Sylvan Marschalk leaked to the press. The leak that got him assassinated.”

  “That druggie traitor a hero of yours?”

  “Never met the man.”

  “But you think his death was a great loss to the world? Let me set you straight. When a little shit like Sylvan Marschalk imperils a program that could save thousands of American lives, he forfeits his own. There’s no right under God or the Constitution to recklessly weaken our defenses in a time of war. Let me make this perfectly clear. We are at war.”

  “And Barlow Tarr was the enemy?”

  “Tarr was a distraction.”

  “And my wife? Is she the enemy?”

  “You and your wife chose to support the wrong side.”

  “You mean we were delaying Richard Hammond’s confession?”

  “You were getting between your country and an individual who was a potential strategic asset. You were warned. More than once.”

  “I assume Hammond was identified as a potential strategic asset because you believed he could induce suicide, a technique you and your friends would kill for.”

  Landon said nothing. His expression was distant and emotionless.

  “So when you heard that someone hypnotized by Hammond later complained about nightmares that made him want to kill himself, and then he actually did kill himself—and when that happened not once but four times—you assumed the TIS problem had been solved. Now, if only you could get Hammond to explain how he’d done it. You didn’t give a damn about getting him to confess that he’d done it. It was all about getting him to confess how he’d done it. Too bad he had nothing to confess. Too bad you were wrong. Too bad you have to clean up the mess. You wouldn’t want anyone back at the agency to find out what a godawful error you’d made—that you’d mistaken Steckle’s con job for the real thing.”