Peter Pan Must Die

by John Verdon

  “We’ll come with you!”

  “Bullshit! You both need to get out of here—in the opposite direction—now! You get caught up in this, get questioned by the local cops—worse, by BCI—it’ll be an endless mess. Take care. Got to go!”

  “Jack!”

  Hardwick ran out the front door. A few seconds later they heard the roar of the big GTO V8, wheels spinning, bits of gravel sprayed against the side of the house. Gurney grabbed the remaining flashlight from the table, hurried out onto the porch, saw the car’s taillights speeding away around a curve in the narrow dirt road that wound down the long wooded hillside to Route 10.

  “He shouldn’t go alone.” Esti’s voice next to him was strained and ragged. “We should follow him, call it in.”

  She was right. But so was Hardwick.

  “Jack’s no fool. I’ve seen him in tougher situations than this. He’ll be all right.” Gurney’s assurance sounded hollow.

  “He shouldn’t be chasing that maniac by himself!”

  “He can make the backup call. It’s up to him. As long as we’re not there, he can shape the story any way he wants. If we’re there, it’s out of his hands. And your career is over.”

  “Jesus. Jesus! I hate this!” She walked in a tight, frustrated circle. “So now what? We just leave? Just drive away? Go home?”

  “Yes. You first. Right now.”

  She stared at Gurney in the flashlight’s shifting illumination. “Okay. Okay. But this is fucked up. Completely fucked up.”

  “I agree. But we need to preserve Jack’s options. Is there anything of yours in the house?”

  She blinked several times, seemingly trying to focus on the question. “My tote bag, my shoulder bag … I think that’s it.”

  “Okay. Whatever you have in there—get it, and get out of here.”

  He handed her the flashlight and waited outside while she went into the house.

  Two minutes later she was depositing her bags in the passenger seat of the Mini Cooper.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Oneonta.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Sure. You too.” She got in her car, backed out, turned down the dirt road, and was gone.

  He switched off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, listening. He could detect no sound, no breeze, no hint of movement anywhere. He stood there for a long minute, waiting to hear something, waiting to see something. Everything seemed unnaturally still.

  Flashlight in one hand and SIG in the other, safety off, he made a 360-degree sweep of the land around him. He saw nothing alarming, nothing out of place. He pointed the beam up at the side of the house, swept it back and forth until he found a severed wire emerging from an electrical fitting by a second-floor window and, about ten feet away, a second wire emerging from a different kind of fitting by another window. He swept the light away from the house toward the road until he located the utility pole and the two loose wires he’d expected to find there, dangling down onto the ground.

  He walked closer to the house, below the two severed wire ends. On the clapboards behind each, he could see a small dark hole a few inches from each fitting. He couldn’t judge the diameters with any accuracy from where he stood, but he was fairly sure they couldn’t have been made with a bullet any smaller than a .30 caliber or larger than a .35 caliber.

  If it was the same shooter who hit Carl at Willow Rest, it would appear that he was flexible in his choice of weapons—a man who chose the tool most appropriate to the circumstances. A practical man. Or woman.

  Esti’s question came back to him. What’s the point of cutting a landline when everybody’s got a cell phone? From a practical perspective, cutting power and communication lines would be the preamble to an attack. But no attack had occurred. So what was the point?

  A warning?

  Like the nails in Gus’s head?

  But why the landline?

  Holy Christ!

  Could it be?

  Power and phone. Power meant lights, which meant seeing. And the phone? What did you do with a phone—especially an old landline phone? You listened and you talked.

  No power and no phone.

  No seeing, no listening, no talking.

  See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  Or was he getting way too imaginative, way to enamored with his “message” theory? He knew damn well that falling in love with one’s own hypothesis could be fatal. Still, if these weren’t messages, what the hell were they?

  Having switched off the flashlight, he stood again in the dark, holding the SIG Sauer pistol at his side, straining his eyes and ears. The utter silence gave him a chill. He told himself it was simply because the temperature was dropping and the air was growing damper. But that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. It was time to get the hell out of there.

  Halfway to Walnut Crossing he stopped at an all-night convenience store for a container of coffee. Sitting in the parking lot, sipping the coffee, going back over what had happened at Hardwick’s—what he could have done or should have done—endeavoring to organize some reasonable sequence of next steps, the thought came to him to call Kyle.

  Prepared to leave a message, he was surprised to hear a live voice.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  “Actually, too damn much.”

  “Yeah? But, hell, you like it that way, don’t you?”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. If you’re not being overwhelmed, you feel underoccupied.”

  Gurney smiled. “I hope I’m not calling you too late.”

  “Too late? It’s like nine forty-five. This is New York City. Most of my friends are just going out now.”

  “Not you?”

  “We decided to stay in tonight.”

  “We?”

  “Long story. What’s up?”

  “A question, based on your Wall Street experience. Not even sure how to ask it. I spent my whole career buried in homicides, not white-collar stuff. What I’m wondering is, if an outfit was looking for major financing—let’s say for expansion—is that something that would get around on the grapevine?”

  “That would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On how ‘major’ a deal you’re talking about. And what kind of financing. And who’s involved. Lot of different factors. To get into the rumor mill, it would need to be big. Nobody on the Street talks about small stuff. What outfit are we talking about?”

  “Something called the Cyberspace Cathedral—brainchild of a guy named Jonah Spalter.”

  “Kind of rings a bell.”

  “Any facts attached to that bell?”

  “CyberCath …”

  “CyberCath?”

  “People in finance are big on abbreviations, stock-exchange names, fast talk—like they’re too busy to use whole words.”

  “The Cyberspace Cathedral is listed on the stock exchange?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s just the way the boys talk. What do you want to know about it?”

  “Anything people say about it that I wouldn’t find on Google.”

  “No problem. You working on a new case?”

  “A murder conviction appeal. I’m trying to dig up some facts the original investigation may have ignored.”

  “Cool. How’s it going?”

  “Interestingly.”

  “Knowing how you talk about these things, I’d say that means that you were shot at but not hit.”

  “Well … sort of.”

  “Whaaat? You mean I’m right? Are you okay? Somebody tried to shoot you?”

  “He was just shooting at a house I happened to be in.”

  “Jeez! That’s part of this case you’re on?”

  “I think so.”

  “How can you be so calm? I’d be going nuts if somebody shot at a house I was in.”

  “I’d be more upset if he were aiming at me personally.”
r />   “Wow. If you were a comic-book hero, they’d have to call you Doctor Cool.”

  Gurney smiled, didn’t know what to say. He didn’t talk to Kyle that often, although they’d been in contact more frequently since the Good Shepherd case. “Is there any chance you might be coming up our way one of these days?”

  “Sure. Why not. That’d be great.”

  “You still have the motorcycle?”

  “Absolutely. And the helmet you gave me. Your old one. I wear it instead of my own.”

  “Ah … well … I’m glad it fits.”

  “I think we must have exactly the same size heads.”

  Gurney laughed. He wasn’t sure why. “Well, anytime you can get away, we’d love to see you.” He paused. “How’s Columbia Law?”

  “Busy as hell, tons of reading, but basically good.”

  “So you don’t regret getting out of Wall Street?”

  “Not for a minute. Well, maybe for an occasional minute. But then I remember all the bullshit that went with it—Wall Street is paved with bullshit—and I’m really happy not to be part of that anymore.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence, finally broken by Kyle. “So … I’ll make some calls, see if anyone knows anything about CyberCath, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Great, son. Thank you.”

  “Love you, Dad.

  “Love you, too.”

  After ending the call, Gurney sat with his phone still in his hand, pondering the curious pattern of his communications with his son. The young man was … what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? He could never immediately remember which. And for many of those years, especially the past ten, he and Kyle had been … what? Not quite estranged, that was too loaded a term for it. Distant? Separated by periods of noncommunication, certainly. But when the instances of communication did occur, they were invariably warm, particularly on Kyle’s part.

  Perhaps the explanation was as simple as the summation offered by Gurney’s college girlfriend decades ago on the occasion of her breaking up with him: “You’re just not a people person, David.” Her name was Geraldine. They were standing outside the greenhouse in the New York Botanical Garden. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. It was starting to rain. She turned and walked away, kept walking even as the rain grew heavier. They never spoke again.

  He looked down at the cell phone in his hand. It occurred to him that he should call Madeleine, let her know he was on his way.

  When she picked up she sounded sleepy. “Where are you?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. I was reading. Dozing a little, maybe.”

  He was tempted to ask if the book was War and Peace. She’d been reading it forever, and it was a powerful soporific. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m halfway between Dillweed and Walnut Crossing. Should be home in less than twenty minutes.”

  “Good. How come so late?”

  “I ran into some difficulty at Hardwick’s.”

  “Difficulty? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Tell you all about it when I get home.”

  “When you get home I’ll be sleeping.”

  “In the morning, then.”

  “Drive safely.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  He slipped the phone into his pocket, took a couple of swallows of cold coffee, dumped the rest of it in a trash bin, and drove back out onto the main road.

  Hardwick was on his mind now. Along with the uncomfortable feeling that he should have ignored the man’s instructions and followed him after all. Sure, there was a risk of one thing leading to another, a firefight with the shooter, official law enforcement agencies getting involved, BCI sniffing out Esti’s involvement, having to fudge the facts of their meeting in order to protect her, half-true affidavits, knots and tangles and snarls. But, on the other hand, there was the possibility that Hardwick might be coming face-to-face—or muzzle-to-muzzle—with more than he could handle.

  Gurney had a powerful urge to turn around and go back over the roads where Hardwick’s chase was likely to have led him. But there were too many possibilities. Too many intersections. Each one would multiply the odds against duplicating the actual route the man had taken. And even if by some remarkable coincidence he made a series of accurate guesses and ended up in the right place, his unexpected arrival could create as many problems as it solved.

  So he drove on, conflicted, coming eventually to the turn-off for his hilltop property. He drove slowly because deer had a way of leaping out of nowhere. He’d hit a fawn in the not-too-distant past, and the sickening feeling was still with him.

  At the top of the road he stopped to let a porcupine move out of the way. He watched as it waddled off into the high grass on the rise above the barn. Porcupines had a bad reputation, earned by chewing up just about everything, from the siding on homes to the brake lines on cars. The farmer down the road had advised shooting them on sight. “They’re a world of trouble and good for nothing.” But Gurney had no heart for that, and Madeleine would never tolerate it.

  He put the car back in gear and was about to head up the grassy lane to the farmhouse when something bright caught his eye. It was in one of the barn windows—a gleaming point of light. It occurred to him that perhaps a light in the barn had been left on—maybe by Madeleine when she last fed the chickens. But that bulb was relatively dim, with a yellowish cast, and this light in the window was sharp and white. As Gurney peered at it, it grew more intense.

  He switched off his headlights. After sitting there mystified for a few more seconds, he picked up Hardwick’s heavy metal flashlight from the passenger seat without turning it on, got out of the car, and walked toward the barn—guided through the darkness by that strange point of light, which seemed to move as he moved.

  Then he realized with a touch of gooseflesh that the light wasn’t in the barn at all. It was a reflection—a reflection on the window of a light somewhere behind him. He turned quickly, and there it was—a powerful light gleaming through the line of trees along the top of the ridge behind the pond. The first thought that came to mind was that it was a halogen searchlight mounted on an ATV.

  In the barn behind him, perhaps in response to this illumination, the rooster crowed.

  Gurney looked again at the ridge—at the swelling, brightening light behind the trees. And then, of course, it was obvious. As it should have been from the first instant. No mystery at all. No strange vehicle probing the high forest. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a full moon rising on a clear night.

  He felt like a fool.

  His phone rang.

  It was Madeleine. “Is that you down by the barn?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Someone just called for you. Are you on your way up?” Her voice was distinctly cool.

  “Yes, I was just checking something. Who was it?”

  “Alyssa.”

  “What?”

  “A woman, by the name of Alyssa.”

  “Did she give you a last name?”

  “I asked her for that. She said you’d probably know her last name, and if you didn’t, there wasn’t much point in talking to you anyway. She sounded either stoned or crazy.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  “Yes, it’s here.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  Two minutes later, at 10:12 p.m., he was standing in the kitchen with his phone, entering the number.

  Madeleine was at the sink island in her pink and yellow summer pajamas, putting away a few pieces of silverware left in the dish drainer.

  His call was answered on the third ring—by a voice that was both husky and delicate. “Could this be Detective Gurney calling me back?”

  “Alyssa?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Alyssa Spalter?”

  “Alyssa Spalter, who was left at the altar, just wearing a halter.” She sounded like a twelve-year-old who’d been at her parents’ liquor cabinet
.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You want to do something for me?”

  “You called here a little while ago. What do you want?”

  “I want to be helpful. That’s all I want.”

  “How do you want to help?”

  “You want to know who killed Cock Robin?”

  “What?”

  “How many murders are you involved in?”

  “Are you talking about your father?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Do you know who killed your father?”

  “King Carl? Course I do.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Come see me, then I’ll tell you.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “I’ll give you a name. When I get to know you better. I give all my boyfriends special names. So when am I going to meet you?”

  Gurney said nothing.

  “You still there?” Her tone was wandering fluidly back and forth between clarity and intoxication.

  “I’m here.”

  “Ah. That’s the problem. You need to come here.”

  “Alyssa … you either know something useful, or you don’t. You’re either going to tell me what it is, or you’re not. Up to you. Decide now.”

  “I know everything.”

  “Okay. Tell me about it.”

  “No way. Phone might be tapped. Such a scary world we live in. They tap everything. Tippety, tippety, tap. But you’re a detective, so you know all that. Bet you even know where I live.”

  Gurney said nothing.

  “Bet you know where I live, right?”

  Again, he said nothing.

  “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  “Alyssa? Listen to me. If you want to tell—”

  She interrupted with an exaggerated, slurry seductiveness that might have been comical in other circumstances. “So … I’ll be here all night. And all day tomorrow. Come as soon as you can. Please. I’ll be waiting for you. Waiting just for you.”

  The connection was broken.

  Gurney laid his phone down and looked at Madeleine. She was studying a fork she was about to put in the silverware drawer. She frowned, turned on the water in the sink, and began scrubbing it. Then she rinsed it, dried it, examined it again, seemed satisfied, and placed it in the drawer.