at the Harley dealer. Maybe a big black Darth Vader thing with a skull and crossbones.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Kim with a cute imitation of sarcasm, poking his arm with her finger.
There were a number of things Gurney wanted to say. On second thought, none seemed as advisable as silence.
“Come on,” said Kyle.
Kim smiled nervously at Gurney. “I’ll call you with the interview schedule.”
After they left, Gurney leaned back in his chair and stared out at the hillside, which was as motionless and muted as a sepia photograph. The landline phone on the far side of the desk rang, but he made no move to answer it. It rang a second time. And a third. The fourth ring was interrupted halfway through, evidently by Madeleine’s picking up the handset in the kitchen. He heard her voice, but the words were indistinct.
A few moments later, she entered the den. “Man by the name of Trout,” she whispered, handing Gurney the phone. “Like the fish.”
He’d half expected the call but was surprised at how quickly it had come.
“Gurney here.” It was the way he’d answered his phone on the job. In retirement he’d found it a hard habit to break.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gurney. I’m Matthew Trout, special supervisory agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The words rolled out of the man like artillery fire.
“Yes?”
“I’m agent in charge on the Good Shepherd multiple-murder investigation. I believe you’re already aware of that?” When Gurney didn’t answer, he went on. “I’ve been informed by Dr. Holdenfield that you and a client of yours are involving yourselves in that investigation.”
Gurney said nothing.
“Would you agree that’s an accurate statement?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You asked if your statement was accurate. I said it wasn’t.”
“In what way wasn’t it?”
“You implied that a journalist I’m advising on matters of police procedure is trying to step into your investigation and that I myself am trying to do the same thing. Both those assertions are false.”
“Perhaps I was misinformed. I was told you’d expressed a strong interest in the case.”
“That’s true. The case fascinates me. I’d like to understand it better. I’d also like to understand why you’re calling me.”
There was a pause, as though the man had been jarred by Gurney’s brusque tone. “Dr. Holdenfield told me that you wanted to see me.”
“That’s also true. Is there a time that would be convenient for you?”
“Not really. But convenience is an irrelevant issue. I happen to be on a working vacation at our family lodge in the Adirondacks. Do you know where Lake Sorrow is?”
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising.” There was something snobbish and disbelieving in his tone. “Very few people have ever heard of it.”
“My brain is full of useless facts.”
Trout did not respond to the not-so-subtle insult. “Can you be here at nine tomorrow morning?”
“No. How about Sunday?”
There was another pause. When Trout finally spoke, it was in a tightly controlled way, as though he were forcing his mouth into a smile to keep the sound of anger out of his voice. “What time Sunday can you be here?”
“Anytime you want. Earlier the better.”
“Fine. Be here at nine.”
“Be where at nine?”
“There’s no posted address. Hold on and my assistant will provide directions. I advise you to write them down carefully, word for word. The roads up here are tricky, and the lakes are deep. And very cold. You wouldn’t want to get lost.”
The warning was almost comical.
Almost.
By the time he’d copied down the Lake Sorrow directions and returned to the kitchen, Kim and Kyle were on their way down through the low pasture on the BSA. A pale sun was breaking through the thinning overcast, and the bike’s chrome was glittering.
Gurney’s mind shot off into a branching pattern of anxious what-ifs—interrupted by the sound of a hanger dropping on the floor in the mudroom.
“Maddie?”
“Yes?” A moment later she appeared at the mudroom door, dressed more conservatively than usual—which is to say, less like a rainbow.
“Where are you off to?”
“Where do you think I might be off to?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“What day is today?”
“Friday?”
“And?”
“And? Ah. Right. One of your group things at the clinic.”
She stood there looking at him with one of her complex expressions that seemed to contain elements of amusement, exasperation, love, concern.
“Do you need me to do anything regarding the insurance?” she asked. “Or do you want to take care of it? I assume we have to call someone?”
“Right. I guess our broker in town. I’ll find out.” It was a simple chore that had come and gone from his mind several times