appeared at the kitchen doorway, regarding him with the previous night’s worry back in her eyes.
“How’s your hand?”
The lidocaine nerve block they’d given him prior to his nine stitches had worn off, and the lower half of his palm was throbbing.
“Not too bad,” he said. “What are they asking you to do now?”
She ignored the question. “You should be keeping it elevated. Like the doctor said.”
“Right.” He raised his hand a few inches above the sink island, where he was waiting for the coffee to brew. “Did they have another suicide?” he asked, rather too jokily.
“Carol Quilty resigned last night. They need someone to fill in today.”
“What time?”
“As soon as I can get there. I’m going to take a shower, have a piece of toast, and off I go. Will you be all right here alone?”
“Of course.”
She frowned and pointed at his hand. “Higher.”
He raised it to eye level.
She sighed, gave him a silly little “attaboy” wink, and headed for the shower.
He marveled for the thousandth time at her innate cheerfulness, her perennial ability to accept the reality of whatever had been placed in front of her and address it with an attitude far more positive than his own.
She faced life as it was and did the best she could.
She played the hand she’d been dealt.
Which made him think again about his wild card.
Whatever it might be worth, he needed to do something with it soon. He had to play it before the game was over.
He had the sinking feeling that it might not be worth a damn thing. But there was only one way to find out.
His “wild card” was his access to the eavesdropping equipment that had been installed in Kim’s apartment. Perhaps by the Good Shepherd, who perhaps was still monitoring its transmissions. If both of those assumptions were valid—and both were big ifs—that equipment could provide a channel of communication. A way of talking to the killer. An opportunity to send a message.
But what kind of message should it be?
It was a simple question—with an unlimited number of answers.
All he had to do was figure out the right one.
Shortly after Madeleine left for the clinic, the den phone rang again. The ID announced it was Hardwick. The raspy voice said, “Check the Manchester Union Leader’s online archives. They did a series on the White Mountain Strangler case back in ’91. Betcha find a shitload of what you want. Gotta go piss. Take care.”
The man certainly had his ways of saying good-bye.
Gurney went to his computer and spent an hour wading through the online archives not only of the Union Leader but of other New England papers that had reported extensively on the Strangler’s crimes.
There had been five attacks in two months, all fatal. All the victims were women, and all had been strangled with white silk scarves, which were left knotted around their necks. The common factors among the victims were more circumstantial than personal. Three of the women had lived alone, and they had been killed in their homes. The two others worked late in isolated environments. One had been killed in an unlit parking area behind a crafts store she managed, the other in a similar area behind her own small flower shop. All five attacks occurred within a ten-mile radius of Hanover, home of Dartmouth College.
Although a sexual motive is often present in the serial strangulation of women, there were no signs of rape or other abuse. And the “victim profile” struck Gurney as odd. In fact, there really wasn’t any. The only physical factor the women appeared to have in common was that they were all fairly small. But they looked nothing alike. Their hairstyles and clothing styles were quite diverse. They represented a curious socioeconomic mix—a Dartmouth student (Larry Sterne’s girlfriend at the time), two shopkeepers, a part-time cafeteria aide in a local grammar school, and a psychiatrist. They ranged in age from twenty-one to seventy-one. The Dartmouth student was a blond WASP. The retired psychiatrist was a gray-haired African-American. Gurney had rarely seen such variation among the victims of a serial killer. It was hard to discern in these women the killer’s fixation—the obsession that had motivated him.
As he was pondering the peculiarities of the case, he heard the upstairs shower running. A little while after that, Kim appeared at the den doorway with a terribly anxious expression.
“Good morning,” said Gurney, closing down his computer search.
“I’m so sorry for getting you into this,” she said, close to tears.
“It’s what I