Let the Devil Sleep (34 page)

W
ith his detailed route directions in hand, Gurney left shortly after sunrise for Lake Sorrow. The drive through the Catskill foothills and rolling Schoharie farmlands up into the Adirondacks was a journey into discomfiting memories. Memories of preteen vacations at Brant Lake with his mother at the height of her emotional estrangement from his father. An estrangement that left her needy, anxious, and physically clingy. Even now, close to forty years later, the memories cast an unsettling pall.

As he drove farther north, the pitch of the mountain slopes increased, the valleys narrowed, and the shadows deepened. According to the instructions he’d been given by Trout’s assistant, the last road he’d be taking with any posted identification would be Shutter Spur. From that point on, he’d have to rely on precise odometer readings to make the
proper turns in a maze of old logging roads. The forest was part of a vast private landholding in which there were only a few seasonal cabins, no stores, no gas stations, no people, and major gaps in cell service.

The AWD system on Gurney’s Outback was barely adequate to negotiate the terrain. After the fifth turn, which his instructions indicated would take him directly to Trout’s cabin, he found himself instead in a small clearing.

He got out of the car and walked around the perimeter. There were four rough trails leading from the clearing into the forest in various directions, but no way of telling which one he was supposed to take. It was 8:58
A.M
.—just two minutes shy of his projected arrival time.

He was sure he’d followed all the instructions accurately and reasonably sure that the punctilious-sounding man on the phone was not likely to have made a mistake. That left a couple of possible explanations, but only one he considered probable.

He returned to his car, got in, opened the side window for a bit of fresh air, reclined the seat as far as it would go, lay back, and closed his eyes. Every so often he checked the time. At nine-fifteen he heard the engine of an approaching vehicle. It stopped not far away.

When the expected knock came, he opened his eyes, yawned, raised his seat, and lowered the window. The man standing there had a lean, hard appearance, with sharp brown eyes and close-cropped black hair.

“You David Gurney?”

“You expecting anyone else?”

“You need to leave your car here and come up in the ATV.” He gestured toward a camouflage-painted Kawasaki Mule.

“You didn’t mention this to me on the phone.”

The man’s eyelids twitched. Maybe he didn’t expect his voice to be so easily recognized. “The direct route isn’t passable at the current time.”

Gurney smiled. He followed the man to the ATV and got into the passenger seat. “You know what I’d be tempted to do if I had a place up here? Every once in a while, I might be tempted play a little game with one of my guests. Make him think he was lost, maybe missed a turn, see if he’d panic—you know, out in the middle of nowhere with no cell coverage. Because if he screwed up on his way in, he wouldn’t
be able to find his way out, would he? Always fun to see who panics and who doesn’t in a situation like that. Know what I mean?”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Of course not. How could you? For someone to appreciate what I’m talking about, he’d have to be a real control freak.”

Three minutes later—a jouncy half mile up and down a rocky trail, during which the man’s angry gaze never left the treacherous terrain—they arrived at a chain-link fence with a sliding gate that opened as they approached it.

Inside the fence the trail faded into a broad bed of pine needles. Then, quite suddenly through the trees, the “cabin” appeared in front of them. It was a two-story structure in the modified Swiss-chalet style of some traditional Adirondack camps—rustic log construction with recessed porches, green doors and window trim, and a green shingle roof. The façade was so dark, and the porch in so much shadow, that it wasn’t until the ATV pulled up to the front steps that Gurney saw Agent Trout—or the man he presumed to be Agent Trout—standing proprietarily in the center of the dismal porch, feet planted wide apart. He held a large Doberman on a short black leash. Accidentally or purposely, the arrogant pose and the imposing guard dog made Gurney think of a prison-camp commandant.

“Welcome to Lake Sorrow.” The voice, emotionless and bureaucratic, conveyed
no
hint of welcome. “I’m Matthew Trout.”

The few rays of sunlight that penetrated the huge pines were far apart and thin as icicles. The evergreen scent in the air was powerful. The low, persistent sound of an internal-combustion engine, most likely a generator, came from the direction of an outbuilding off to the right of the main house.

“Nice spot you have here.”

“Yes. Please come inside.” Trout issued a sharp command, the Doberman turned around, and together they preceded Gurney into the house.

The front door led directly into a spacious sitting room dominated by a stone fireplace. In the center of the rough-hewn mantel was a stuffed bird of prey with furious yellow eyes and extended talons, flanked by twin wildcats poised to leap.

“They’re coming back,” said Trout significantly. “New sightings in these mountains every week.”

Gurney followed the man’s gaze. “Wildcats?”

“Remarkable animals. Ninety pounds of muscle. Claws like steel razors.” There was a definite excitement in his eyes as he looked up at the stuffed monsters on the mantel.

He was a small man, Gurney noted, perhaps five-five at the most, but with the well-developed shoulders of a bodybuilder.

He bent over and unclasped the Doberman’s leash. A guttural command sent the dog trotting silently out of sight behind a leather couch, where he offered Gurney a seat.

Gurney sat without hesitation. Trout’s transparent efforts at intimidation struck him as silly but also made him wonder what was coming next.

“I hope you understand how unofficial all this is,” said Trout, still standing.

“How artificial …?” said Gurney, pretending to have misunderstood.

“No. Unofficial.”

“Sorry. Touch of tinnitus. Stopped a bullet with my head.”

“So I heard.” He paused, regarding Gurney’s head with the sort of concern one might exhibit in the selection of a questionable melon. “How’s the recovery going?”

“Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“My head wound. You said you’d heard about it.”

The low ring of a cell phone came from Trout’s shirt pocket. He took it out and checked the screen. He frowned, presumably at the ID. For a moment he looked indecisive; then he pressed the
TALK
button.

“Trout here. Where are you?” As he held the phone to his ear for the next minute, his jaw muscles tensed several times. “Then we’ll see you very soon.” He pressed another button and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“That was the answer to your question.”

“The person who told you I’d been shot is coming here now?”

“Exactly.”

Gurney smiled. “That’s impressive. I didn’t think she worked on Sundays.”

The comment produced a surprised blink and pause. Trout cleared his throat. “As I was saying a moment ago, our little get-together is completely unofficial. I decided to meet with you for three reasons. First, because you asked Dr. Holdenfield if a meeting could be arranged. Second, because I felt that it was appropriate to extend a simple courtesy to someone formerly in law enforcement. Third, because I hope that our informal discussion will avert any confusion regarding the authority and responsibility for the investigation of the Good Shepherd murders. Good intentions can sometimes end up impeding an official process. You’d be amazed at what DOJ lawyers can construe as obstructions of justice.”

Trout shook his head, as if in despair at those overscrupulous government attorneys who might come down on Gurney like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Gurney flashed a big, earnest smile. “Matt, believe me, I’m with you on that issue one hundred percent. Crossed wires are nothing but trouble. I’m a fan of full disclosure. Cards on the table. Open kimono. No secrets, no lies, no bullshit.”

“Good.” Trout’s chilly tone drained any sense of agreement out of the word. “If you’ll excuse me, there something I need to take care of. I won’t be long.” He exited the room through a door to the left of the fireplace.

The Doberman emitted a low, rumbling growl.

Gurney leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and contemplated his game plan, such as it was.

When Trout returned fifteen minutes later, he was accompanied by Rebecca Holdenfield. Instead of looking harried or resentful at having her weekend interrupted, she looked energized and very intense.

Trout smiled with the closest thing to cordiality he’d shown so far. “I asked Dr. Holdenfield to join us here today. I believe together we can address the strange concerns you seem to have and put them to rest. I want you to understand, Mr. Gurney, that this is a highly unusual accommodation. I’ve also asked Daker to sit in. An extra pair of ears, an extra perspective.”

On cue, Trout’s assistant appeared in the doorway by the fireplace—where he remained as Trout and Holdenfield took seats in leather armchairs facing Gurney.

“Well now,” said Trout. “Let’s get right to these peculiar problems you have with the Good Shepherd case. The sooner we dispose of them, the sooner we go home.” He gestured for Gurney to begin.

“I’d like to start with a question. During the course of your investigation, did you uncover any facts that struck you as inconsistent with your basic hypothesis? Little questions that weren’t answerable?”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Was there any debate about the necessity for sniper goggles?” Trout frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Or the absurd choice of weapon? Or how many weapons there actually were? Or where he disposed of them?”

Despite a conspicuous effort at impassivity, Trout’s eyes filled with a succession of concerns and calculations.

Gurney went on. “And then there’s the fascinating conflict between the shooter’s proven risk aversion and his stated fanaticism. As well as the conflict between his perfectly logical planning and completely illogical goals.”

“Suicide bombings are full of similar contradictions,” said Trout with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“The bombings may be, but the individuals involved in them aren’t. The guy at the top with a political objective, the strategic thinker who chooses the target and lays out the plan, the recruiter, the trainer, the hands-on supervisor in the field, the martyr who volunteers to be blown up—they may function as a team, but each one is who he is. The net result may be crazy and counterproductive, but each component is internally consistent and understandable.”

Trout shook his head. “I don’t see the relevance.”

In the doorway Daker yawned.

“The relevance is obvious,” said Gurney. “The Osama bin Ladens of the world do not become pilots and fly planes into skyscrapers. The psychological components that create one do not create the other. Either the so-called Good Shepherd is more than one person or the unifying inferences you’ve made about his motives and personality structure are wrong.”

Trout exhaled a loud sigh. “Very interesting. But you know what I find
most
interesting? Your comment about the gun—or guns. It reveals access to restricted information.” He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully under his chin. “That’s a problem. A problem for you, being in possession of it, and a problem—perhaps a career-ending one—for whoever leaked it to you. Let me ask you a straightforward question: Do you have any other information from restricted federal law-enforcement files, pertaining to this case or to any other case?”

“Good Lord, Trout, don’t be absurd.”

The sinews in the man’s neck tightened, but he said nothing.

Gurney went on. “I came here to talk about a potentially huge misunderstanding of a huge murder case. Do you really want to reduce this to a pissing contest over a hypothetical bureaucratic violation?”

Holdenfield raised her right hand in the traditional traffic-cop “Stop” gesture. “Could I make a suggestion here? Could we take this down a notch? We’re here to discuss facts, evidence, reasonable interpretations. The emotional component is getting in the way. Maybe we could just—”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Trout with a tight smile. “I think we should let Mr. Gurney—Dave—have his say, put everything on the table. If there’s a problem with our interpretation of the evidence, let’s get to the bottom of it. Dave? I’m sure you have more to tell us. Please go ahead.”

Trout’s eagerness to get him to incriminate himself with a prosecutable admission of receiving stolen files was so transparent that Gurney came close to laughing in the man’s face.

Trout added, “Maybe for the past ten years I’ve been too close to all of this. You’re coming at it with fresh eyes. Tell me, what am I missing?”

“How about the fact that you’ve built a very big hypothesis on very few data points?”

“That’s what the art of constructing an investigative premise is all about.”

“It’s also what schizophrenic delusions are all about.”

“Dave …” Holdenfield’s cautionary hand rose from her lap.

“Sorry. My concern is that the case study that’s become enshrined
in the annals of contemporary psych is just a giant circle dance. The manifesto, the details of the shootings, the offender profile, media mythmaking, popular imagination, and academic theorizing have all been contributing to the story—shaping it, polishing it, turning it into unassailable truth. Problem is, there’s nothing solid to support this unassailable truth.”

“Except, of course,” said Holdenfield sharply, “the first two items you mentioned, which are very solid indeed—the manifesto and the details of the shootings.”

“But suppose the details and the manifesto were specifically designed to reflect and reinforce each other? Suppose the killer is twice as smart as anyone thinks he is? Suppose he’s been laughing his ass off at Agent Trout’s team for the past ten years?”