“Doesn’t matter. The thing is, I’m approaching the house right now. Tell Kline I’m here—and that I want to know what his plan is, so I don’t louse it up.”

“Jesus. Let me go find him. I’ll ask him to call you.”

Gurney turned to Hardwick and filled him in on the situation.

“Beckert wants to turn himself in? And then what? Confess to seven murders, then run for AG anyway, based on the impressive honesty of his confession?”

“At this point, who the hell knows—”

His phone rang, Kline’s name was on the screen.

“Gurney here.”

Kline was nearly shouting. “How the hell did you know where Beckert was? And why didn’t you notify me the instant you found out?”

“I didn’t know where he was. I was following a hunch.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“On Rapture Hill Road, not far from the house.”

“Don’t get any closer. In fact, don’t do a goddamn thing. This surrender is a big deal. As big as they come. I’m running the operation personally. Nothing happens before I get there. You read me?”

“Things may happen that require a response.”

“That’s not what I mean. You are to take no initiatives. None. You understand?”

“I do.”

“That’s good. I repeat, do nothing. I’m on my way.”

58

Gurney passed Kline’s comments along to Hardwick.

He bared his teeth in disgust. “Kline’s a pathetic little shit.”

“But he’s right about this being a big deal,” said Gurney. “Especially if the surrender is accompanied by a confession.”

“Which would knock your Beckert-as-victim theory on its ass.”

“If it gets us to the truth, that’s fine with me.”

“So what do we do until the cavalry arrives? Stand here holding our dicks?”

“We get off this road, stay out of sight, get closer to the house. After that . . . we’ll see.”

As they made their way up through the woods, the terrain began to level out. Soon they were able to glimpse through the hemlocks what appeared to be a mowed clearing. Using the drooping branches as a screen, they moved forward until they had a good view of a plain white farmhouse in the middle of a bright-green lawn. Next to the house was a garage-sized shed. Almost all the space in front of the house was filled with mulched beds and hanging baskets of red petunias.

“So what now?” muttered Hardwick.

“We treat this as a stakeout. See if anyone enters or leaves.”

“What if they do?”

“That depends on who they are.”

“That’s clear as mud.”

“Like life. Let’s take diagonal positions out of sight where we can watch the house without any cameras watching us.” Gurney pointed through the woods. “You go around that way to a point where you can see the left side of the house and the back. I’ll keep an eye on the front and right side. Give me a call when you’ve picked your spot.”

He put his phone on Vibrate so there’d be no chance of the ring giving away his location. Hardwick did the same.

Gurney made his way through the trees to a place that gave him good cover while affording decent views of the house and the shed. From his position he could see a small, very new-looking satellite dish mounted on the corner of the house. He also became aware of the muffled drone of a generator. As his ears became accustomed to the hum, he realized that he was also hearing a voice. It was too faint to identify any words, but as he listened he concluded that what he was hearing was the cadence of a TV newscaster. Under the intense circumstances, it seemed odd that Beckert would be watching television—unless, perhaps, he was expecting some announcement of his impending surrender.

Gurney’s phone vibrated. It was Hardwick.

“Reporting as requested. I just breathed in a goddamn gnat. Fucking thing is in my lungs.”

“At least it wasn’t a wasp.”

“Or a bird. Anyway, I’m in position. Now what?”

“Tell me something. If you listen carefully, can you hear something that sounds like a TV news show?”

“I hear a generator.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. But I do have a thought about your double-frame theory. Your idea that all this White River shit was ultimately devised to destroy Beckert raises a big cui bono question.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You also aware of the answer?”

“No. But it sounds like you are.”

Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause before replying. “Maynard Biggs.”

Gurney was unimpressed. His recollection of Biggs as an honest, smart, compassionate man made him an unlikely multiple murderer. “Why Biggs?”

“He’s the only one who seems to benefit in any practical way from the destruction of Beckert. Remove the famous law-and-order police chief, and Biggs wins the AG election without breaking a sweat.”

It didn’t feel right, but he was determined to keep an open mind. “It’s a possibility. The problem is—”

He stopped speaking at the sound of a vehicle, maybe more than one, coming up the dirt road. “Hang on, Jack, we have visitors.”