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She stepped out onto the patio, raising her face into the slanting morning sunlight. “I hate the idea of being cooped up in an office on a day like this.”

“You don’t have to be cooped up anywhere. We have enough money to—”

She cut him off. “I don’t mean it that way. I just wish we could see our clients outdoors in weather like this. It would be better for them, too. Fresh air. Green grass. Blue sky. Good for the soul.” She cocked her head. “I think I hear Gerry coming up the hill.”

A few moments later, as a yellow VW Beetle made its way up the weedy lane through the low pasture, she added, “You’re going to let the chickens out, right?”

“I’ll get to it.”

She ignored the edge in his voice, kissed him, and headed out past the asparagus patch just as her exuberant fellow therapist, Geraldine Mirkle, lowered her car window and cried, “Andiamo! The maniacs await us!” She winked at Gurney. “I’m referring to the staff!”

He watched as they drove, bumpily, through the pasture, around the barn, and out of sight onto the town road.

He sighed. That resistance in his response to Madeleine’s chicken reminder was childish. A silly way of trying to be in control when there was no reason for delay. His first wife had complained that he was a control freak. In his early twenties he couldn’t see it. But now it was obvious. Madeleine generally had no reaction to it other than amusement, which made it feel even more childish.

He went out to the henhouse and opened the little door into the fenced-in run. He tossed some commercial chicken feed, corn kernels, and sunflower seeds onto the ground, and the four hens came running out and started pecking at it. He stood there for a moment observing them. He doubted he would ever be as fascinated by them as Madeleine was.

A few minutes before nine he sat down at the breakfast table, opened his laptop, and went to the “Live Stream” section of the RAM website. As he was waiting for the promised press conference to begin, his phone rang. The number on the screen was vaguely familiar.

“Gurney here.”

“This is Walter Thrasher. You’ve discovered something of historical importance?”

“Your judgment on that would be sounder than mine. Would you be interested in taking a look at the site?”

“Did you say something about teeth? And a black-handled knife?”

“Among other things. Pieces of chains, hinges, a glass jar.”

“Pre-Revolution?”

“I think so. The foundation is Dutch-style laid stone.”

“Not dispositive by itself. I’ll take a look. Tomorrow. Early morning. That work for you?”

“I can make it work.”

“See you then, assuming nobody else on my turf gets shot in the meantime.”

Thrasher ended the call first, with no good-bye.

As the RAM news anchor was announcing that the press conference was about to begin, a line of bold type crawled across the bottom of the screen:

OFFICIALS REVEAL SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENTS

The scene shifted from the anchor, with her hybrid expression of steadiness and concern, to three conservatively suited men at a table facing the camera. In front of each was a tent card bearing his name and title. Mayor Shucker, Chief Beckert, District Attorney Kline.

Gurney’s attention was drawn to Beckert, a casting director’s fast-tracked Marine general. In his midforties, lean and square-jawed with an unblinking gaze, salt-and-pepper hair in a crisp military crew cut, he was the group’s clear center of gravity.

Mayor Shucker was a corpulent man with pudgy lips, suspicious eyes, and a comb-over dyed the color of rust.

Kline, on the other side of Beckert, looked more conflicted than ever. The determined set of his mouth was belied every few seconds by tiny tremors that reminded Gurney, rather fancifully, of those minuscule vibrations along the San Andreas Fault that create shimmers of unease on the surface of still water.

CRISIS UPDATE began to flash repeatedly on the screen, and the camera moved in on Beckert. When the blinking phrase disappeared, he began to speak. His voice was clear, dry, unaccented. There was also something familiar about it that Gurney couldn’t quite place.