White River Burning. John Verdon

down murderers did not.

      Of course, he knew in his heart that being a man meant more than being a cop, and leading a good life often meant swimming against the current of one’s inclinations. He also felt the nudging of an axiom his therapist was fond of repeating: The only time a man can do the right thing is right now. So, embracing a sense of duty and purpose, he got the utility broom from the mudroom and headed for the chicken coop.

      With an energizing sense of accomplishment from having dealt with the dirt, the water, and the feed, he decided to go on to another maintenance task that needed doing—the mowing of the broad path that encircled the high pasture. That activity did promise certain distinct pleasures—the bursts of fragrance rising from the patches of wild mint, the view from the top of the pasture out over the unspoiled green hills, the sweet air, the cerulean sky.

      At the end of the pasture path he came to the trail above the pond that led to his excavation. Although the shaded grass there was slower growing, he decided to mow it as well, proceeding under the canopy of cherry trees until he arrived at the excavation itself. He stopped there, picturing the artifacts he’d uncovered and pondering Thrasher’s strange comment on the teeth. Something told him it would be best to put it out of his mind and finish the mowing job. But that idea was replaced by another—to spend a few minutes digging down a few additional inches along the foundation, just to see if anything of interest might turn up.

      His tractor with the mini-backhoe attachment was still up by the house, but there was a spade by the excavation. He went down the little ladder and began prying shovelfuls of soil away from the base of the stone wall that Thrasher had been probing. Working his way along it, finding nothing but more soil and suspecting that he was becoming a trifle obsessive, he decided to return to his mowing. Then, as he turned over a final shovelful, he noted something solid. He took it at first to be just a hardened lump of reddish-brown clay, but when he picked it up and worked it in his hands he discovered embedded in the clay a rusted piece of iron, thick and curved. As he dislodged more of the caked soil, he saw that it was a circle of iron, perhaps three inches in diameter, with a thick chain link attached to the side of it.

      While he realized that it could have a variety of uses, one in particular was obvious. It looked very much like some form of shackle—like half of a primitive set of handcuffs.

      13

      The westbound drive to White River consisted of a gradual descent from modest mountains and sloping meadows through rolling hills and broad valleys into a region of shabby strip malls. The final symbol of the area’s economic depression was the abandoned White River stone quarry, made famous by the sensational news coverage of an explosion that killed six passing motorists, bankrupted the company, and led to the unnerving discovery that someone had made off with more than a hundred sticks of dynamite.

      Gurney’s GPS led him into the center of the cheerless city on an avenue that bordered the partly burned and looted Grinton section. At the end of the avenue stood White River’s police headquarters. A world apart from the picturesquely dilapidated barns and tilting silos of Walnut Crossing, the building was constructed of gray-beige brick in the boxy style of the nineteen sixties. Its treeless, grassless setting was as sterile as its aluminum-framed windows and concrete parking lot, both the color of dust.

      As he reached the entrance to the lot, a man sitting on what appeared to be a small furniture dolly rolled by, propelling himself along the sidewalk with his gloved hands. He was wearing a grimy army-surplus jacket and a baseball hat. Looking closer, Gurney could see that the man was legless below the knees, and the gloves were actually oven mitts. An American flag hung limply from the top of an old broomstick that was affixed to the back of the dolly. With each thrust of his hands the man cried out repetitively in a voice as abrasive as a rusty hinge, “Sunshine . . . sunshine . . . sunshine . . .”

      When Gurney drove into the lot, the first vehicle to catch his eye was Kline’s gleaming black Navigator. In a row marked Reserved, it occupied the space nearest the building’s front door. He parked next to it, got out of his car, and was struck immediately by the odor of smoke, burned plastic, wet ashes.

      The Navigator’s tinted rear window descended and Kline peered out at him, at first with a look of satisfaction, then concern. “Everything all right?”

      “Bad smell.”

      “Arson. Pointless stupidity. Get in. I have your contract.”

      Gurney slid into the back seat across from Kline—a luxuriously isolated environment of plush leather and soft lighting.

      “High-class vehicle,” said Gurney.

      “No cost to the taxpayer.”

      “Confiscation?”

      “Forfeiture of property employed in the facilitation of drug trafficking.”

      Perhaps interpreting Gurney’s silence as a criticism of the controversial practice of seizing an accused individual’s assets prior to trial, Kline added, “The bleeding hearts like to whine about the tiny number of cases where there’s some inconvenience to a guy who ends up beating the rap. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred we’re just transferring ill-gotten goods from scumbags to law enforcement. Perfectly legal and personally satisfying.”

      He clicked open an attaché case on the seat between them, pulled out two copies of the contract, and handed them to Gurney with a pen. “I’ve signed these. You sign both, give me one, and keep one for yourself.”

      Reading through the contract, he was surprised to find no surprises—no subtle changes from the provisions he’d demanded on the phone. Oddly, this straightforwardness aroused his suspicion. He was sure everything Kline did was some sort of stratagem. Honesty would always be a route to something more important. But he could hardly object to the contract on that basis.

      “So, about this meeting, is there an agenda?”

      “Just to share the known facts. Establish priorities. Application of resources. Media guidelines. Get everyone in sync.”

      “Everyone being who?”

      “Dell Beckert; Beckert’s right hand, Judd Turlock; chief investigating officer, Mark Torres; Mayor Dwayne Shucker; Sheriff Goodson Cloutz.” He paused. “Word of warning about Cloutz, so you’re not taken by surprise. He’s blind.”

      “Blind?”

      “As a bat, supposedly. Wily country boy who talks like a hillbilly. Runs the county jail. Always gets reelected, unopposed the last three times.”

      “Any particular reason he’s part of this so-called team?”

      “No idea.”

      “They all expecting me?”

      “I gave Beckert a heads-up. Left it up to him to fill in the others.”

      “Any liaisons to outside agencies? FBI? State police? AG’s office?”

      “We’re keeping the FBI out unless we’re forced to let them in. Beckert has his own back channels to the state police, to be used at his discretion. As for the AG’s office, they have more than they can handle with the new issues around the AG’s death.”

      “What new issues?”

      “Some embarrassing questions. The fact that he died in a Vegas hotel room creates speculation. Prurient suggestions.” He grimaced, glanced at his Rolex, then at the contract in Gurney’s lap. “It’s meeting time. You want to sign that so we can go in?”

      “One more question.”

      “What?”

      “As I’m sure you know, I met with Kim Steele this morning. She gave me her perspective on her husband’s death, along with the evidence she found on his phone.” He paused, watching Kline’s face. “I wondered who sent her to me. Then I realized it had to be you.”

      Kline’s eyes narrowed. “Why me?”

      “Because what she told me was a direct answer