The half hour drive was uneventful but far from relaxed, as Gurney was continually checking his mirrors for any signs of followers. Dark, anonymous sedans drew his particular attention, but none stayed with him long enough to prompt evasive action.
ON A LIST of all the misnamed towns in the world, Roseland would surely be in the top ten. Its central feature was a huge stone quarrying operation, complete with the mammoth machines that grind boulders into gravel. The cliffs surrounding the excavation bore the vertical scars of holes drilled for the dynamite charges used to blow the mountainside apart. Machinery, dump trucks, prefabricated office structures, vehicles, everything in sight was covered with gray stone dust. The air seemed to vibrate with the grinding roar of the rock-crushers.
The town that radiated out from this hellhole grew quieter as the distance from the machinery increased. St. Peter’s was on one of the last residential streets before the modest homes gave way to farmland. The neighborhood was almost free of dust and almost quiet. The church was a white wooden structure with a modest bell tower. It had a lawn on one side, dominated by an ancient apple tree, and a parking area on the other side.
Gurney tried the front door of the church, found it unlocked, and went inside. The image of the quarry evaporated in an oasis of stillness and soft light. The sense of smell had an evocative power that he found nowhere more powerful than in a traditional Catholic church. The unique mixture of incense, flowers, burnt candle wax, leather-bound prayer books, and dry wood never failed to transport him to the church of his childhood.
He sat in the last pew and slipped into recollections of his altar-boy days—of lilies on a linen-draped altar, shining gold chalices, satin vestments, unsmiling priests, dark confessional booths full of whispered transgressions.
His reveries were interrupted by a movement at the edge of his vision. He looked up and saw Emma standing next to the pew. She was wearing the same loose, cape-like coat she’d worn the day she came to his house with the request that began his investigation. But now there was a deep sadness in her eyes.
“May I join you?”
He slid sideways in the pew to make room for her.
“This morning, Ziko was found dead in his cell.”
Gurney stared at her. “Dead? Jesus! How?”
“They’re calling it suicide. But I’m sure he was killed.”
“In his cell?”
She nodded. “With a hanging rope made of torn bedsheets. Or at least that was the way it was made to look.”
Gurney let out a despondent sigh. He was picturing the body of one of the incarcerated men whose bedsheet “suicides” he’d investigated over the years.
“You’re sure it wasn’t actually a suicide?”
Emma shook her head adamantly. “I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. The man I spoke to was not about to kill himself.”
Neither, thought Gurney, was the man I visited hardly more than a week ago. That man was as calm and positive as a man could be in a place like that. “Do you have any idea who might have been responsible?”
“I assume another prisoner or a guard—acting on the orders of the person who framed him to begin with.”
“I may be getting closer to discovering who that person is.”
Emma shook her head. “A dangerous pursuit. Not worth it.”
Gurney blinked in surprise. “Not worth it?”
“Not at this point.”
“You don’t think justice is worth pursuing? I thought you came to me because you wanted justice for Ziko.”
“I wanted the truth. Because it would lead to his release. That possibility no longer exists.”
“You’re saying his death has made justice irrelevant?” Gurney’s voice had risen noticeably in the silence of the little church.
“Justice for the dead is a wolf in sheep’s clothing—a pompous name for revenge. It’s an absurd goal to risk your life for.”
“So, principles like justice mean nothing?”
“Most ‘principles’ are shiny wrapping for selfish motives. Love is the only true guidepost, and love is always for the living.”
He made an effort to lower his voice. “You sound like you’ve joined the chorus telling me to walk away from the case.”
For a long while they sat in silence.
Then Gurney’s curiosity took over.
“Did Slade have a will?”
“Yes.”
“And a substantial estate?”
“Approximately eighteen to twenty million dollars, depending on the valuation of assets.”
“Do you know who the beneficiaries are?”
“Ian Valdez and my recovery center.”
“Half to each of you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve known about this for some time?”
“Ever since Ziko had an attorney draft the will. I am the executor. I also have power of attorney for Ziko’s affairs and have been named next of kin. When his body is released, I’ll arrange for its cremation in accordance with his wishes.” She related all this with no visible hesitations, her voice reflecting only the sadness in her eyes.
Gurney had more questions he wanted to ask, mainly about Valdez—who remained an enigma, now a very wealthy one—but something in Emma’s grief made it impossible.
