DURING MOST OF HIS HOMEWARD DRIVE FROM ROSELAND, Gurney’s mind was filled with alternating visions of Slade hanging from a bedsheet rope in his cell and of Slade calmly sitting across from him in the visiting room.
As he crested the last forested hill and began the descent toward the reservoir side of Walnut Crossing, those thoughts were displaced by a glimpse of a state police cruiser in a roadside turnaround about five hundred yards ahead. That distance dropped to no more than three hundred yards by the time Gurney reached a point where the road shoulder was wide enough to permit a quick U-turn.
As he sped back up the hill, in his rearview mirror he saw the cruiser swinging out of the turnaround, lights flashing, starting up the hill after him. As soon as he passed the crest and was momentarily out of his pursuer’s line of sight, he floored the accelerator to get past a sight-obstructing curve in the road. He knew the heavily wooded area was criss-crossed with old logging trails and began searching for one. He passed one that looked impassable, then, glancing in his mirror, took a chance on a second, which rose steeply up from the right side of the road.
He hoped that the teeth-rattling blows to the rental car’s undercarriage wouldn’t turn out to be fatal, as the front and rear end alternately became airborne over the rocky ground. As soon as he could no longer see the road behind him, he jammed on the brakes and switched off the ignition—just in time to hear the cruiser racing past, siren blaring. A moment later, it was followed by a second cruiser with a matching siren.
Immediately, he backed down the trail, swerved out onto the road, and sped down toward the reservoir. At the first intersection, instead of taking the county road toward Walnut Crossing, he took it in the opposite direction, paralleling the river that carried the reservoir’s outflow. A few miles later, he made a sharp right onto a back road and proceeded via a long, circuitous route to the rear side of the hill behind his property.
After easing the car into its hidden spot in the woods, he sat back and took several deep breaths to calm down. As the adrenaline rush dissipated, anger took its place—first at the fugitive position Stryker had put him in, and then a deeper anger at the death of Slade. He took out his phone and called Hardwick.
He was surprised and relieved when the man answered. “Yeah?”
“Ziko Slade is dead.”
Hardwick sounded unsurprised. “Inmate confrontation?”
“I’ve been told it was murder, set up to look like suicide in his cell.”
“Which your paranoid brain is telling you is another warning, aimed at you personally?”
“I think it means I’m getting close to some facts that would have set him free—and someone would rather have him dead than free.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“The case against Slade began with Bruno Lanka just happening to find Lenny Lerman’s body. But Lanka is a dodgy enough character that Stryker couldn’t put him on the stand. Lanka’s driver was Dominick Vesco—who owns a Ford 150 pickup and a Moto Guzzi trail bike, both of which were present on Blackmore Mountain. It’s obvious those two are into this mess up to their necks. It’s also obvious that they’re not the brains behind it. They’re taking orders from somebody—the same somebody who ordered the hit on Slade.”
Hardwick uttered a snorting little laugh.
“What the hell is funny?”
“You sound so goddamn pissed off. It’s not your usual state of mind.”
“Not a goddamn thing is usual these days. I’m running into threats and dead ends like never before in my life.” He paused. “Look, I know I’m ranting. But I’m sure Lanka and his accomplice were on Blackmore Mountain that day, and one of them smashed me on the side of the head, shot Sonny, got gunpowder residue on my hand, and turned me into a fugitive with a headache that won’t go away.”
“What makes you so sure they were both there?”
“Because the plan was to kill Sonny and frame me. And that would be a hell of a lot easier for two guys to manage than just one. I’m thinking Lanka came with Sonny in the tow truck. And I know Vesco came up from the campground on his Moto Guzzi.”
“Jesus, Gurney, you make it all
“I’m positive these bastards were involved in Sonny’s murder. I’d bet my pension they were involved in Lenny’s. And I’m equally sure they’re not the organizing brains behind it all. Most important of all, I know where to find them.”
Hardwick let out an exasperated sigh. “So, what’s your plan? Tie them up and threaten to cut their balls off if they don’t ID the boss?”
“Something like that.”
“And you want me to bring a sharp knife?”
“Something like that.”
Hardwick let out an ugly little laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
