“That’s exactly what I mean. Your face is pale, your eyes are glassy, I saw you wince with pain when you turned your head toward the door. So, you’re not ‘alright’ at all.”
“Look, I’ve had a mild concussion, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“When you pretend that everything’s fine, I get the impression that you just want to keep doing what you’re doing and you’d rather not think about the costs.”
“Or maybe I’m just trying to save you from unnecessary worry.”
“By lying to me?”
“Oh, Christ, it’s not lying, it’s a simple matter of perspective.” An arrow of pain shot through his head, causing a split-second grimace.
Madeleine’s expression switched from anger to fear. She took a quick step closer to his chair. “Should I call a nurse?”
“No need. I get these little jabs, but they pass as quickly as they come. Part of the territory with this sort of injury.”
Madeleine stood gazing down at him. The anger and fear had morphed into something softer. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“I just want to go home.”
There was a brief silence, broken by Madeleine. “Have the police caught the driver who sideswiped you?”
“They haven’t told me a damn thing.”
“I hope they get him and put him in prison for a good long time.”
“Fine with me.”
“Your eyelids are drooping.”
“All of a sudden . . . I’m sleepy.”
HE WAS AWAKENED by a rapping on his open door.
A sharp-featured woman in a fashionable leather jacket and pricey-looking jeans stepped into the room. Having seen her before only in conservative business attire, it took him a few seconds to recognize District Attorney Cam Stryker. She gave him a chilly once-over.
“I’ve been told you’re in good enough condition to talk. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
She moved an empty chair to a position facing Gurney’s, settled into it, and took out her phone. She tapped it several times and placed it on a small rolling table near her chair. “Everything said from now on will be recorded. Understood?”
“Understood.”
She smiled with all the warmth of a predatory fish. “So, David, I’d like to hear the full story of what happened on Blackmore Mountain.”
“Apart from someone running me off the road?”
“Let’s start with the reason you were there.”
“As I already told Investigator Magnussen, I was on my way to meet someone who claimed to have information that would exonerate Ziko Slade.”
“And who might this individual be?”
“I don’t know.”
“You thought it worth driving over a mountain in a snowstorm to meet someone who wouldn’t give you their name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have doubts about Slade’s guilt.”
She let out a harsh one-syllable laugh. “Because of that business with the rabbit?”
“Scott Derlick told you about that?”
“He told me that you were at the lodge with Slade’s creepy pal, and that you tried to turn a dead rabbit into a major crisis.”
“Not just dead. Decapitated. Placed in the front seat of my car, as I was looking into the decapitation death of Lenny Lerman. You’d have to be willfully blind not to see a connection.”
Stryker’s anger at the accusation was evident in the tightening of her jaw muscles.
“The placement of that mutilated animal in my vehicle should have been viewed as a threat. The failure of the Rexton police to investigate it, and the failure—”
“Stop right there! I’m not interested in your opinion of the Rexton police. I want to know exactly what happened this afternoon on Blackmore Mountain.”
“What happened on Blackmore Mountain is a direct escalation of the rabbit incident—a second warning to me to back away from the Lerman case. Whoever ran me off that road was sending a clear message—if not actually trying to kill me. Now, please answer a simple question. Do you have the driver in custody?”
“
He repeated what he’d told the BCI investigator.
“That’s it?” said Stryker, leaning forward. “Hit the stump, knock on the head, lights out? No further recollection?”
“What am I supposed to be recollecting? And why the hell was Magnussen asking me how many guns I own?”
“The other driver is dead. Shot in the head. The evidence indicates you were the shooter.”
“
“No memory of that?”
“It’s absurd!”
“So, you’re claiming to have zero recollection of the shooting?”
“I didn’t shoot anyone. I have nothing to recollect.”
“The gun found in your hand says you did.”
“What gun?”
“A .38 special with the serial number filed off.”
“Christ, Cam, this reeks of a setup.”
“Our gunshot-residue test says you fired it.”
He spoke as calmly as he could with adrenaline flooding his brain. “Don’t you see it’s an obvious frame job? Someone doesn’t want me looking into the Lerman case. The rabbit warning didn’t stop me, so now I’m being framed for a homicide—just like Slade was. Think about that.”
She leaned forward again in her chair.
