In the meantime, he pulled up a satellite photo of an area encompassing Walnut Crossing, Blackmore Mountain, Harbane, and the neighboring town of Scarpton on his laptop. The image was dated the previous July.
Apart from the two villages, most of the area was forested. The remainder consisted of small pastures, many of which had been abandoned to the gradual encroachment of shrubs and saplings. More than the topography itself, however, he was interested in the roads connecting Walnut Crossing with Harbane and with Scarpton. The only direct route from his home to either of those towns passed directly over Blackmore Mountain. An alternative route would have doubled his driving time. The caller had let him choose between Harbane and Scarpton to give him the illusion of being in control. Bottom line, both Harbane and Scarpton required taking the same mountain road, which solidified his belief that no actual meeting was ever intended.
Gurney manipulated the satellite photo to zoom in on the mountain and locate the spot where he’d been forced off the road. He then centered that spot on the screen and adjusted the photo coverage to include an area of one mile in every direction from that point.
His initial impression was of uninterrupted woodland on both sides of the road. Closer inspection revealed two small clearings—one about a quarter mile in from the left side of the road, the other—a little farther in the direction of Harbane—half a mile into the woods on the right side.
Zooming in first on the left-side clearing, he was able to make out a log cabin, a shed, a woodpile partly covered by a tarp, and two raised planting beds. A dirt lane through the woods connected the clearing with the road.
Shifting to the right side of the road, he zoomed in on the other clearing. It contained a larger cabin and half a dozen tent platforms with a picnic table and fire pit adjacent to each. It appeared to be a small campground. Given the current weather, it probably wasn’t in use, but both sites were worth exploring.
“David, there’s a van down by the barn, and someone with a camera.”
Madeleine was at the den door, and her tone was an unmistakable call to action.
He closed his laptop and followed her out through the kitchen to the French doors. She pointed down past the low pasture to the area between the barn and the pond. He saw what he hadn’t expected to see for at least another day or two—a van with a satellite dish on the roof and a RAM News logo on the side. Two figures in hooded parkas were standing in front of it.
The one with the camera raised it to eye level and began a slow pan around the property. The other figure lowered her parka hood, revealing a mass of blond hair. The camera operator completed the panning shot and aimed the camera at her. She made a sweeping movement of her arm up toward the house. She appeared to be speaking to the camera.
Madeleine’s lips tightened. “Are you going to tell them to get off our property, or shall I do it?” She sounded eager to accept the second option.
“Not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’d like that.”
“Like being told to get lost?”
“They’d be happy to engage with either one of us on video. Ideally, they’d like me to answer questions about Blackmore Mountain, but they’d settle for a shouting match over their right to be here, the people’s right to know, et cetera—any contentious dispute they could play back on their so-called news program. These people don’t deliver information, they deliver conflict. That’s what they sell to their brain-dead audience. Battles boost ratings. A trip that doesn’t generate a fight is a zero for them. So that what we’ll give them—zero.”
It was obvious from Madeleine’s body language that zero conflict in this situation was not appealing.
Gurney added, “Their next move will be to come up to the house to badger us into responding. I’ll lock the doors and we’ll go upstairs.”
He watched as the blond reporter and her cameraman began to make their way awkwardly up through the snow-covered pasture.
“That’s it?” said Madeleine. “We let them have the run of our property, pound on our doors, do whatever?”
Gurney let out a small sigh. “However frustrating it may be for us, it’ll be more frustrating for them. Trust me.”
Madeleine waited while he secured the doors. After a final glare at the intruders approaching the house, she followed him upstairs.
Soon the door-knocking began, growing more insistent as the pair moved from the side door to the French doors and on to the door at the rear of the house. As she progressed from door to door, the reporter’s shouted challenges increased in insinuation and hostility.
“Mr. Gurney, we’re from RAM News. Please come to the door.”
“We have important questions for you. It would be in your interest to answer them.”
“Come to the door. This is of vital importance.”
“This is about your role in the Blackmore shooting.”
“It’s your chance to tell your side of the story.”
“What were you doing on that mountain road?”
“How long did you know the victim?”
