White River Burning полностью

He put his computer down on the hassock in front of his chair and went quickly to the side of the house that provided a view of the high pasture where the sound seemed to be coming from. By the time he got to the den window it had stopped. In the less-than-ideal dusk light he saw nothing unusual. He opened the window quietly and listened.

He heard only the distant cawing of crows. Then nothing at all.

Even though he suspected he was overreacting, he went to the bedroom where he’d left his Beretta in its ankle holster. When he sat on the bed to strap it on, he saw something he’d missed earlier—a note under the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was from Madeleine.

“Hi, sweetheart. I decided to stay over at the hospital inn tonight. So I came home to get a few overnight things and fresh clothes for tomorrow. In the morning I’ll go straight from White River to work. Love you.”

He made a mental note to call her later that evening. Then he left the bedroom and made a circuit of the ground-floor windows, peering out into the adjacent fields and woods. He repeated the circuit. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to his chair by the hearth, and picked up his computer.

Carlton Flynn was in the midst of giving his wrap-up statement directly to the camera and his millions of faithful viewers.

“. . . up to each of you to consider the sentiments expressed here tonight by Dr. Maynard Biggs and to compare them with the positions laid out by Dell Beckert. In my opinion, it boils down to one question: Do we keep extending, again and again, the respect that Biggs claims will solve all our problems, or do we draw the line and say, loud and clear, enough is enough! How many times are we supposed to turn the other cheek before we admit it isn’t working? My personal belief—and this is just me, folks—my belief is that peace is a two-way street. I’m Carlton Flynn, and that’s how I see it. I’ll be back after these important messages.”

As Gurney was closing the RAM-TV website, his phone was ringing. It was Torres.

“Gurney here.”

“You asked how to get to the gun club? And how to identify Beckert’s cabin?”

“Right.”

“The most direct access is from Clapp Hollow, which you get to off County Route Twenty, also called Tillis Road. About three miles into Clapp Hollow there’s a bridge over a stream, and right after that there are two trailheads across from each other. The one on the right leads up to the old quarries. The one on the left leads to the gun club preserve. I just emailed you a marked-up satellite map showing the route to the preserve, along with the GPS coordinates of the cabin.”

“You think my Outback can get through those trails?”

“It would depend on how much mud there is. And whether any trees are down.”

“You said one of the trails leads up to the old quarries—is that the area where the Gorts are holed up?”

“Yes. But it’s not just old stone quarries up there. There are interconnecting caves and abandoned mining tunnels that don’t appear on any maps. It’s a wild area. Dense forest and thorn bushes and no roads. The Gorts were born and raised in those hills. They could hide up there forever.”

“An interesting situation.”

As he was ending the call, Gurney heard the bing of an email arriving on his computer. It was the satellite trail map Torres had mentioned. As he adjusted the laptop screen for a closer look, his phone rang again.

It was Cory Payne, his voice sharp with excitement.

“Did you watch it?”

“I did.”

“What did you think?”

“Biggs seems to be a decent man. More decent than most politicians.”

“He understands the problem. He’s the only one who does.”

“The problem of disrespect?”

“Disrespect is another word for belittling. The literal belittling of the black man by the white man. The belittling of the powerless by the powerful. The belittling of the weak by the control freaks who want everything their own way. They beat their victims into the ground, into the dirt. Every so often those beatings—that endless belittling provokes rage. The control freaks call that rage the breakdown of civilization. You know what it really is?

“Tell me.”

“It’s the natural human reaction to unbearable disrespect. The assault on the heart, on the soul. Disrespect that makes me less than you. Before the Nazis killed the Jews, they made them less than equal, less than citizens, less than human. You see the horror in those words? The horror of making one man less than another?”

“Is that what your father does?”

Payne’s voice was pure acid. “You’ve been in the same room with him? You’ve watched him? You’ve listened to him? You’ve seen him on TV in a lovefest with that thug Flynn? You’ve heard him call his own son a murderer? What kind of man do you think he is?”

“That’s too big a question for me to answer.”

“I’ll make it simple. Do you think he’s a good man or a bad man?”