He shifted his position in the woods for a better view of the opening where the road entered the clearing. The first vehicle to appear was Mark Torres’s Crown Victoria. The second was an unmarked black van, and that was followed by a dark nondescript SUV. They parked in a row at the edge of the clearing, facing the house. No one got out.
Gurney got back on the phone with Hardwick. “Can you see them from where you are?”
“Yeah. The van looks like SWAT. What do you think they’re planning to do?”
“Not much until Kline arrives. And there are other invitees coming to this party, assuming he got in touch with them. Let me check with Torres and get back to you.”
Torres picked up on the first ring.
“Dave? Where are you?”
“Nearby, but out of sight, which is the way I’d like to keep it for a while. Do you guys have a plan?”
“Kline’s calling the shots. Nothing happens until everyone gets here.”
“Who’s with you now?”
“SWAT and Captain Beltz. The mayor and the sheriff are being driven by a deputy in the sheriff’s car. Mr. Gelter is coming separately. Mrs. Beckert’s chauffeur is bringing her.”
“What about Kline?”
“He’s on his way. By himself, far as I know.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way. The RAM-TV people.”
“Another of Beckert’s conditions. More witnesses.”
“Kline agreed to that?”
“
“Jesus.”
“Another piece of news. You asked about the locations of the phones that received calls from the alarm system at Beckert’s cabin when you and Hardwick were there. The calls went to Beckert’s phone, to Turlock’s, and to an anonymous prepaid. Beckert’s was turned off at the time, which makes sense if he was already on the run, so we have no location on that. Turlock’s was on, and the call was received through the Larvaton cell tower, which is the closest one to his house. It would explain why he showed up at the gun club that morning. No surprise there. The interesting one is the call to the prepaid. It was received through the White River tower, and thirty seconds later a call was made from that same prepaid to a phone registered to Ezechias Gort.”
This was no surprise to Gurney, having assumed that someone with reason to believe that Turlock would be present had notified one of the Gorts, but having it confirmed was encouraging. “Thanks for pursuing that, Mark. It’s a nice change of pace when something in this damn case makes sense.”
At the sound of another vehicle coming up the hill, they ended the call.
A maroon Escalade entered the clearing and came to a stop next to the Crown Victoria. A sheriff’s deputy got out of the driver’s seat and tapped on Torres’s window. After conferring for a few moments, he got back in the Escalade. For the ensuing quarter of an hour there was no other activity in the line of vehicles and no sound but the persistent hum of the generator and, at least to Gurney’s ear, the almost subliminal intonations of a cable news program.
Then Kline arrived in his Navigator, got out with a brisk man-in-command air about him, and paid a quick visit to each of the other vehicles. He was wearing a too-large windbreaker made of the stiff dark-blue fabric favored by most law-enforcement agencies. Across the back in bold letters were the words DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
He returned to the Navigator and stood in front of it, feet planted wide apart—the image of a conquering hero, had it not been for the oversize jacket making him look unusually small. Gurney was watching closely from his spot at the near edge of the woods as Kline took out his phone.
Gurney’s phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and took the call. “Hello, Sheridan. What’s the plan?”
Kline looked around the clearing. “Where are you?”
“Out of sight, keeping an eye on the house.”
“This is a surrender, not a battle.”
“Has he confessed to anything?”
“To everything. Everything except the Turlock homicide.”
“Why would he confess?”
“What difference does it make? The fact is, he did. We have it in writing.”
“In writing? How—”
Kline broke in impatiently. “Phone text. Electronic thumbprint attached.”
“Did you ever actually speak to him?”
“On the phone, briefly. There was noise in the background—probably that generator—which made it hard to hear him. I didn’t want any future disputes over what was said. So I told him to spell it out in a text, and that’s what he did.”
“And in that text he confessed to six murders?”
“He did.”
“You have no concerns about that?”
“I’m delighted with it. Obviously you’re not. Is that because it makes your idea that he was a helpless victim, framed by some Machiavellian genius, sound totally ridiculous?”
Gurney ignored the snark. “I’m concerned about it for two reasons. First, whatever else Beckert may be, he isn’t stupid. But confessing to multiple murders with no deal on the table is very stupid. It makes me wonder what’s going on. Second, I’ve been thinking about what drew me into this case to begin with—that message on Steele’s phone. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what it seemed to be.”
