“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Beckert would be spending the last few minutes of his life as a free man watching television?”
“Maybe he’s watching the news, seeing what’s being said about him.”
“That can’t be very pleasant. He’s being excoriated. Publicly ripped to pieces. Portrayed as a serial murderer, a self-righteous maniac, a framer of innocent people, a complete law-and-order fraud. The image that meant everything to him is being flushed down the toilet. The world is being told that Dell Beckert is a despicable criminal nutcase, and that his life was a total lie. You think that’s what he wants to listen to?”
“Jesus Christ, Gurney. How should I know what he wants to listen to? Maybe it’s a form of self-hatred. Self-punishment. Who the hell knows. I’m about to take this man into custody. End of story.”
Kline brushed past Gurney and got into the Navigator. Easing it out of its position in the row of vehicles, he moved it to a spot where the camera could follow Beckert’s progress from the front door through the floral area and across fifty or sixty feet of lawn to the Navigator’s open rear door.
As he watched Kline making his preparations for his moment of televised law-enforcement glory, Gurney’s uneasiness increased, and the what-ifs multiplied in his mind.
What if all this, including Beckert’s confession, was some sort of elaborate ruse?
What if Kline’s view of the case and Gurney’s own view of it were both wrong?
What if Beckert wasn’t even in that house?
As his list of what-ifs grew longer, he eventually came to a particularly troubling one that an early mentor in the NYPD had drilled into him. He could picture the man’s hard Irish face and bright-blue eyes. He could hear the ironic challenge in his voice:
As Kline was making his way back to Kilbrick, Gurney stopped him again with a rising sense of urgency. “Sheridan, you need to reconsider the level of risk here. It may be higher than you think.”
“If you’re worried about your safety, feel free to leave.”
“I’m worried about the safety of everyone here.”
As they were speaking, Torres was ushering the chosen five witnesses toward the house. A concerned backward glance from Haley Beckert suggested she’d heard Gurney’s comment.
“Christ,” muttered Kline, “keep your voice down.”
“Keeping my voice down won’t diminish the risk.”
Kline bridled visibly. “I have a fully equipped SWAT team here. Plus Captain Beltz. Plus Detective Torres. I have my own sidearm. I presume you do as well. I think we’re in a position to handle any surprises.” He started to walk away.
Gurney called after him. “Has it occurred to you that Beckert’s main supporters are all here?”
Kline stopped and turned. “So what?”
“Suppose they’re not here for the reason you think they are. Suppose you’re dead wrong about the whole point of this.”
Kline took a step toward Gurney and lowered his voice. “I’m warning you—if you sabotage our arrangements, if you do anything that impedes Beckert’s surrender, I’ll personally prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
“Sheridan, the confession makes no sense. The surrender makes no sense. Something god-awful is going on that we’re not seeing.”
“Damnit! One more word . . . one more syllable of this craziness . . . and I’ll have you removed.”
Gurney said nothing. He saw Haley Beckert watching him with an intensely curious frown. She detached herself from the group Torres had assembled in a semicircle around the entrance to the house and walked back across the lawn toward Gurney and Kline.
A second later, the world exploded.
It took Gurney a moment to grasp the nature of the event.
A deafening blast, a physical shock wave slamming the side of his body facing the house, the stinging impact of what felt like birdshot to the side of his face and neck, the air full of flying dirt and dust and the caustic odor of dynamite—all this at once—followed by a sharp ringing in his ears that made the cries around him sound far away.
As the dust began to settle, the horror gradually came into focus.
Across the lawn on the smoldering, flattened grass lay Dwayne Shucker, Goodson Cloutz, and Joe Beltz—recognizable mainly by the intact pieces of clothing that clung to their shattered bodies. Even from some distance away Gurney could see with a surge of nausea that Shucker’s nose and jaw were gone. Beltz’s entire head was missing. Cloutz’s intestines were exposed. His right hand still gripped his white cane, but the hand was at least a yard from the bleeding stump of a wrist. Marvin Gelter, spread-eagled on his back, was covered with so much blood it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.
Torres was still on his feet, but barely so. He moved slowly toward the carnage, checking, it seemed, for signs of life like a medic on a devastated battlefield.
