Читать книгу White River Burning - John Verdon - Страница 13

When Madeleine returned from her hike, radiating the satisfaction and exhilaration she derived from the outdoors, Gurney was still in his den, hunched over his computer screen. Having moved on from the internet news sites, he was exploring the physical reality of White River with the help of Google Street View.

Although it was only an hour’s drive from Walnut Crossing, he’d never had a compelling reason to go there. He had a sense that the place was emblematic of the decline of upstate New York cities and towns, suffering from industrial collapse, agricultural relocation, a shrinking middle-class population, political mismanagement, the spreading heroin epidemic, troubled schools, eroding infrastructure—with the added element of strained police relations with a sizable minority community, a problem now vividly underscored.

The image of White River was further clouded, ironically, by the looming presence of the area’s largest employer and supplier of much of its economic lifeblood: the White River Correctional Facility. Or, as it was known locally, Rivcor.

What Gurney could see, as Google Street View led him along the city’s main avenues, supported his negative preconceptions. There was even a clichéd set of railroad tracks dividing the good section of town from the bad.

Madeleine was standing next to him now, frowning at the screen. “What town is that?”

“White River.”

“Where all the trouble is?”

“Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “It’s about that traffic-stop shooting of a black motorist last year, right?”

“Yes.”

“And some statue they want removed?”

Gurney looked up at her. “What statue?”

“A couple of people were talking about it at the clinic the other day. A statue of someone connected to the early days of the prison.”

“That part I wasn’t aware of.”

She cocked her head curiously. “Does this have something to do with your call from Sheridan Kline?”

“Actually the call turned out to be a visit. By the man himself.”

“Oh?”

“He said something about not being that far away and preferring face-to-face meetings. But I suspect that coming here was always his plan.”

“Why didn’t he say that from the beginning?”

“Knowing how manipulative and paranoid he is, I’d guess he wanted to take me by surprise to keep me from recording our meeting.”

“The subject was that sensitive?”

Gurney shrugged. “Didn’t seem so to me. But it would be hard to know for sure without knowing what he wants from me.”

“He came all this way and didn’t tell you what he wants?”

“Yes and no. He says he wants my help investigating a fatal shooting. Claims he’s short-staffed, running out of time, with the city on the verge of Armageddon, et cetera.”

“But . . .”

“But it doesn’t add up. Procedurally, the investigation of homicides is strictly a police matter. If there’s a need for more personnel, that’s a police command decision. There are channels for that. It’s not up to the DA or his investigatory staff to take this sort of initiative—unless there’s something he’s not telling me.”

“You said there was a fatal shooting. Who was killed?”

Gurney hesitated. Law-enforcement deaths had always been a sensitive subject with Madeleine, and more so since he himself was wounded two years earlier at the end of the Jillian Perry case. “A White River cop was hit last night by a sniper at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration.”

Her expression froze. “He wants you to find the sniper?”

“That’s what he says.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

“I have the feeling I haven’t gotten the whole story yet.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided.”

She gave him one of those probing looks that made him feel as if his soul were on display, then switched gears. “You remember that we’re going to the big LORA fund-raiser tonight at the Gelters’, right?”

“That thing is tonight?”

“You might actually enjoy it. I understand the Gelters’ house is something to see.”

“I’d rather see it when it isn’t full of idiots.”

“What are you so angry about?”

“I’m not angry. I’m just not looking forward to spending time with those people.”

“Some of those people are quite nice.”

“I find the whole LORA thing a little nuts. Like that logo on their letterhead. A goddamn groundhog standing on its hind legs and leaning on a crutch. Jesus.”

“It’s an injured-animal rehabilitation center. What do you think their logo should be?”

“Better question: Why do we have to attend a fund-raiser for limping groundhogs?”

“When we’re asked to take part in a community event, it’s nice to say yes once in a while. And don’t tell me you’re not angry. You’re obviously angry, and it has nothing to do with groundhogs.”

He sighed and gazed out the den window.

Her expression suddenly brightened in one of those transformations that was part of her emotional wiring. “Want to take the pasture walk with me?” she asked, referring to the grassy path they kept mowed around the perimeter of the field on the slope above the house.

He screwed up his face in disbelief. “You just got back from a two-hour trek on the ridge, and you want to go out again?”

“You spend too much time bent over that computer screen. How about it?”

His first reaction went unvoiced. No, he didn’t want to waste time trudging pointlessly around that old pasture. He had urgent things to think about—the protests verging on all-out riots, the cop killing, Kline’s not-quite-believable story.

Then he reconsidered—remembering that whenever he took one of Madeleine’s annoying suggestions, the result always turned out better than he’d anticipated.

“Maybe just once around the field.”

“Great! We might even find a little creature with a limp—for you to bring to the party.”

As they reached the end of the path, Gurney suggested they go on to his archaeological project in the cherry woods above the pond.

When they reached the partly exposed foundation, he began pointing out where he’d uncovered the various iron and glass artifacts he’d catalogued on his computer. As he was indicating the spot where he’d found the teeth, Madeleine broke in with a sharp exclamation.

“Oh my God, look at that!”

He followed her gaze up into the treetops. “What do you see?”

“The leaves, the sun shining through them, the glowing greens. That light!”

He nodded. He tried not to let his irritation show. “What I’m doing here bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I guess I’m not as enthusiastic about it as you are.”

“It’s more than that. What is it about my digging here that annoys you so much?”

She didn’t answer.

“Maddie?”

“You want to solve the mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

“The mystery of who lived here, when they lived here, why they lived here. Right?”

“More or less.”

“You want to solve the mystery of what brought them here, what kept them here.”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not everything has to be figured out . . . dug up, torn apart, evaluated. Some things should be left alone, in peace, respected.”

He considered this. “You think the remains of this old house fall into that category?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like a grave.”

At 5:35 PM, they got in the Outback and set out for the LORA fund-raiser at Marv and Trish Gelter’s famously unique residence, located on a hilltop in the chic hamlet of Lockenberry.

From what Gurney had heard, Lockenberry was close enough to Woodstock to attract a similar crowd of artsy weekenders from Manhattan and Brooklyn, yet far enough away to have its own independent cachet, derived from the poets’ colony at its core. Known simply as the Colony, it was founded by the town’s eponymous whale-oil heiress, Mildred Lockenberry, whose own poetry was revered for its impenetrability.

Just as the value of property within Lockenberry was affected by how close it was to the Colony, the value of any property in the eastern part of the county was affected by how close it was to Lockenberry—a phenomenon Gurney noted in the postcard perfection of the nineteenth-century homes, barns, and stone walls lining the last few miles of the road leading into the hamlet. The restoration and maintenance of these structures could not be inexpensive.

Although the natural endowments of the land and buildings in the immediate vicinity of Lockenberry had been groomed and highlighted, the entire route from Walnut Crossing, winding through a succession of rolling hills and long river valleys, was, in its uncultivated and unpolished way, amazingly beautiful—with wild purple irises, white anemones, yellow lupines, and shockingly blue grape hyacinths scattered among the delicate greens of the spring grasses. It was enough to make him understand, if not feel as deeply, Madeleine’s enthusiasm for the display of sunlit leaves over his excavation by their pond.

When the GPS on the dashboard of their Outback announced that they would be arriving at their destination in another five hundred feet, Gurney slowly pulled over onto the road’s gravelly shoulder and came to a stop by an antique iron gate in a high drystone wall. A freshly graded dirt-and-gravel driveway proceeded from the open gate in a wide curve up through a gently rising meadow. He took out his phone.

Madeleine gave him a questioning look.

“I need to make a couple of calls before we go in.”

He entered the number of Jack Hardwick, a former New York State Police investigator with whom he’d crossed paths a number of times since they’d met many years earlier pursuing in different jurisdictions a solution to the sensational Peter Piggert murder case. Their unique bond was formed through a kind of grotesque serendipity—when they discovered, separately, thirty miles apart, on the same day, the disconnected halves of Piggert’s last victim. Who happened to be Piggert’s mother.

Gurney and Hardwick’s subsequent relationship had had its ups and downs. The ups were based on an obsession with solving homicides and a shared level of intelligence. The downs were the product of their conflicting personalities—Gurney’s calm, cerebral approach versus Hardwick’s compulsive need to debunk, irritate, and provoke—a habit responsible for his forced transition from the state police to his current role as a private detective. The recording on the man’s phone was, for him, relatively inoffensive:

“Leave a message. Be brief.”

Gurney complied. “Gurney here. Calling about White River. Wondering if you know anyone there who might know something that’s not already in the news.”

His second call was to the cell number Sheridan Kline had given him earlier that day. Kline’s recorded voice was as oleaginously cordial as Hardwick’s was curt. “Hello, this is Sheridan. You’ve reached my personal phone. If you have a legal, business, or political matter to discuss, please call me at the number listed on the county website for the office of the district attorney. If your call is personal in nature, when you hear the beep leave your name, number, and a message. Thank you.”

Gurney got directly to the point. “Regarding your description earlier today of the situation in White River, I came away feeling that some critical factor had been left out. Before I decide whether to get involved, I need to know more. The ball’s in your court.”

Madeleine pointed at the dashboard clock. It was 6:40 PM.

He weighed the pros and cons of making a third call, but making it now in Madeleine’s presence might not be a good idea. He restarted the car, passed through the open gate, and headed up the spotless driveway.

Madeleine spoke without looking at him. “Your security blanket?”

“Excuse me?”

“I got the impression you were touching base with the reassuring world of murder and mayhem before having to face the terrifying unknowns of a cocktail party.”

Half a mile into the Gelters’ property the driveway crested a gentle rise, bringing them suddenly to the edge of a field planted with thousands of daffodils. In the slanting sunlight of early evening the effect was startling—almost as startling as the massive, windowless, cubical house overlooking the field from the top of the hill.