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He clicked on Directions, entered his Walnut Crossing address as the starting point, and found that the distance to Parkston was 142 miles. The estimated drive time was just under three hours, not Hardwick’s four. Even so, he was reluctant to make the trip without some indication that Merle Tabor would be there. He looked up the number for the Parkston Police Department.

His call was automatically transferred to the county sheriff’s office. He assumed he must have misheard the name given by the man who answered—Sergeant Gerbil—but he didn’t question it. He explained that he was a retired NYPD homicide detective, had been hired to look into an old case down in Butris County, Virginia, and had reason to believe that a Parkston resident by the name of Merle Tabor might be able to give him some useful information. But he didn’t know how to get in touch with the man. He was starting to explain that Tabor lived on Black Mountain Hollow and had no phone when the sergeant interrupted him with a nasal Appalachian accent.

“You plannin’ on payin’ him a visit?”

“Yes, but I’d like to know that he’s there before I drive for three—”

“He’s there.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s always there in the spring of the year. Most other times, too.”

“You know him?”

“Somewhat. But it don’t sound like you do.”

“I don’t. His name was given to me as someone familiar with the case I’m looking into. Is there any way of getting in touch with him?”

“You want to see him, you just have to go see him.”

“His house at the end of the Hollow road?”

“Only house up there.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Your name again?”

“Dave Gurney.”

“NYPD?”

“Homicide. Retired.”

“Good luck. By the way, make sure it’s daylight.”

“Daylight?”

“Merle don’t like people on his property after dark.”

After ending the call, Gurney checked the time. It was just five after nine. If he left immediately, allowing six hours for the total round-trip drive time, plus forty-five minutes with Merle Tabor, he could be home before four.

He had some phone calls to make, but he could make them en route. He paid Marika for the coffees, left a generous tip, and set out for Parkston.

As he was heading southwest through the long river valley toward Pennsylvania, he made the first call—to Madeleine. It went to her voicemail. He left a detailed message explaining where he was going and why. Then he checked his own voicemail and discovered that she’d left a message for him since he’d had his phone shut off all morning. He played it back.

“Hi. I just arrived at the clinic. I don’t know if that Thrasher person was there when you were leaving for Abelard’s this morning, but when I was leaving at eight forty I saw his fancy car down by our barn. I don’t like the idea of him coming up on our property whenever he feels like it. In fact, I don’t like him being there at all. We need to talk. Soon. See you later.”

Aside from feeling the automatic negative reaction he felt whenever Madeleine raised a problem, he had to admit he wasn’t especially pleased with Thrasher’s presence either. And he certainly wasn’t pleased with the man’s secretiveness about what he was looking for.

His next call was to Torres—to raise a point he’d meant to bring up at Abelard’s, before he was distracted by the young detective’s slide into self-doubt.

He got his voicemail.

“Mark, it’s Dave Gurney. I want to suggest something. If Cory Payne wasn’t the shooter at the Bridge Street apartment building, obviously someone else was. You need to take another look at the traffic and security videos. The shooter may have used that red motocross bike. Or another vehicle. Even a police car. If the pattern from Poulter Street is repeated, he may have tried to stick to side streets to avoid being caught on camera. He may even have walked most or all of the way. But there are a hell of a lot more cameras in that part of town than around Poulter Street, and I’d be willing to bet he ended up within range of at least one of them. Unless you actually recognize a vehicle you know, you’ll have to go by the timing—looking for vehicles that enter and then leave the area at times consistent with the shooting. It’ll be a time-consuming job, but it could break the case.”

His next call, as he crossed a modest bridge over the headwaters of the Delaware River into Pennsylvania, was to the Episcopal rector in White River.

The man’s greeting was so smoothly delivered that Gurney thought for a second he’d reached another voicemail recording. “Good morning! This is Whittaker Coolidge at Saint Thomas the Apostle. How can I help you?”

“This is Dave Gurney.”

“Dave. I was just thinking about you. Any encouraging news?”

“Some progress, but I’m calling with a question.”

“Fire away.”

“It’s for Cory, actually, unless you happen to know the answer. I need to know if he’s ever owned any thirty-aught-six rifle cartridges.”

“Didn’t you raise that point when you were here?”

“I said that the police found a box of cartridges in his closet and—”

Coolidge cut him off. “And he denied it. Vehemently.”