Читаем White River Burning полностью

What he hadn’t mentioned was that someone had taken a shot at him. He told himself at first it was because he didn’t want to alarm her with the specter of a possibly ongoing danger. A day later—with the rifle recovered, Turlock dead, and Beckert apparently on the run—he told himself it was because there was no longer any danger, and therefore no urgency in discussing the matter. But he had to admit now, sitting there in front of Snook’s greenhouses, that he always found it suspicious when someone offered shifting reasons for the same conclusion. A wise friend once commented that the more reasons someone gave you for their behavior, the less likely any of them was the real reason.

Perhaps that was what was bothering him—not so much Madeleine’s absence as his own evasiveness. He resolved to be more open with her in their next conversation. That simple resolution, as resolutions often do, lightened his mood. He pulled out of the parking lot—focused now on getting home, reviewing the case files, and trying to make sense of the inconsistent details.

Twenty-five minutes later, as he was driving up through the low pasture to the house, deciding which file to tackle first, he was surprised to catch a glimpse of Madeleine in her straw gardening hat by one of the flower beds.

When he got out of the car, he found her kneeling by the bed next to the asparagus patch. She was planting the delphiniums he’d brought home two days earlier. She looked pale and exhausted.

“Did something happen?” he asked. “I thought you were staying over at the hospital.”

“The relatives arrived sooner than expected. And I was more worn out than I realized.” She laid her trowel down by the flowers, shaking her head. “It’s awful. Kim is full of such a terrible anger. At first it was all inside. Now it’s coming out. Heather is worse. Completely shut down. Like she’s not there at all.” Madeleine paused. “Is there anything we can tell them about the progress you’re making? What you told me on the phone last night sounded huge. It might offer them some kind of relief. . . or distraction.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“The current status of an investigation is not something that can be—”

She cut him off. “Yes, yes, I know all that. It’s just . . . there’s so much misery, not knowing anything. I was just hoping . . .” She picked up her trowel, then put it down again and got to her feet. “Did you have your meeting with Kline?”

“That’s where I’m coming from.”

“Did anything get resolved?”

“Not really.”

“What did he want?”

“On the surface, my help in wrapping things up. In reality, my silence. The last thing he wants is for the media to find out he fired me three days ago for suggesting he had the case all wrong.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I’d see the case through to the end.”

She looked confused. “Isn’t it essentially over?”

“Yes and no. There’s a lot of evidence implicating Beckert and Turlock—the things I told you about on the phone, plus a lot more that was discovered overnight and this morning, including the fact that Beckert seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared? Does that make him a fugitive?”

“I don’t know what language Kline will be using publicly, but it sounds like a reasonable label to me. The new evidence doesn’t leave much doubt about his involvement in the playground murders as well as the shootings. So everything’s turned around, with Cory for all practical purposes exonerated.”

She laid her trowel down and regarded him closely. “Do I hear a reservation in your voice?”

“Just a feeling that I’m still missing something. I’m having trouble matching the risk and brutality of the murders with the supposed reward.”

“Doesn’t that happen? What about the people who get shot for a pair of sneakers?”

“That happens. But not as part of a well-thought-out plan. Cory is convinced that it’s all about Beckert’s political future—eliminating people who might create problems for him.”

“You think the man is capable of that?”

“He’s cold enough. But it still seems out of proportion. There’s something in the payoff that I’m not seeing clearly. Maybe I’m asking the wrong questions.”

“What do you mean?”