Wolf Lake. John Verdon

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СКАЧАТЬ be attacked by wolves, he was killed by wolves on the lodge property.

      Heir to the substantial fortune created by his great-grandfather, Ethan Gall was the founder, president, and chief benefactor of the Gall New Life Foundation—a nonprofit organization dedicated to the education and reform of prisoners for reentry into community life.

       The deceased was 34 years old and is survived by his brother Peyton. Lodge manager and family spokesperson Austen Steckle issued the following statement: “This sudden tragedy has created a sense of shock and disbelief here at Wolf Lake. We will have no further comment until we receive an official report from the medical examiner’s office.”

      There were also printouts of similar but shorter articles from the Burlington Free Press, the New York Times, and the Washington Post.

      Gurney picked up the phone from his desk and entered Hardwick’s number. The man answered immediately. “What’s up, Davey?”

      “Couple of things. Austen Steckle was described in a news article as the ‘family spokesperson.’ How many surviving members of the Gall family are there, besides Peyton?”

      “Zero.”

      “The entire family consists of Peyton?”

      “As far as Jane knows. I asked her about that.”

      “Okay. Another question. What’s the Gall New Life Foundation all about?”

      “Seems legit. Puts parolees through reentry training, education, extensive psych counseling. Actually seems to reduce recidivism. Ethan started it, ran it, put a lot of his own bucks in it.”

      Gurney made a note to dig deeper into that. “You mentioned this morning there was something weird about Dalton Gall’s death, and I saw the same thing in one of the newspaper articles. What’s that all about?”

      “Who the fuck knows? The story was passed along for a lot of years, maybe got enhanced along the way. Supposedly the old bastard had a dream about getting chewed up and spit out by a pack of wolves, and a few days later that’s pretty much what happened to him. Could be a load of crap.”

      “Kind of an interesting coincidence that our four recently deceased folks also had bad dreams before they ended up dead.”

      “I agree. But where do you go with that?”

      Gurney ignored the question, asked one of his own. “Strike you as odd that a guy who mows lawns for a living would—”

      Hardwick finished the thought. “Spring for a grand-a-day stay at an old-fashioned lodge? Beyond odd.”

      “And what do you make of all that wrist cutting?”

      Hardwick responded with a loud bark of a laugh. “I have no goddamn idea what to make of it. See, Davey, all them unanswered questions are precisely why we need your superior intellect.”

      GURNEY HUNG UP THE PHONE AND OPENED THE SECOND FOLDER Jane had left with him. This one was labeled Police Press Briefings, Hammond Statement, General Media Coverage.

      The first item was a two-page printout from a media website. Across the top Jane had written, “Sgt. Plant, Bureau of Criminal Investigation, briefing to reporters, November 8.” It consisted of the officer’s introductory statement followed by a Q&A with unidentified reporters.

      Gurney decided to skip that one for the moment and go on to the transcript of the next press briefing.

      This briefing was several pages longer than the first. There was, however, a link to the video—an option Gurney preferred. The facial expressions and tones of voice captured on video were a lot more revealing than words on paper. He opened his laptop and entered the link.

      As he was waiting for the video to appear, Madeleine came into the den, wearing a bathrobe, her hair wet from her shower.

      “Have you decided which pair you want to bring?” she asked.

      “Excuse me?”

      “Your snowshoes.”

      He looked over toward the place by the door where he remembered her leaning them that morning—the rawhide-and-wood ones and the plastic ones with the spikes on the bottom. “I guess the spiked ones?”

      Her surface smile seemed to be concealing some less-cheerful preoccupation.

      “Is something wrong?” he asked.

      Her smile broadened unconvincingly. “I was thinking maybe we could get a light for the birds.”

      “A what?”

      “You know, for the henhouse. It gets dark so early this time of year.”

      “That’s what you were thinking about?”

      “I just think it would be nice for them.”

      He knew something else was on her mind, and patience would be the best approach. “It’s just a matter of running an electrical line out there, installing a fixture. We can get an electrician to do it, or I can do it myself.”

      “It will be nice for them to have some light.” She took the snowshoes and left the room.

      He sat there, staring out the window, wondering what it was she wasn’t ready to talk about. His gaze wandered to the trees by the pasture.

      The hollow sound of multiple voices and of chairs being moved in a miked room drew his attention to the computer screen. The second police press briefing was about to begin.

      The setting was one of those depressing institutional conference rooms that Gurney was all too familiar with from his years in the NYPD. The video perspective, equally familiar, was from a single camera mounted in the back of the room, aimed at the front.

      A dozen or so cafeteria-style plastic chairs were occupied half by men and half by women, judging from the backs of their heads. Facing them was a thickly built man at a narrow podium. A blank whiteboard covered the wall behind him.

      His body had an egg-shaped stockiness about it. He was wearing the standard uniform of an over-forty detective: dark pants, dull pastel shirt, duller tie, and a gray sport jacket a size too small. Dark hair brushed straight back from a broad creased forehead, along with heavy cheeks and a grim mouth, gave him a startling resemblance to old photos of Jimmy Hoffa.

      He checked his watch and opened a loose-leaf binder.

      “Okay, folks, let’s get started. I’m Senior Investigator Gilbert Fenton, Bureau of Criminal Investigation. There’ve been some major developments in the past few days relative to Ethan Gall’s death. I’ve got a statement here.” As Fenton paused to turn a page in the binder, one of the reporters spoke up.

      “You used the general word ‘death.’ Are you implying that it wasn’t suicide?”

      “I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying that what we know now leaves the possibility open that his death may not have been ‘suicide’ in the normal sense of the word. But hold on a minute.” He raised his hand in the traffic-cop “stop” gesture. “Let me finish the СКАЧАТЬ