Peter Pan Must Die (53 page)

Perhaps the answer to that one question would unravel all the other secrets in the case. Gurney decided then and there to think his way through it until the truth emerged. The simplicity of the question persuaded him that it was the right question. It even restored in him a modest sense of optimism. He felt that he was on the right track.

Then something startling happened.

An answer occurred to him that was as simple as the question.

At first he was afraid to breathe—as though the solution were as fragile as smoke and breathing might blow it away. But the more he examined it, the more he tested its solidity, the more convinced he became that it was right. And if it was right, then the Spalter murder case was finally solved.

As he stared at the staggeringly simple explanation taking shape
in his mind, he felt the tingling excitement that always accompanied a dawning truth.

He repeated the key question to himself.
What was so hard about the hit on Carl Spalter? What had made it seem so impossible?

Then he laughed out loud.

Because the answer was, quite simply, nothing.

Nothing at all had made it seem impossible.

As he walked back past the figures at the railing, he double-checked the validity of his insight and all its implications by asking himself what light it cast into the remaining dark corners of the case. His feeling of excitement intensified as one mystery after another dissolved.

Now he understood why Mary Spalter had to die.

He knew who had ordered the shot that ended Carl Spalter’s life. The motive was as plain as day. And darker than a night in hell.

He knew what the terrible secret was, what the nails in Gus’s head were all about, and what the slaughter in Cooperstown was supposed to accomplish.

He could see how Alyssa and Klemper and Jonah all fit in the puzzle.

The mystery of the shot that came from a place it couldn’t have come from was no longer a mystery.

In fact, everything about the Spalter murder case was suddenly simple. Nauseatingly simple.

And it all underscored one inescapable truth. Peter Pan had to be stopped.

As Gurney pondered that final challenge, his accelerating thoughts were interrupted by another
whump
.

Some of the fairgoers who were wandering by stopped, cocked their heads, looked at one another with anxious frowns. But no one at the railing gave any sign of noticing anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps, Gurney thought, they were too wrapped up in the racket of the amusements and the happy cries of the amused. And if someone at the railing was responsible for this latest in the series of muffled explosions—if he’d rigged the incendiary with a timer or had sent an electronic signal with a remote detonator—he was certainly doing nothing to advertise the fact.

Recognizing that this was likely his best, and maybe last, opportunity to decide for himself if any of these individuals merited further attention—or if he’d hit a dead end in his “hot pursuit” of Panikos—Gurney moved to the railing, to a position that afforded a reasonably good view of their profiles.

Putting Hardwick’s stated selections and exclusions aside, he studied each partial face and body shape in turn. Of the twelve, he was able to see nine clearly enough to make a confident judgment, and all those judgments were for exclusion. Among the nine were the three he himself had been following earlier, which gave him a brief feeling of regret for time wasted—even though he well knew that investigative work was as much about exclusion as inclusion.

In any event, only three individuals remained to be assessed. They happened to be the three closest to him, but all were turned away from him. All three were wearing the wretched uniform of the rebellious young.

Like many other little upstate towns that for years had lingered
in a kind of
Leave It to Beaver
time warp of old-fashioned manners and appearances, Walnut Crossing was slowly being infiltrated—as Long Falls already had been—by the toxic culture of rap crap, gangsta clothes, and cheap heroin. The three young men that Gurney was watching seemed to exemplify the trend. He was hoping, however, that two of them were merely idiots and that the third …

Bizarre as the thought might seem, he was hoping that the third was evil incarnate.

He was also hoping that he’d have no doubt about it. It would be nice if it was all in the eyes—if he could with one good look identify evil as easily as he could exclude it. But he feared that would not be the case, that more than simple observation would be required to verify so crucial a judgment. He would almost certainly have to rely on some form of interview, some way of generating a series of challenges demanding a series of responses. Responses come in many forms—words, tones, expressions, body language. The truth is cumulative.

The question before him now, of course, was how to get from here to there.

The options were simplified when one of the three individuals who’d been looking away turned sufficiently in Gurney’s direction to reveal a facial structure quite inconsistent with the one appearing on the security videos. He said something to the other two about the Ferris wheel, at first seemed to be cajoling, then taunting them to come with him. In fact, it seemed, he was taunting them to come with him and the other nine, who were now pouring excitedly through the opening in the railing that led directly to the Ferris wheel line. Eventually he abandoned the two holdouts, after shouting that they were fucking pussies, and joined the line.

That’s when one of the two, the one nearest Gurney, finally turned his head in Gurney’s direction. He was wearing a black hoodie that concealed his hair and much of his forehead and shadowed his eyes. His face was painted a bilious yellow. A painted rust-colored smile obscured the contours of his mouth. Only one feature was plainly discernible. But that one riveted Gurney’s attention.

It was the nose—small, sharp, slightly hooked.

He couldn’t swear it was a perfect match with what he’d seen on the videos, but he felt the similarity was close enough to qualify this
individual as a definite
possible
. More would be needed, however, to move the needle to
probable
. And he still hadn’t had gotten a decent view of Black Hoodie’s companion at the rail.

As Gurney was about to shift his position, that young man simplified the situation by turning his head sufficiently to eliminate himself (and his broad, flat face) from further consideration. He was saying something to Black Hoodie, which Gurney only partially overheard. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like “You got any more shit?”

Black Hoodie’s response was inaudible, but there was nothing ambiguous about the disappointment on the other’s face. “You got any more coming?”

Again the answer was inaudible, but its tone was not pleasant. The questioner was obviously taken aback, and after an awkward hesitation, he backed away, then turned and hurried into the concourse nearest Hardwick. After a brief hesitation, Hardwick followed him, and they were soon both out of sight.

Black Hoodie was alone at the railing. He had turned back toward the carnival rides and was gazing now, with a kind of dreamy speculation, at the gaudy array of Ferris wheel lights. There had been a measured smoothness in his movement, and now there was a stillness about him that Gurney deemed far more adult than childlike.

Black Hoodie (as Gurney mentally called him, unwilling to give him the assassin’s name prematurely) was keeping his hands in the front pockets of his sweatshirt—which could be a convenient way for him to keep his hands hidden, as the skin on one’s hands is a powerful revealer of age, without the oddity of wearing gloves in August. His height—no more than five feet—was consistent with Peter Pan’s, and he appeared to have the same sort of slim body that left its gender an open question. There were specks of mud on his black sweatpants and sneakers, consistent with racing an ATV down Barrow Hill and across the soggy pasture bordering the fairgrounds. The suggestion in that snippet of overheard conversation with his companion at the rail that he may have been supplying drugs that evening would explain how a stranger might have been accepted instantly into the shabby little circle.

As Gurney was eyeing the black-clad figure and weighing this circumstantial evidence, the background strumming and twanging
of country music that had filled the fairgrounds abruptly ceased—and was followed by several seconds of loud static and finally an announcement:

The announcement was truncated by the loudest explosion yet.

Panic was spreading widely. Shouts. Mothers screaming for their children. People looking around wildly, some struck motionless, some moving erratically.

Black Hoodie, standing at the rail, gazing up at the colossal Ferris wheel, showed no reaction at all. No shock, no curiosity. This, in Gurney’s estimation, was the most damning evidence so far. How could this person not react—unless what was happening was no surprise to him?

As was often the case in Gurney’s mental life, though, growing conviction brought with it a growing caution. He was all too aware of how one’s perceptions can start lining up to support a particular conclusion. Once a pattern begins to take shape, however erroneous it might be, the mind unconsciously favors any data points that support it and discounts any that don’t. The results can be disastrous and, particularly in law enforcement, fatal.

Suppose Black Hoodie was just another pathetic waster, stoned out of his mind, more absorbed by the carnival lights than by any real danger. Suppose he was just another one of a million people on the planet
with a small hooked nose. Suppose the spattered mud on his pants had been there for the past week?

Suppose what seemed like an increasingly obvious pattern wasn’t a pattern at all?

Gurney had to do something, anything, to resolve the issue. And he had to do it alone. And quickly. There was no time left for subtlety. Or teamwork. God only knew where Hardwick had gotten to at that point. And there was no chance of gaining the cooperation of the local police, who were probably already in over their heads trying to deal with the incipient pandemonium—not to mention the obstacle of his having made an enemy of one of their own. If he approached them now, he’d be more likely to get himself arrested than to get their help in settling the Black Hoodie question.

The amusement rides were still roaring and screeching around their mechanical confinements. The Ferris wheel was slowly rotating, its size and the relative silence of its motion endowing it with a peculiar majesty among the lesser and noisier carnival contraptions. People were still moving in both directions on the circular concourse. Anxious parents were beginning to congregate at the railing, presumably to gather up their children as soon as they disembarked from the rides.

Gurney couldn’t wait any longer.

He gripped the Beretta in his loose sweatshirt pocket, released the safety, and made his way along the railing to a position a few feet behind Black Hoodie. Running now on little more than instinct and impulse, he began to sing softly.

A man and woman standing together near Gurney gave him a couple of odd glances. Black Hoodie didn’t move.

A ride called Wild Spinner rolled to a halt with the sound of gigantic nails on a blackboard. It disgorged a few dozen giddy kids, many of whom were hustled away by waiting adults—with the effect of clearing the area around Gurney.

With his hidden Beretta aimed at the back of the figure in front of him, he resumed his barely audible singing, maintaining the inanely lilting tune of the nursery rhyme as best he could, while adding his own words.

Black Hoodie turned his head slightly, enough perhaps to get a peripheral glimpse of the size and position of whoever was behind him, but said nothing.

Gurney could now see several dark red circular marks about the diameter of small peas painted on the side of his cheekbone in a way that reminded him of the tear-shaped tattoos gang members often displayed in that same place—sometimes as memorials to murdered friends, sometimes as advertisements of murders they themselves had committed.

Then he felt a small frisson—as he realized that they weren’t just little red marks, or even red tears.

They were tiny red flowers.

Black Hoodie’s hands moved slightly inside his garment’s bulky front pockets.

In his own pocket, Gurney’s right forefinger slipped over the trigger of the Beretta.

In the concourse behind him, at a distance he estimated at no more than a hundred yards, there was another explosion—followed by shouts, screams, curses, the sharp clamor of several fire alarms going off at once, more screams, someone wailing the name “Joseph,” the sound of many running feet.

Black Hoodie stood perfectly still.