On Harrow Hill

The hooded figure at the side of the shed whirled around, firing wildly in the direction of the sound. Gurney heard the sharp crack-crack-crack of the bullets hitting the house and still others ripping through the thick shrubs at the edge of the patio. From his prone position, he fired back—eight or nine rounds, he wasn’t sure which.

In the next lightning flash there was no sign of the hooded figure. Gurney forced himself to his feet, thinking that he would make his way back to the bedroom window and into the house for his shotgun. But when he tried to walk, he found that he couldn’t. His mind was racing for an alternative when the gray figure slowly emerged from the darkness by the shed into the light of the fire.

Gurney raised the Beretta, pulled the trigger, and heard the worst possible sound—the metallic click of the hammer on an empty chamber.

The gray figure moved a few steps forward, the AK-47 leveled at Gurney’s chest. The lack of any discernible features beneath the hood made the rasping laugh that came out of it seem hardly human.

“Time to take out the garbage,” said the voice. Neither identifiably male nor female, it sounded like something being extruded from a rusted machine.

Having been on the front line of hundreds of homicide investigations in the city, this was not the first time Gurney had found himself at a potentially fatal disadvantage with a killer. The crucial objective was to create a delay. The longer he could keep that trigger from being pulled, the better his chance of preventing it entirely.

His experience told him that most killers, unless driven by uncontrollable rages, could be tempted into pausing in situations like this in order to find out what the intended victim or the police might know about them or their crimes. The key was to reveal a sequence of facts, gradually drawing out the narrative without the real goal—delay—becoming obvious. This demanded a delicate balance. Details that carried an emotional charge were the best obscurers of delay, but they carried the risk of igniting a deadly reaction.

Gurney began with a simple question.

“Was she worth it?”

A jagged lightning strike punctuated the question, and for a startling second its flash was reflected in the malevolent eyes fixed on Gurney.

He continued, speaking softly, insinuatingly. “The high school goddess. Irresistible and untouchable. Except by Billy Tate. It must have been nearly unbearable that a scruffy delinquent like Tate could have what you couldn’t. And then, even worse, she sold herself to that disgusting old man on Harrow Hill. I can imagine your envy, the acid eating away your life, year after year. And then, the miracle. She spoke to you. Showed interest in you. My God, what a rush that must have been! Your chance at last. I wonder how long it took before she started telling you how unhappy she was with her married life, how she longed to be free of it. Perhaps she claimed to have certain feelings about you, maybe that she always felt you two had something in common. Maybe that was all the direction and encouragement you needed. Or maybe she was more specific about that terrible old Angus being the sole obstacle to her happiness—a happiness that she’d be inclined to share with you. Perhaps she gave you an advance taste of that happiness. You understood what she wanted you to do. You just weren’t sure how to proceed. So much at stake. Such a desirable prize. Such a terrible risk. But then the great opportunity fell into your lap.”

The chickens were squawking wildly now, no doubt sensing the growing conflagration on the outside of their coop.

When Gurney glanced in that direction, he noticed a dark figure moving along the edge of the firelit area and disappearing behind the coop.

He tried to maintain the calm flow of his narrative.

“The stars were aligned as never before. You knew you had to act immediately, or you never would. You explained the situation—the unique opportunity—to Lorinda. You told her it was now or never. She agreed. You stitched together a plan. And you pulled it off. Beautifully. At least the parts of the plan you could control. The hidden wild card was Mike Morgan. Anxious, guilt-ridden, womanizing Mike Morgan. Did Lorinda mention that you weren’t the first man she tried to interest in getting rid of Angus? No, I don’t suppose she did. Nobody wants to be second choice.”

The AK-47, which had been slightly lowered, was raised. Gurney heard a sound like a simmering growl emanating from the darkness under the hood. He had no alternative now but to press forward.

“But Morgan hadn’t gotten the message. He’d thought his relationship with Lorinda was just about casual sex, like all his other relationships. When Lorinda realized that he wasn’t going to take the next step, the only step that mattered to her, she moved on. To you.”