Then he went back to his starting point and did it all again—but this time he did it as he imagined the Good Shepherd might have. First he found an unobtrusive spot to park by the side of the road not far from the connector to the state highway—a reasonable place for someone to lie in wait for a passing Mercedes, a popular vehicle among Barkham Dell’s weekenders.

Then he pulled out behind an imaginary black Mercedes, “followed” it to the beginning of the long curve, accelerated into the curve, swung out into the left lane, lowered his passenger window, and at the approximate point indicated in the accident reconstruction he raised his right arm and pointed it toward the imaginary driver.

“BAM!” shouted Gurney as loud as he could, knowing that no sound he could make could approach even 10 percent of the report of the .50-caliber monster used in the actual shooting. As he faked the shot, he jammed on his brakes, visualizing the victim’s car drifting from the arc of the curve, careening into the swamp, perhaps a hundred yards ahead of him. He pretended to lay the gun down on the seat, to take a tiny toy animal from his shirt pocket, and to toss it onto the shoulder of the road not far from the spot where he pictured the Mercedes embedded in the mud, surrounded by the remnants of the previous season’s brown marsh grass.

Having completed the fantasy attack, he drove on toward Barkham Dell. On the way he considered all the available options for disposing of a Desert Eagle pistol. Three cars passed him going in the opposite direction. One happened to be a black Mercedes—sending a chill up the back of his scalp.

At the traffic light in the village, he made a U-turn—in order to repeat the whole procedure. But just as he was approaching Dead Dog Lake, pondering its pluses and minuses as a pistol depository, his cell phone rang. The caller ID was his own home landline.

“Madeleine?”

“Where are you?”

“On a back road near Barkham Dell. Why?”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Is there a problem?”

“What time is it?” she asked with disturbing calmness.

“What time? I don’t … Oh, Jesus … Yes, I see. I forgot.”

The clock on his dashboard read 3:15 P.M. He’d promised to be home by three. By three at the latest.

“You forgot?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s it? You forgot?” There was real anger in her controlled tone.

“I’m sorry. Forgetting is not something over which I have much control. I don’t purposely choose to forget things.”

“Yes you do.”

“How the hell could I? Forgetting is forgetting. It’s not an intentional thing.”

“You remember what you care about. You forget what you don’t care about.”

“That’s not—”