The front door led directly into a spacious sitting room dominated by a stone fireplace. In the center of the rough-hewn mantel was a stuffed bird of prey with furious yellow eyes and extended talons, flanked by twin wildcats poised to leap.

“They’re coming back,” said Trout significantly. “New sightings in these mountains every week.”

Gurney followed the man’s gaze. “Wildcats?”

“Remarkable animals. Ninety pounds of muscle. Claws like steel razors.” There was a definite excitement in his eyes as he looked up at the stuffed monsters on the mantel.

He was a small man, Gurney noted, perhaps five-five at the most, but with the well-developed shoulders of a bodybuilder.

He bent over and unclasped the Doberman’s leash. A guttural command sent the dog trotting silently out of sight behind a leather couch, where he offered Gurney a seat.

Gurney sat without hesitation. Trout’s transparent efforts at intimidation struck him as silly but also made him wonder what was coming next.

“I hope you understand how unofficial all this is,” said Trout, still standing.

“How artificial …?” said Gurney, pretending to have misunderstood.

“No. Unofficial.”

“Sorry. Touch of tinnitus. Stopped a bullet with my head.”

“So I heard.” He paused, regarding Gurney’s head with the sort of concern one might exhibit in the selection of a questionable melon. “How’s the recovery going?”

“Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“My head wound. You said you’d heard about it.”

The low ring of a cell phone came from Trout’s shirt pocket. He took it out and checked the screen. He frowned, presumably at the ID. For a moment he looked indecisive; then he pressed the TALK button.

“Trout here. Where are you?” As he held the phone to his ear for the next minute, his jaw muscles tensed several times. “Then we’ll see you very soon.” He pressed another button and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“That was the answer to your question.”

“The person who told you I’d been shot is coming here now?”

“Exactly.”

Gurney smiled. “That’s impressive. I didn’t think she worked on Sundays.”

The comment produced a surprised blink and pause. Trout cleared his throat. “As I was saying a moment ago, our little get-together is completely unofficial. I decided to meet with you for three reasons. First, because you asked Dr. Holdenfield if a meeting could be arranged. Second, because I felt that it was appropriate to extend a simple courtesy to someone formerly in law enforcement. Third, because I hope that our informal discussion will avert any confusion regarding the authority and responsibility for the investigation of the Good Shepherd murders. Good intentions can sometimes end up impeding an official process. You’d be amazed at what DOJ lawyers can construe as obstructions of justice.”

Trout shook his head, as if in despair at those overscrupulous government attorneys who might come down on Gurney like the proverbial ton of bricks.