Chapter 29

Too Damn Many Bits and Pieces

As he drove out of Branville into the rolling hills and scrubby pastures of northeastern Delaware County, Gurney’s mind was swirling. His natural facility for organizing data into meaningful patterns was stymied by the volume of it all.

It was like trying to make sense out of a heap of tiny puzzle pieces without knowing whether every piece was present—or even how many puzzles the pieces were part of. One minute he would be certain that all the debris was the result of a single central storm; the next minute he would be certain of nothing. Maybe he was too damn eager to come up with one explanation, one elegant equation.

Passing a roadside sign welcoming him to Dillweed suggested a modest next step. He pulled over and called the one Dillweed resident he knew personally. An undiluted face-to-face dose of Jack Hardwick could be a good antidote to fanciful thinking.

Ten minutes later, four miles up a succession of twisty dirt roads, he arrived at the unimposing rented farmhouse, much in need of paint, that Hardwick called home. The man answered the door dressed as usual in a T-shirt and cutoff sweatpants.

“You want one?” he asked, holding up an empty Grolsch beer bottle.

First Gurney said no, then he said yes. He knew he’d have alcohol on his breath when he got home, and he’d be more comfortable attributing it to a beer with Jack than to a Bloody Mary with Rebecca.

After getting Gurney a Grolsch and himself another, Hardwick sank down into one of two overstuffed leather chairs, motioning Gurney toward the other. “So, my son,” he said in a harsh whisper that pretended a level of inebriation that was belied by his sharp gaze, “how long has it been since your last confession?”

“Thirty-five years, more or less,” said Gurney, humoring the man from whom he wanted help. He sampled the beer. It wasn’t bad. He looked around the little living room. Like Jack’s attire, the painfully bare space was the same as it had been on Gurney’s last visit. Not even the dust had moved.

Hardwick scratched his nose. “You must be in a great deal of trouble to be seeking the solace of Mother Church after such a long time. Speak freely, my son, of all your blasphemies, lies, thievings, and adulteries. I’d be most interested in the details of the adulteries.” He produced an absurdly salacious wink.

Gurney leaned back in the wide soft chair and took another swallow of beer. “The Good Shepherd case is getting complicated.”

“Always was.”

“The problem is, I’m not sure how many cases I’m dealing with.”

“Too much shit for one latrine?”

“Like I said, I’m not sure.” He recounted, in as much detail as he could, the long litany of facts, events, oddities, suspicions, and questions on his mind.