Gurney got a pad and pen and sat down at the breakfast table. Putting things on paper was the best way he knew to minimize mental overload. The next hour produced the beginning of an investigatory premise and a short list of “starter” questions that might open up avenues worth exploring.

PREMISE: There are irreconcilable differences in thought processes and style between the efficient, machinelike planning and execution of the murders and the sententious, fake-biblical pronouncements of the manifesto. True personality is revealed by behavior. Brilliance and efficiency can’t be faked. The disconnect between the killer’s way of acting and his emotional psycho-mission-based explanation of that action suggests that the explanation may be false and designed to distract attention from a more pragmatic motive.

QUESTIONS:

If not because of their “greed,” why were these victims chosen?

What is the significance of the similar vehicles?

Why did the murders occur when they did, in the spring of the year 2000?

Was the sequence in which they occurred significant?

Were they all equally important?

Were any of the six necessitated by any of the others?

Why such a dramatic weapon?

Why the little plastic animals at the shooting sites?

What lines of inquiry did the arrival of the manifesto cut off?

Gurney looked over what he had written, knowing that it was the barest beginning and not expecting an immediate breakthrough insight. He knew that “Aha!” moments never occurred on demand.

He decided to share his list with Hardwick to see what kind of response it would provoke. And with Holdenfield, for the same reason. He wondered about giving a copy to Kim and decided not to. Her goals were different from his, and his questions would only upset her again.

He went to his computer in the den, wrote separate introductions on e-mails to Hardwick and to Holdenfield, and sent them. After he printed a copy to show to Madeleine, he stretched out on the den couch and fell asleep.

“Dinner.”

“Hmm?”

“Dinnertime.” Madeleine’s voice. Somewhere.

He blinked, gazed blearily up at the ceiling, thought he saw a pair of spiders gliding across the white surface. He blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and the spiders disappeared. His neck hurt. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six.” She was standing in the den doorway.

“Jesus.” He sat up slowly on the couch, rubbing his neck. “Dozed off.”

“You certainly did. Anyway, dinner’s ready.”

She returned to the kitchen. He stretched, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. When he joined her at the table, she’d already laid out two large bowls of steaming fish chowder, two green salads, and a plate of buttery garlic bread.

“Smells good,” he said.

“Have you reported the bugs to the police?”

“What?”

“The listening devices, the trapdoor in the ceiling—has anyone notified the police?”

“Why are you asking about that now?”