As they were approaching the cleared area by the house, the Miata jounced with a loud clunk into and out of a declivity formed by a collapsed groundhog burrow in the rough pasture lane. But when Kim emerged from the car after parking next to Gurney’s Outback, her expression showed no awareness of the impact. As she walked toward the doorway where he was standing, it was clear that the rigid anxiety around her mouth and eyes arose from concerns deeper than a whack to her rear axle. He sensed a similar anxiety in the grim, exaggerated attention Kyle was giving to balancing his motorcycle on its kickstand.

When Kim came face-to-face with Gurney, she was biting her lip as if to keep from crying. “I’m sorry for all this nutty emotion.”

“It’s perfectly all right.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” She had the look of a frightened child seeking absolution for an offense too complex to grasp.

Kyle was standing behind her, his own distress apparent now in the tight set of his mouth.

Gurney smiled as warmly as he could. “Come into the house.”

As they entered the kitchen from the mudroom hallway, Madeleine entered from the opposite hallway. She was wearing what Gurney called her “clinic suit”—dark brown tailored slacks and a beige jacket, an outfit far more subdued and “professional” than her preferred riot of tropical colors.

She smiled thinly at Kim and Kyle. “If you’re hungry, there’s stuff in the fridge and the pantry.” She went to the sideboard and picked up the tote bag that served as her general carryall. It bore a logo consisting of a friendly-looking goat circled by the words SUPPORT LOCAL FARMING.

“I should be back in two hours,” she said on her way out.

“Be careful,” Gurney called after her.

He looked at Kim and Kyle. They were obviously tired, wired, and scared.

“How did he know?” Kim asked, a question apparently so much on her mind that she assumed that its meaning would be clear.

“You mean, how did the Shepherd know he could send you something at Kyle’s address?”

She nodded rapidly. “I hate the idea that he was following us, watching us. It’s too creepy.” She began rubbing her arms as though trying to get warm.

“Not any creepier than that little recording, or the drops of blood in your kitchen, or the knife in your basement.”

“But that was all Robby. Robby the asshole. But this … this is the killer … who killed Ruthie … and Eric … with ice picks! Oh, my God … Is he going to kill everyone I spoke to?”

“I hope not. But right now it might be a good idea to start the woodstove going. It gets pretty chilly in here when the sun goes down.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Kyle, sounding desperately eager to do something useful.