He’d assumed that the Good Shepherd would conform to the timing he’d spelled out in his scene with Kim and that the man would show up at the cabin two or three hours before Clinter and Gurney’s supposed midnight meeting. In the welter of facts and twists and what-ifs swirling around in his head, he’d failed to consider the obvious possibility that the Shepherd might show up much earlier than that—maybe a good twelve hours earlier.

What the hell had he been thinking? That the Shepherd was a logical man and the logical time to arrive would be a few hours before midnight. And therefore that’s what would happen, issue resolved, on to the next point? Jesus, how fucking stupid! He told himself he was only human, and humans make mistakes. But that didn’t take the bitter edge off his making such a deadly one.

The throaty, half-vocalized whisper grew louder. “It was your hope to trick me into coming here? To somehow take me by surprise?”

The aptness of the question was unnerving. “Yes.”

“The truth. Good. It keeps you alive. So, now, your phone call to Clinter. You believe what you told him?”

“About the killings?”

“Of course about the killings.”

“Yes, I do.”

For several seconds all Gurney heard was the sound of his questioner’s breathing—followed by a question so softly uttered it was barely louder than the breathing itself. “What other thoughts do you have?”

“My only thought right now is, are you going to shoot me?”

“Of course. But the more truth you tell me, the longer you live. Simple. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now tell me all your thoughts about the killings. Your true thoughts.”

“My thoughts are mostly questions.”

“What questions?”

Gurney wondered if the hoarse whisper was a vocal impairment or a way of concealing the Good Shepherd’s real voice. He suspected the latter. The implications of that were interesting, but he had to focus now on the immediate need to stay alive.

“I wonder how many other people you’ve killed, besides the ones we know about. Possibly quite a few. Am I right about that?”

“Of course.”

Gurney was startled by the frankness of the answer and felt a fleeting moment of hope that the man could be engaged in a kind of dialogue—that his pride might drive him to boast of things he’d done. After all, sociopaths did have egos and enjoyed living in the echo chamber of their own narratives of power and ruthlessness. Perhaps he could get the man talking about himself, and thus stretch the window of opportunity for outside intervention.

But then the coin of hope flipped to its opposite side, and Gurney saw the clear implication of the man’s willingness to speak: It carried no risk, because Gurney would soon be dead.

The whisper became a parody of gentleness. “What else do you wonder about?”