“I wonder about Robby Meese and your relationship with him. I wonder how much he did on his own and how much you encouraged him to do. I wonder why you killed him when you did. I wonder if you thought his so-called suicide would be believed.”

“What else?”

“I wonder if you were really trying to put Max Clinter in the frame for Ruth Blum’s murder or if you were just playing a silly game.”

“What else?”

“I wonder if you thought your message on Ruth’s Facebook page would be believed.”

“What else?”

“I wonder about my barn.” Gurney was trying to string out the interchange as long as he could, with as many pauses as he could insert. The longer it lasted, the better—in every way.

“Keep talking, Detective.”

“I wonder about the GPS locators on the cars. I wonder if the one on Kim’s car was your idea or Robby’s. Robby the stalker.”

“What else?”

“Some of the things you’ve done are very clever, and some are very stupid. I wonder if you know which is which.”

“Provocation is pointless, Detective. Have you come to the end of your thoughts?”

“I wonder about the White Mountain Strangler. Such an odd case. Are you familiar with it? It has certain interesting features.”

There was a long silence. Time equaled hope. Time gave Gurney the space to think, perhaps even a chance to get to his gun on the table behind him.

When the Shepherd spoke again, the purr was syrupy. “Any final thoughts?”

“Just one more. How could someone so smart make such a colossal mistake at Lakeside Collision?”

There was a long silence. An alarming silence that could mean anything. Perhaps the Good Shepherd had finally been jarred off balance. Or perhaps his finger was tightening on the trigger. A tremor ran through Gurney’s stomach.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I want to know now.” There was a new intensity in the whisper, along with the glint of something moving in the shaft of moonlight.

Gurney caught his first glimpse of the barrel of a huge silver-plated pistol, no more than six feet away.

“Now,” the man repeated. “Tell me about Lakeside Collision.”

“You left some identification there.”

“I don’t carry identification.”

“That night you did.”

“Tell me exactly what it was. Tell me right now.”

The way Gurney saw the situation, there was no good answer, no answer likely to save him. There was certainly no way that revealing the tire-track discovery would result in a reprieve. And begging for his life would be worse than useless. There was only one option that offered him even a glimmer of staying alive for as much as another minute: stonewalling, refusing to divulge anything more.

Gurney tried to keep his voice from shaking as he spoke. “You left the solution to the puzzle in the parking lot of Lakeside Collision.”