“Maybe you should introduce her to Kyle.”

“My son?”

“I don’t know any other Kyle.”

“What is it about them that makes you think …?”

“I can see them together, that’s all. Different personalities, but on the same wavelength.”

He tried to imagine the hypothetical relationship chemistry. In less than a minute, he gave up the effort. Too many possibilities, too little data. He envied the efficiency of Madeleine’s intuition. It enabled her to leap over unknowns that stopped him dead.

Chapter 12

The Madness of Max Clinter

“Arriving at destination, on the right.”

Gurney’s GPS had just delivered him to an unmarked intersection at which a narrow dirt road teed into the paved road—a road he’d been following for two miles without seeing a single house that didn’t look like it was falling down.

On one side of the dirt road was an open steel gate. On the other side was a dead oak tree, the scar of a lightning bolt etched in its bark. Nailed to the trunk was a human skeleton—or, Gurney assumed, a remarkably convincing replica. Hanging from the skeleton’s neck was a hand-painted sign: THE LAST TRESPASSER.

Based on what Dave knew of Max Clinter so far, including the impression he’d gotten during a phone conversation with him that morning, the sign was not surprising.

Gurney made the turn onto the rutted lane, which soon traversed, like a primitive causeway, the center of a large beaver pond. Beyond the pond it continued through a thicket of swamp maples and, beyond that, arrived at a log cabin built on a raised patch of dry land, surrounded by an expanse of water and marsh grasses.

There was a peculiar border around the cabin: a moatlike swath of tangled weeds enclosed by a fine-mesh fence. The pathway to the cabin door passed through the weed swath, separated from it by a length of fencing on either side. As Gurney was taking this in, speculating on its purpose, the cabin door opened and a man emerged onto a small stone step. He was dressed in a military camouflage shirt and pants, jarringly offset by a pair of snakeskin boots. He had a hard look about him.

“Vipers,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“Sorry?”

“In the weeds. That’s what you were wondering about, wasn’t it?” His speech was oddly accented, his eyes intent on Gurney’s. “Small rattlesnakes. The small ones are the most dangerous. Word gets around. Excellent deterrent.”

“I wouldn’t think they’d be much use, hibernating in cold weather,” said Gurney pleasantly. “I assume you’re Mr. Clinter?”