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Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Other Books by This Author
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Part One: The Orphans of Murder
  7. Prologue
  8. Chapter 1
  9. Chapter 2
  10. Chapter 3
  11. Chapter 4
  12. Chapter 5
  13. Chapter 6
  14. Chapter 7
  15. Chapter 8
  16. Chapter 9
  17. Chapter 10
  18. Chapter 11
  19. Chapter 12
  20. Chapter 13
  21. Chapter 14
  22. Chapter 15
  23. Part Two: In the Absence of Justice
  24. Chapter 16
  25. Chapter 17
  26. Chapter 18
  27. Chapter 19
  28. Chapter 20
  29. Chapter 21
  30. Chapter 22
  31. Chapter 23
  32. Chapter 24
  33. Chapter 25
  34. Chapter 26
  35. Chapter 27
  36. Chapter 28
  37. Part Three: At Any Cost
  38. Prologue
  39. Chapter 29
  40. Chapter 30
  41. Chapter 31
  42. Chapter 32
  43. Chapter 33
  44. Chapter 34
  45. Chapter 35
  46. Chapter 36
  47. Chapter 37
  48. Chapter 38
  49. Chapter 39
  50. Chapter 40
  51. Chapter 41
  52. Chapter 42
  53. Chapter 43
  54. Chapter 44
  55. Chapter 45
  56. Chapter 46
  57. Chapter 47
  58. Chapter 48
  59. Chapter 49
  60. Chapter 50
  61. Chapter 51
  62. Acknowledgments

“The big military hardware has all been rendered more or less unfireable. I also have some interesting smaller pieces that do work. But I’m not a dealer. Dealers need federal licenses. So I’m not a dealer. I’m what the law calls a hobbyist. And sometimes I sell something in my personal collection to another hobbyist. You get my point?”

“I think so. What kind of guns do you sell?”

“Unusual guns. And I have to feel in each case that it’s the right match for the particular individual. I make that perfectly clear. If all you want’s a fuckin’ Glock, then go to fuckin’ Walmart. That’s my firearms philosophy, and I’m not shy about it.” The brogue was creeping back in. “On the other hand, if you want a Second World War Vickers machine gun, more or less deactivated, with a matching antiaircraft tripod, we might have reason to converse, assuming you were a hobbyist like myself.”

Gurney pivoted lazily around on the bench so he could look out over the brown water of the marsh. He yawned and stretched, then smiled at Clinter. “So tell me, do you actually know anything about the Good Shepherd case, as Kim thinks you do? Or is that all just a bunch of bobbing and weaving and bullshit?”

The man stared at Gurney for a long time before he spoke. “Is it bullshit that all the cars were black? Is it bullshit that two of the victims went to the same high school in Brooklyn? Is it bullshit that the Good Shepherd murders tripled the ratings and profits of RAM News? Is it bullshit that the FBI erected a total wall of silence around the case?”

Gurney turned his hands up in bafflement. “What’s that supposed to add up to?”

“Evil, Mr. Gurney. At the bottom of this case, there is an incredible evil.” His hands were squeezing, releasing, squeezing, releasing the exercisers with movements so rapid they appeared convulsive. “By the way, did you know there are some fucked-up people in the world who have orgasms watching films of car crashes? Did you know that?”

“I think someone made a movie about it back in the nineties. But that isn’t what you think the Good Shepherd case is about … is it?”