Gurney said nothing. The barn had windows—it wasn’t all that dark inside—but that was a line of argument guaranteed to go nowhere. It was smaller than the original building, which had been destroyed in a mysterious fire several months earlier, in the middle of the Good Shepherd case, but surely it was big enough for a rooster and three hens. To Madeleine, however, enclosed places were at best temporary resting areas and the open air was heaven. It was clear that she empathized with what she imagined to be the imprisonment of the chickens, and it would be as easy to convince her that the barn was a reasonable home for them as it would be to persuade her to live in it herself.

Besides, they hadn’t come down to the pond to debate the future of bulrushes or trellises or chickens. Gurney felt certain that she’d return to the matter of Jack Hardwick, and he began to prepare a line of argument defending his potential involvement in the case.

She’d ask if he was planning to take on yet another full-scale murder investigation in his so-called retirement, and if so, why had he bothered to retire?

He’d explain again that Hardwick had been forced out of the NYSP partly as a result of the assistance he’d provided at Gurney’s request on the Good Shepherd case, and providing assistance in return was a simple matter of justice. A debt incurred, a debt paid.

She’d point out that Hardwick had undermined himself—that it wasn’t the passing along of a few restricted files that got him fired; it was his long history of insubordination and disrespect, his adolescent relish in puncturing the egos of authority figures. That kind of behavior carried obvious risks, and the ax had finally fallen.

He’d counter with an argument about the fuzzier demands of friendship.

She’d claim that he and Hardwick had never really been friends, just uneasy colleagues with occasional common interests.

He’d remind her of the unique bond that was formed in their collaboration years earlier on the Peter Piggert case, when on the same day in jurisdictions a hundred miles apart they each found half of Mrs. Piggert’s body.

She’d shake her head and dismiss the “bond” as a grotesque coincidence in the past that was a poor reason for any present action.

Gurney leaned back against the bench slats and looked up at the slate sky. He felt ready, if not entirely eager, for the give-and-take that he expected would begin momentarily. A few small birds, singly and in loose pairs, passed high overhead, flying rapidly, as if late for their roosting commitments.

When Madeleine finally spoke, however, her tone and angle on the subject were not what he’d expected.

“You realize that he’s obsessed,” she said, looking out over the pond. Half a statement, half a question.

“Yes.”

“Obsessed with getting revenge.”

“Possibly.”