It was clear from the speculative excitement in Hardwick’s eyes that that’s exactly what he thought.

Then Esti said something.

And Hardwick answered her.

Then she said something else.

And he responded to that as well.

But none of their words registered in Gurney’s consciousness—not a single syllable after Esti’s use of the phrase “those shots from the hill.”

Because his mind had made a leap from Hardwick’s property to his own. And all he could think about now was what one possible shot from Barrow Hill might have done.

Twenty minutes later, his freshly soiled garden shovel propped in the corner, Gurney stood at the utility sink in the mudroom. He was gazing down in tense concentration at the roughly washed carcass of the rooster he’d just unearthed from its stone-covered grave. On the muddy drain board next to the sink lay one of Madeleine’s silk scarves, now dirty and bloodstained, which she’d used to wrap Horace’s body.

Esti and Hardwick, having received no answers to their repeated questions, stood at the doorway, watching with growing concern. Gurney, holding his breath intermittently to avoid the rotten odor, bent over the dead bird, studying as closely as he could the damage that had ended its life. When he was satisfied that his informal postmortem had told him as much as it was going to, he straightened up and turned around, explaining.

“Madeleine had four chickens. One was a rooster. She named him Horace.” He felt a little stab of sadness at saying the name. “When she found him out on the grass the other day, she thought a weasel had gotten him and bitten his head off. Someone told us weasels will do that.” He felt his lips growing stiff with anger as he spoke. “She was right, in a way. It was a weasel with a sniper rifle.”

At first, Esti’s expression showed only bafflement. Then the significance of Gurney’s comment struck her. “Oh, dear Jesus!”

“Fuck!” said Hardwick.

“I don’t know whether this was about sighting-in his scope for future reference or just sending me a back-off message,” said Gurney. “But whichever it was, I’m apparently on the little bastard’s mind.”

Chapter 51

The Plan

The dead rooster, the apparent method of its execution, and the possible motives behind it had further darkened the mood of the meeting.

Even Hardwick seemed subdued, standing now at the open French doors, gazing across the western field at Barrow Hill. He glanced back at Gurney, who was at the table with Esti. “You figure the shot came from that spot you pointed out before, at the top of the trail?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“The position of things—house, hill, woods, trails—is kind of similar to the situation at my place. Only difference is that he hit my house at night, your rooster in the daylight.”

“Right.”

“Can you think of any reason for that?”