“Yeah, still here. In fact, I think I’m going to stay over. There’s a giant art show at the university this weekend and Kim has some stuff in it, some art videos. So I figured I’d stay up here, like maybe through lunch, then … then I’m not sure what. Originally, on my trip up to see you, I’d been thinking of going to the fair, but now … with your situation …”

“There’s no reason for you not to go to the fair. I was only concerned about your being right here at the house—and even that concern is probably way out of proportion to the chance of any real problem. If you want to go to the fair, go.”

Kyle sighed—a sound of uncertainty.

“Really. Go. There’s no reason not to.”

There was another sigh, followed by a pause. “Saturday night is the big night, right? With all the main events?”

“Far as I know.”

“Well, maybe I’ll drop by for a quick look on my way back to the city. Maybe for the demolition derby. I’ll check in with you again when I figure out what I’m doing.”

“Great. And don’t worry about anything here. Everything’ll be fine.”

“Okay, Dad. Just be careful.”

Although the call had lasted less than two minutes, it rearranged Gurney’s thoughts for the next half hour—overlaying his murder case concerns with paternal worries.

Telling himself finally that Kyle’s possible involvement with Kim Corazon was none of his business, he tried to steer his mind back to the conundrums surrounding the Spalter case and Peter Pan.

This time, rather than the phone, it was exhaustion that intervened—the kind of exhaustion that made linear thought impossible.

It was then, sitting by the still open double doors, watching the dusk darken into night, that he heard that familiar eerie sound in the woods—that quavering wail—followed by a profound silence that was stranger than the sound itself. To his deeply weary state of mind, it was the silence of emptiness and isolation.

The silence was interrupted by a low, directionless rumble that seemed to come from the earth itself. Or was it from the sky? Surely it must be thunder from some miles distant, echoed and muffled by the surrounding hills and valleys. When it faded away like the growl of an old dog, it left behind a disquieting stillness, a terrible calm that by some errant-crosscurrent in the brain brought to mind a childhood memory of the desolate no-man’s-land between his parents.

It was that disconcerting twist in his stream of consciousness that finally convinced him of his dire need for sleep and sent him to bed—but not before locking the doors and windows, cleaning and loading his .32 Beretta, and placing the reliable little pistol within easy reach on the night table.

Part Four: Perfect Justice

Prologue

The Growling of the Tiger

The blackbirds are shrieking.