sun.
Gurney gazed at it wonderingly. Had Madeleine put it there? If so,where had she gotten it? Was she using it as some sort of marker? It looked new, unweathered, so it couldn’t have been under the snow the whole winter. If Madeleine hadn’t put it there, who could have? Was it possible it wasn’t “put” there at all but shot there by someone with a bow? To have ended up embedded like this at a nearly vertical angle, though, it would have to have been shot nearly vertically into the air. When? Why? By whom? Standing where?
He stepped up onto the low bed, grasped the shaft close to the ground, and slowly extracted it. It was tipped with a four-pronged razor broadhead—making it the kind of arrow that a hunter with a serious bow can propel clear through a deer. As he studied the deadly projectile, he was struck by the improbable coincidence of coming upon two sharp weapons surrounded by troubling questions on the same day.
Of course, Madeleine might have a simple explanation for the arrow. He took it into the house, to the kitchen sink, and rinsed it clean under the running water. The broadhead appeared to be carbon steel, keen enough to shave with. Which brought his mind back to the knife in Kim’s basement, which reminded him that her folder was still in the car. He laid the arrow gently on the pine sideboard and headed out through the little hallway past the mudroom.
As he opened the side door, he came face-to-face with Madeleine, dressed in one of her startling color combinations—rose sweatpants, a lavender fleece jacket, and an orange baseball cap. She had that pleasantly exercised, slightly-out-of-breath look she always had when she returned from a hill walk. He stepped back to let her in.
She smiled. “It’s soooo beautiful! Did you see that amazing light on the hillside? With that blush in the buds—did you notice that?”
“What buds?”
“You didn’t see it? Oh, come here, come.” She led him outside by the arm, pointing happily to the trees beyond the upper pasture. “You only see it in the early spring—that hint of pink in the maples.”
Gurney saw what she was talking about but failed to share her blissful reaction. Instead the faint wash of color over the brownish gray background of the landscape jogged loose an old memory—one that sickened him: brownish gray water in a ditch next to an abandoned service road behind La Guardia Airport, a faint reddish tint inthe fetid water. The tint was oozing from a machine-gunned body just below the surface.
She looked at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Tired, that’s all.”
“You want some coffee?”
“No.” He said it sharply, didn’t know why.
“Come inside,” she said, taking off her jacket and hat and hanging them in the mudroom. He followed her into the kitchen. She went to the sink and turned on the tap. “How did your trip to Syracuse work out?”
It occurred to him that the damn blue folder was still in his car. “I can’t hear you with the water running,” he said. That made … what? Three times he’d forgotten to bring it in?
Three times in the past ten minutes? Jesus
.
She filled a glass and turned off the water. “I asked about your trip to Syracuse.”
He sighed. “The trip was peculiar. Syracuse is pretty bleak. Hold on … I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” He went out to the car and this time returned with the object in hand.
Madeleine looked perplexed. “I’d heard that there were some very nice old neighborhoods. Maybe not in the part of town you were in?”
“Yes and no. Nice old neighborhoods interspersed with neighborhoods from hell.”
She glanced at the folder in his hand. “Is that Kim’s project?”
“What? Oh. Yes.” He looked around for a place to put it and noticed the arrow where he’d left it on the sideboard. He pointed to it. “What do you know about
that
?”
“That?” She stepped closer, examined it without touching it. “Is that the thing I saw
Gurney gazed at it wonderingly. Had Madeleine put it there? If so,where had she gotten it? Was she using it as some sort of marker? It looked new, unweathered, so it couldn’t have been under the snow the whole winter. If Madeleine hadn’t put it there, who could have? Was it possible it wasn’t “put” there at all but shot there by someone with a bow? To have ended up embedded like this at a nearly vertical angle, though, it would have to have been shot nearly vertically into the air. When? Why? By whom? Standing where?
He stepped up onto the low bed, grasped the shaft close to the ground, and slowly extracted it. It was tipped with a four-pronged razor broadhead—making it the kind of arrow that a hunter with a serious bow can propel clear through a deer. As he studied the deadly projectile, he was struck by the improbable coincidence of coming upon two sharp weapons surrounded by troubling questions on the same day.
Of course, Madeleine might have a simple explanation for the arrow. He took it into the house, to the kitchen sink, and rinsed it clean under the running water. The broadhead appeared to be carbon steel, keen enough to shave with. Which brought his mind back to the knife in Kim’s basement, which reminded him that her folder was still in the car. He laid the arrow gently on the pine sideboard and headed out through the little hallway past the mudroom.
As he opened the side door, he came face-to-face with Madeleine, dressed in one of her startling color combinations—rose sweatpants, a lavender fleece jacket, and an orange baseball cap. She had that pleasantly exercised, slightly-out-of-breath look she always had when she returned from a hill walk. He stepped back to let her in.
She smiled. “It’s soooo beautiful! Did you see that amazing light on the hillside? With that blush in the buds—did you notice that?”
“What buds?”
“You didn’t see it? Oh, come here, come.” She led him outside by the arm, pointing happily to the trees beyond the upper pasture. “You only see it in the early spring—that hint of pink in the maples.”
Gurney saw what she was talking about but failed to share her blissful reaction. Instead the faint wash of color over the brownish gray background of the landscape jogged loose an old memory—one that sickened him: brownish gray water in a ditch next to an abandoned service road behind La Guardia Airport, a faint reddish tint inthe fetid water. The tint was oozing from a machine-gunned body just below the surface.
She looked at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Tired, that’s all.”
“You want some coffee?”
“No.” He said it sharply, didn’t know why.
“Come inside,” she said, taking off her jacket and hat and hanging them in the mudroom. He followed her into the kitchen. She went to the sink and turned on the tap. “How did your trip to Syracuse work out?”
It occurred to him that the damn blue folder was still in his car. “I can’t hear you with the water running,” he said. That made … what? Three times he’d forgotten to bring it in?
Three times in the past ten minutes? Jesus
.
She filled a glass and turned off the water. “I asked about your trip to Syracuse.”
He sighed. “The trip was peculiar. Syracuse is pretty bleak. Hold on … I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” He went out to the car and this time returned with the object in hand.
Madeleine looked perplexed. “I’d heard that there were some very nice old neighborhoods. Maybe not in the part of town you were in?”
“Yes and no. Nice old neighborhoods interspersed with neighborhoods from hell.”
She glanced at the folder in his hand. “Is that Kim’s project?”
“What? Oh. Yes.” He looked around for a place to put it and noticed the arrow where he’d left it on the sideboard. He pointed to it. “What do you know about
that
?”
“That?” She stepped closer, examined it without touching it. “Is that the thing I saw
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