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      White River Burning

      Copyright © 2018 by John Verdon

      First hardcover edition: 2018

      First paperback edition: 2019

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events is unintended and entirely coincidental.

      The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover as follows:

      Names: Verdon, John, author.

      Title: White River burning : a Dave Gurney novel / John Verdon.

      Description: Berkeley, CA : Counterpoint Press, [2018]

      Identifiers: LCCN 2017057561 | ISBN 9781640090637

      Subjects: LCSH: Detectives—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. | Serial murder investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

      Classification: LCC PS3622.E736 W48 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

      LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017057561

      Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64009-203-7

      Cover design by Jarrod Taylor

      Book design by Jordan Koluch

      COUNTERPOINT

      2560 Ninth Street, Suite 318

      Berkeley, CA 94710

       www.counterpointpress.com

      Printed in the United States of America

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      For Naomi

      1

      Dave Gurney stood at the sink in his big farmhouse kitchen, holding one of Madeleine’s strainers. He was carefully emptying into it what appeared to be several dirt-encrusted brown pebbles from a very old tinted-glass jar.

      As he washed away the soil, he could see that the pebbles were smaller, lighter in color, and more uniform than they’d first appeared to be. He laid a paper towel on the sink-island countertop and eased the contents of the strainer onto it. With another paper towel he carefully patted the pebbles dry, then carried them along with the glass jar from the kitchen to his desk in the den and placed them next to his laptop and large magnifying glass. He started the computer and opened the document he’d created with the archaeological graphics program he’d acquired a month earlier—shortly after discovering the remnants of an old laid-stone cellar in the cherry copse above the pond. What he’d found in his examination of the site so far led him to believe that the cellar may have served as the foundation of a late-seventeenth- or early-eighteenth-century structure—perhaps the home of a settler in what then would have been a wild frontier area.

      The archaeology program enabled him to overlay a current photograph of the cellar area with a precisely scaled grid, and then to tag the appropriate grid boxes with identifying code numbers for the items he’d found at those locations. An accompanying list linked the codes to verbal descriptions he’d provided along with photos of the individual items. Those items now included two iron hooks that his internet research told him were used for stretching animal hides; a tool fashioned from a large bone, probably a flesher for scraping hides; a knife with a black handle; the rusted remains of several iron chain links; and an iron key.

      He found himself viewing these few objects, barely illuminated by his scant knowledge of the historical period with which they seemed to be associated, as the first tantalizing bits of a puzzle—dots to be connected with the help of dots yet to be discovered.

      After recording the location of his newest find, he then used his magnifier to examine the bluish, slightly opaque glass jar. Judging from the pictures on the internet of similar containers, it seemed consistent with his estimate of the foundation’s age.

      He turned his attention to the pebbles. Taking a paper clip from his desk drawer, he unbent it into a relatively straight wire and used it to move one of the pebbles around, turning it over this way and that under the magnifier. It appeared relatively smooth except for one facet that consisted of a tiny hollow spot with thin, sharp edges. He went on to a second pebble, in which he saw the same structure; and then on to a third, a fourth, and the remaining four after that. Close examination revealed that all eight, while not quite identical, shared the same basic configuration.

      He wondered about the significance of that.

      Then it occurred to him that they might not be pebbles at all.

      They could be teeth.

      Small teeth. Possibly human baby teeth.

      If that’s what they were, some new questions came immediately to mind—questions that made him eager to get back down to the site and dig a little deeper.

      As he stood up from the desk, Madeleine

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