Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  “I heard my grandmother talking about him. She said he’s got shit for brains. She said he used to hire underage hookers. Is that true?”

  I nodded. These days, it didn’t seem to matter what someone said or did. They’d still get elected.

  We drove on in silence for another couple of miles. I glanced in my rear-view every few seconds. A black van had been riding along in my wake for the last few blocks.

  “I’m just up here,” I said. I pulled over to the curb in front of Naman’s Books and the van continued on up the street.

  “You live in a bookstore?” Jeremy asked.

  “I live over it.”

  I’d had to move out for a few months, but now I was back. Naman’s place had been firebombed by some racist nutcases last year when unfounded fears of a possible terrorist invasion had gripped Promise Falls. I wasn’t sure Naman could make a go of it again, but he was back in business, and I had my old apartment back.

  “We can leave your stuff in the car,” I said, opening the door. Once Jeremy was out, I locked the Honda and led him to a door that fronted onto the sidewalk. There was a small sign on it that read: Cal Weaver: Private Investigations.

  “Wow, just like in the movies,” Jeremy said.

  I unlocked the door, revealing a set of stairs going up. I extended an arm. “You first.”

  When we reached the top, there was a second door to unlock, and then we were in my apartment. A combined kitchen and living area, a bedroom off to the back. The whole place was smaller than his grandmother’s foyer.

  “Jesus, you actually live here?” Jeremy asked.

  “It’s not much, but it’s pitiful,” I conceded. I pointed to the fridge. “Help yourself to a Coke or something.”

  He opened it as I went into the bedroom. I kept a small travel case in the closet. I threw it onto the bed, opened up a couple of dresser drawers, and begin filling it with clothes.

  “There’s no Coke,” Jeremy called out. “But there’s beer. Can I have a beer?”

  “No.”

  “This is going to be a real fun couple of days.”

  “You know what? Make us some sandwiches.”

  “Do what?”

  “In the fridge, down below. I bought a bunch of stuff yesterday. Sliced ham, roast beef. There’s a fresh loaf in the cupboard. Or if you want tuna, there’s a tin in there, some mayo in the fridge. Something to eat now, and then some we can put in a cooler and take with us.”

  “Can’t we just stop at McDonald’s or Burger King when we’re hungry?”

  “No.”

  I went back into my bedroom. I finished putting in enough clothes for three or four days. Then I went to the closet, reached up to the top shelf, and brought down the case that held my gun. I wasn’t that worried I was going to need it, but you never knew. Finally, I grabbed a small cooler I often used when I was on a surveillance job to keep bottled water and snacks fresh.

  I zipped up the overnight bag and brought it and the cooler into the main room.

  “How’s it going?”

  He had everything he might need to make sandwiches out on the counter. Bread, meat, butter, all spread out in no particular order. He had the look of someone who’d dumped all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle onto the table and had only just started turning them image up. “Fine. I’m doing it. But aren’t you being hired to look after me? Shouldn’t you be the one to do this?”

  “How can I shoot the bad guys waiting to bust in at any moment if I’m up to my elbows in mayo and mustard?”

  The look he gave me suggested he couldn’t tell whether I was being serious or putting him on.

  I stood next to him at the counter.

  “Okay, let’s get a production line thing going on here. You start buttering the bread, and when you’re done, move it this way.”

  He did as instructed. The butter was a little on the hard side, and as he attempted to spread it, it opened up holes in the bread.

  I took the butter plate, put it in the microwave on medium for ten seconds, then gave it back to Jeremy.

  “That’s better,” he said, dipping the knife into it and spreading some onto the bread. “I used to make sandwiches with my dad.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “When did your parents split up?’

  He shrugged. “Long time ago. They were separated for ages, and then they finally decided to get a divorce.”

  “That can be tough,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Jeremy said. He slapped some meat onto a piece of bread, lay a cheese slice on top of it, then a second piece of bread. “It’s quiet here,” he said.

  “There’s more traffic in the middle of the day,” I said. “It’s noisier then.”

  “That’s not what I meant. There’s not all the yelling.”

  “Oh, that. You live with a lot of that?”

  He shrugged. “My mom and Madeline argue a lot. And then Mom and Bob, too. That’s why I sneak out sometimes.”

  “Sure.”

  He slid some bread slices my way and I layered on some deli meat.

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “I thought we’d see all the hotspots of upper New York state.”

  “There are some?”

  That made me laugh. “A couple. What are you interested in?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what you’re interested in?”

  “My mom’s always trying to get me interested in things I don’t care anything about.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. Like documentaries. The History Channel. I don’t care about that stuff. I like movies. Did you see the new Star Wars?”

  “No.”

  “It was okay.”

  “What else has she tried to get you interested in?”

  He shrugged. “She likes to sign me up for sports, but I don’t like sports.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do I have to have a reason?”

  “I guess not.”

  “There’s one thing, though,” Jeremy said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You won’t laugh.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I like art.”

  “Art? You like to paint?”

  He shook his head. “I hate history, but I like reading about painters. Are there any art galleries we could go to?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah, I think we could find some of those. You take art in school?”

  “I was going to, but Bob told my mom that I should take something else, that I’d never get anywhere taking that. You can’t get a job doing art.”

  “Not everything you take has to be aimed at a career.”

  “That’s what I said, but Mom agreed with Bob.”

  “Would you like to be an artist? I know a little girl—well, she’s not that little, she’d be twelve now, I think—named Crystal who likes to draw all the time. Those things they call graphic novels. She’d like to do those when she grows up.”

  “Is she good?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m guessing she’s still interested. I haven’t seen her in a while. She moved out to San Francisco to be with her dad.” I paused. “Her mom died.”

  “Graphic novels are cool, but I don’t want to actually draw or anything. I’m not good at that. But I’d like to study it. Like, find out everything about great painters like Renoir and Raphael and Michelangelo and those guys. But not just classic guys. Modern stuff, too, like that dude who just threw shit all over the canvas, dribbling paint like crazy.”

  “You talking about Pollock?”

  “That’s the guy. Pollock. I’d like to get a job in a gallery or a museum or something like that. Do you think that’s lame?”

  “Lame? No.”

  “So where are we going? It’s already dinner time. Are we just having a sandwich for dinner?”

  “Just thinking on that,” I said. “Whether to go tonight or in the morning.”

  The light outside was starti
ng to fade. We could stay at my place for the night, but that would mean putting Jeremy on the couch. Still better than the jail cell he could have ended up in, but I thought maybe he deserved better than that. Jeremy’s admission that he was interested in galleries had me considering a New York destination. We could be there in three or four hours. I’d have to see about a hotel reservation first.

  Maybe that was why I went to the window, to see how nightfall was coming together. There weren’t many cars parked along the street this time of day, now that the shops were closed, with the possible exception of Naman downstairs. He often kept his used bookstore open late because he had nothing better to do.

  I guess that’s why the black van on the other side of the street stood out. It was the only vehicle at the curb for half a block. I thought it might have been the same van that was riding along behind us on the way over. The windows were tinted, and I couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside.

  “Finish up those sandwiches,” I said to Jeremy. “I gotta go down to my car for a second to get something.”

  “Okay,” he said emptily.

  I went quickly down the stairs and opened the door to the sidewalk. The van, its tail end facing me, was about five car lengths away. As I started across the street, I noticed exhaust coming out of the tailpipe. The taillights flashed on briefly, the van was shifted into drive, and it took off up the street.

  Even if I’d been close enough to get a good look at the license plate, it wouldn’t have done me much good. It was smeared with dirt and illegible.

  When I got back up to my apartment, I said to Jeremy, “I say we go tonight.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  SOMEONE was rapping softly on Craig Pierce’s bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  The door opened. Standing there was a woman in her forties carrying a binder, a purse slung over her shoulder. Short hair, glasses, plain black skirt and off-white blouse.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late today. I got held up with another client.”

  “Come on in, Ms. Sinclair,” Craig said.

  “Oh, how many times have I told you to call me Beverly?” she said, smiling, looking directly at his mauled, disfigured face.

  Craig, standing by his dresser, broke off eye contact to examine the contents of a small shipping package.

  “What do you have there?” Beverly Sinclair asked cheerfully.

  “Oh, just some things I ordered,” he said. He picked up one of them, something shiny and metallic and small enough to put into the palm of his hand, closed his fingers over it, and sat down in the chair by the foot of his bed.

  Beverly sat in the other chair, set her purse on the floor, rested the binder atop her knees and folded her hands together. “So,” she said, still smiling like someone doing a toothpaste commercial, “how are we doing today?”

  “We are doing terrific,” Craig said. His mangled lips formed a twisted smile. “I suppose a lot of that has to do with what a good counselor you are.”

  “Well, thank you for that,” she said, opening the binder. “But you’re the one who deserves the credit. You’re the one doing the work.”

  Craig shrugged modestly.

  She consulted a page of handwritten notes on a yellow pad inside the binder. “Last time I was here we talked about you getting over your fear about going out of the house.”

  “Well, yes,” Craig said. “But it’s not so much my fear as it is other people’s fear. I mean, I do look kind of scary.”

  “That’s their problem, though, isn’t it?” Beverly said. “People need to examine their own attitudes when it comes to dealing with others with disabilities or differences.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s hard to get into a discussion about that when they’re running off screaming their heads off,” Craig countered.

  She nodded understandingly. “Point taken. But you’ve been out and about more in the last week?”

  “I have,” he said.

  “Where have you gone?”

  “I’ve done some driving. And walking. Mostly at night.”

  “I think, as you regain your confidence, you’ll be going out more during daylight hours,” Beverly said encouragingly.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said.

  “And how would you describe your state of mind, say, the last week or so? Are you coming to terms with your situation?”

  “My situation?” Craig asked. “That’s such an interesting way to put it.”

  “Well, you know, I like to put things in as respectful and gentle a way as possible,” she said.

  “Oh, I’ve noticed that.” Craig offered up another grisly smile. “As for my state of mind, I would say . . . it has improved.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said.

  “I’ve decided to try to move forward. To take control of my life rather than sit back and let it control me.”

  “That is very good to hear.”

  “I need to channel my energies, my . . . urges in a productive way,” Craig said.

  Beverly’s smile faded. “Just what do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “Which part?”

  “Well,” she said hesitantly, “the urges part.”

  “Oh, well—I hope you don’t mind my being totally honest with you. I mean, you are my counselor and all.”

  “No, please, honesty is the best way to go.”

  “Well,” and he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and whispered, “even though I no longer have the appliances, I’ve still got the owners’ manuals, if you get what I’m saying.”

  Beverly swallowed. “I believe I do.”

  “So when I feel . . . aroused, in my mind, and I don’t get a corresponding physical response, there’s a kind of ache. Do you know what I mean? Like, you know when they talk about a phantom limb? How if your arm gets blown off in battle, you still feel the pain.” He leaned in even closer. “I think what I have is a phantom hard-on.”

  Beverly leaned back in her chair.

  “I don’t really know about that,” she said. “That’s something you’d have to discuss with your physical therapist.”

  Craig looked crestfallen. “Oh, I thought you were here to help me with that kind of thing, because, you know, it very much affects my self-esteem and all.”

  “There are . . . limits, Craig, to what I can help you with. What I am here to do is help you adjust to this new life you have, to help you understand that despite what has happened to you, this can be a new beginning.”

  He nodded as though he understood completely. “It’s like a smile is just a frown turned upside down, right?”

  Beverly Sinclair’s jaw tightened. “You know, Craig, all I’ve ever sincerely wanted to do is help you. I know you’re mocking me, but my intentions have always been genuine. You may not believe it, but I do care. I care about all my clients as if they were part of my family.”

  “That’s nice,” Craig said. “So, if you think of me as part of your extended family, maybe I could come by some time. I could meet your daughter.”

  Beverly’s face froze.

  “I think you mentioned her in passing once,” Craig said. “She’s fourteen, I think you said. And her name is Leanne? Do I have that right?”

  Beverly said nothing.

  “Maybe I should drop by,” he said. “When I’m out driving at night.”

  Beverly found her voice. “You don’t know where I live.”

  Craig opened his hand and studied the small metallic device he’d been holding.

  “What is that?” Beverly asked.

  “This,” he said, picking it out of his palm with two fingers and holding it up between them, “is the niftiest little gadget. I’ve ordered them before, but this is a new model.”

  Hesitantly, as though afraid to ask, Beverly said, “What does it do?”

  “It’s a little tracking device. You plant it on . . . whatever . . . and see where it goes.”

  Beverly closed her binder and reached
down for her purse. She clutched it close to her chest. “Well, you can just hang onto it.”

  He gave her another hideous grin. “Who knows. Maybe I dropped one in your purse last week.”

  She put the binder on the chair so she could use both hands to open and inspect her handbag.

  Craig laughed. “I’m just having some fun with you. I didn’t do that.”

  Beverly looked at him, searched his deformed face, trying to determine the truth.

  “Or did I?” he added.

  Beverly snatched up the binder and opened the door. Before she slipped out into the hall she said, “I don’t . . . I think I’ll be assigning your case to someone else. You won’t be seeing me again.”

  “You never know,” Craig said. “We might run into each other sometime.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I hope we made the right decision,” Gloria Pilford said, glass in hand. She had switched to red wine.

  “Is there anything left in the cellar?” Madeline Plimpton asked, perched on a stool at the kitchen island.

  “Where’s Bob?” Gloria asked.

  “Have you gone deaf?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t heard all the racket? The power saw and the drilling.”

  “Oh,” said Gloria. “That.”

  “He got a piece of plywood over where the glass was broken. Can’t leave it wide open until the pane’s replaced.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “And I think he was making some phone calls, too,” Madeline said.

  “Do you think we did the right thing? Letting Jeremy go off with a total stranger?”

  “Weaver’s a good man,” her aunt said. “I checked him out.”

  “I talked to him a little, the two of us. Do you know what happened to his wife and his son?”

  Madeline told her how they had both been murdered, several years ago. Gloria was quiet for several seconds, then said, “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Which part?” Madeline asked.

  Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “About Grant.”

  Madeline sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I remember,” Gloria said.

  “You remember what?”