Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  He walked back to his own vehicle from there and, after doing some online research to check on the latest Pilford sightings, headed for Kingston.

  And from there, the Cape.

  But not before loading a thoroughly drugged Carol Beakman into the back of the van.

  One did not abandon the mission because of a few setbacks.

  So now here he was, in East Sandwich, only a few beach houses away from Jeremy and that bodyguard of his.

  It was time to get this done.

  Cory’s regret was that this time there would be less artistry. Craig Pierce’s fate had had a certain sense of style to it. And the work he’d mistakenly done on Brian Gaffney was to have been Jeremy Pilford’s fate. If they hadn’t fucked things up, it would have been a fitting punishment.

  But Cory wasn’t going to leave that kind of mark on Jeremy now. First of all, it wasn’t feasible in these new circumstances. Not here, not with that old guy hanging around him. Besides, the whole tattoo thing seemed old hat now.

  This time, he had to be pragmatic. Do what had to be done. Which was exactly why he’d brought along his father’s Smith & Wesson. That dandy little revolver he kept locked away next to his bed.

  The funny thing was, it wasn’t as though Cory had taken it today. He’d used his father’s key to unlock the cabinet, then used the second key from the drawer to unlock the case, months ago.

  He had just never needed it until now.

  He could have done it on the beach when he ran into Pilford and his friend. He’d had the gun on him at the time. Could have whipped it out. Bam. Bam. All done. But right in the open, in broad daylight, it felt too risky. There was that older couple way up the beach. They might have heard the shots, despite the sound of the waves crashing into shore.

  But now it was nearly dark.

  The conditions were right.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  DUCKWORTH gave Alastair Calder his card and returned to his car. He keyed the engine, but before driving away he called the station to confirm that they had the emailed photo of Cory Calder. Once that was done, he gave instructions that the entire state, not just Promise Falls, needed to be on the lookout for him. He provided a description of the van, and added a warning.

  “Calder is wanted in connection with a homicide investigation. He should be approached with extreme caution. He may be armed.”

  Then he raised another matter he had not forgotten about. “Calder’s also wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Carol Beakman.”

  He put the phone away and put the car in drive. Next stop: Madeline Plimpton’s house.

  He was confident in his assumption that Brian Gaffney had been mistaken for Jeremy Pilford, that the message inscribed on his back was meant for the so-called Big Baby. “Sean,” Duckworth believed, was supposed to be “Sian.”

  Once he’d learned Pilford was staying at the Plimpton house in Promise Falls—that there had been a protest there since his arrival—he knew he was on to something. He could feel it. Not only was the young man at risk, so was everyone else in the Plimpton house.

  And maybe not just from Cory Calder.

  He did a quick check to confirm the address, and ten minutes later was pulling into the driveway. He’d been past this house many times, and he certainly knew Madeline Plimpton. He had met her frequently in the past twenty years, when she was still publisher of the now dead Promise Falls Standard, and her profile in the community was much higher than it was now. Duckworth wondered how one dealt with having presided over a mini-empire for decades, only to see it wither and die.

  As he rang the bell, he noticed the plywood nailed over one of the two windows that flanked the door. He spotted part of a gray-haired head through the undamaged pane, and then the door opened.

  Madeline Plimpton said, “Yes?” And then, “Oh.”

  “Ms. Plimpton,” Duckworth said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Detective Barry—”

  “I know exactly who you are,” she said, and reached out and took his hand in hers. “What a pleasure to see you, Detective Duckworth. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more like what I can do for you,” he said, and nodded at the boarded-up window. “You’ve had some trouble here.”

  The woman smiled wryly. “Yes, we have. But surely they don’t have you on broken window duty.”

  It was his turn to smile. “No. I understand you have a guest. Jeremy Pilford.”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid my grand-nephew is not here right now.” A weariness infused her voice. “But come in and meet his mother, and her partner.”

  He followed her into the house, through the kitchen, and out to the screened-in porch at the back of the house that was filled with generously cushioned wicker furniture. Madeline appeared surprised to find no one there.

  “Oh,” she said. “Where have they gone?” She gazed out into the backyard, where a man and a woman were standing face to face, talking heatedly. “Oh, of course, they’re arguing.”

  They went outside, crossed the yard. The couple cut their discussion short and turned to take in Madeline and this new visitor.

  “Gloria, Bob, this is Detective Duckworth, with the Promise Falls Police.”

  He offered a hand and they each took it, hesitantly.

  “Have you caught the asshole who broke Madeline’s window?” Bob asked sharply.

  Duckworth shook his head. “That was from the protest last night?”

  “No,” Madeline said. “Someone threw a rock through the window earlier in the day. The protest was later. At least the police were here for that. No one got close to the house.”

  “You can’t believe what we’ve been through,” Gloria said.

  “Why are you here?” Bob asked.

  “I came to speak to your son,” Duckworth said to Gloria. “About his safety.”

  “He’s not here,” Gloria said.

  “I told him that,” Madeline said.

  Gloria continued, “We all know about his safety concerns. The whole Internet wants to hurt him.”

  “I’m here about a very specific threat,” the detective said.

  Everyone’s eyebrows went up a notch.

  “Does the name Cory Calder mean anything to anyone here?”

  They exchanged looks, shook their heads. “It doesn’t ring a bell,” Gloria said.

  “So you haven’t noticed a comment online, for example, from someone with that name? No emails from someone like that?”

  Bob said, “There have been so many hateful comments online, yeah, he might be there, but you’re talking hundreds, God, thousands, of people who’ve put in their two cents’ worth about Jeremy’s trial. It’s the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

  Duckworth nodded. “Sure, I get that.”

  “What kind of threat is this?” Madeline asked.

  “There was an incident. Someone got hurt. It was mistaken identity. I think Jeremy was the intended target.”

  “What?” Gloria asked. “What happened?”

  Duckworth said, “What’s important right now is your son’s safety. Where is he? When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Gloria said.

  Duckworth was unable to conceal his sense of alarm. “What? You don’t know where he is?”

  “It’s not like that,” Bob said. “He’s being protected.”

  “Protected how?”

  Madeline said, “We hired someone. It wasn’t safe for Jeremy here. We’re quite confident that he’s in good hands.”

  “Where? With whom?”

  Bob said, “We don’t know where. That was the whole idea. That his location be kept secret. Even we’re in the dark.”

  “I hate it,” Gloria said. “Not knowing where my boy is. I can’t help thinking that letting him go with Mr. Weaver was a bad idea.”

  “Wait,” Duckworth said. “Weaver? Cal Weaver?”

  “That’s right,” Madeline Plimpton said. “Don’t tell me we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
r />   He shook his head. “No, not at all. Cal’s a good man. I know him. If Jeremy’s with him, I’m sure he’s being well looked after.”

  There was a collective sigh. “Well, thank God for that,” Madeline said.

  “But I’d still like to know where they are. I need to tell Mr. Weaver what I’ve learned.”

  Bob and Gloria shrugged. But Madeline’s lips went in and out, as though she were debating whether to reveal something.

  “What is it?” Duckworth asked.

  “I know where they are,” she said.

  Bob’s eyes widened. Gloria said, “You knew and didn’t tell us?”

  “For God’s sake, Gloria, the last person I wanted to tell was you,” Madeline said.

  “Go to hell,” her niece snapped back.

  Bob said, “Madeline, whatever you’ve been keeping from us, it’s got to be safe to tell the detective here. And I’ll make sure Gloria keeps a lid on things.”

  “You talk about me like I’m a child,” Gloria said. She said to Duckworth, “They took away my phone.”

  “And then you stole it back,” Bob said, “and gave it to Jeremy. Look how that turned out.”

  Duckworth looked at Madeline. “Should we go someplace and talk?”

  “No, it’s fine. They’re at my place.”

  “Your place?” Duckworth said.

  “Oh for God’s sake, they’re in the Cape,” Gloria said. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’d forgotten you even had that house. It’s not like we’ve been invited there in years.”

  “Cape Cod?” Duckworth asked.

  Madeline nodded. “A beach house. I haven’t been there in a long time. A property management company looks after it for me.”

  Duckworth got out his notepad. “Address?”

  Madeline gave it to him.

  “Is there a phone there?”

  “No, but I have a cell phone number for Mr. Weaver.”

  “Okay, good.” Duckworth looked at Gloria. “I trust you’ll have no problem with my speaking to your son?”

  “No, of course not,” Gloria said. “Just don’t upset him.”

  Duckworth smiled. “If he’s with Cal Weaver, I don’t imagine there’s all that much to worry about. And as you say, no one knows they’re there.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  CAL

  “GIVE me some names,” I said to Jeremy.

  “What names?”

  We were sitting in the upstairs living room, gazing out over the bay as the sun started going down. The clouds were streaked with orange and yellow. Another tanker ship could be seen near the horizon.

  “People at the party,” I said. “The night it happened.”

  “I don’t know. Lots of people.”

  “Think.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I might want to talk to some of them.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I have some questions.”

  “You’re going to stir things up,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jeremy frowned. “I don’t know. You’re going to cause all kinds of trouble if you start asking people things.”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “I know what happened. I ran over Sian McFadden and killed her. I don’t know how I did it. But I did. You’re making me crazy.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He shook his head. “We should watch some TV or something. Or go somewhere. Go to a movie maybe. This place is pretty and all but it gets boring real fast. There’s sand, and there’s water, and that’s about it.”

  I pointed to the remote on the coffee table. “See what’s on.”

  He snatched it up and pointed it at the TV. I hadn’t seen a non-flat screen in some time. This one was about a thirty-six-incher, which made it nearly two feet deep.

  “That thing must weigh five thousand pounds,” Jeremy said. “It’s not HD or anything.” He paused. “Do you think they’d have had TV in prison?”

  “In your own cell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. Was that the thing that scared you most about going to jail?”

  “God, no,” he said. “I figured I’d get killed there. Or worse.”

  “Something worse than being killed?”

  “I’ve seen movies and stuff. About guys being raped and everything. There were nights, during the trial, I couldn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t stop thinking what they’d do to a kid like me.”

  “It can be bad,” I said.

  “That’s why I don’t want you messing around with this. If you start stirring up shit, they might reopen the whole case, and this time they’ll send me away for real.”

  I saw that fear again in his eyes. I decided maybe I should lay off this for a while. I pointed at the TV. “See what’s on.”

  All that came up on the TV was static.

  “Aw, man,” Jeremy said. He started flipping through channels, but they were all the same.

  “I guess Madeline didn’t pay the cable bill,” I said. “Maybe she doesn’t hook it up until the busy season.”

  “Can we go out or something? What if we drove into town and got some ice cream? I saw a place when we went for groceries.”

  I thought about it. As pretty as this place was, I did feel like a change of scenery. “What the hell, let’s do that. I wouldn’t mind hitting a bakery, if there’s one open. They’ve got these things called whoopie pies.”

  “Whoopie pies?”

  “They kind of look like a hamburger, but the bun part’s chocolate cake, with whipped cream in the middle.”

  “I want ice cream,” Jeremy said.

  I nodded. “Meet me at the car in three minutes.”

  I hit the bathroom, grabbed my jacket, made sure I had some cash and my car keys—I thought of something my late father used to say when he was heading out: “Spectacles, testicles, wallet and keys”—and went outside, where I found Jeremy standing next to the Honda. I locked up the beach house, got in behind the wheel and said, “Shit, I forgot my phone.”

  “Oh yeah, so I’m not even allowed to have one, but you can’t go five minutes without yours.” Jeremy pointed a finger at me. “You’ve got a problem. You know that? You can’t deal with your problem until you admit you’ve got one.”

  I grinned. “Shut up.”

  “You’re just mad ’cause I’m right.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I can quit any time I want.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard that one. That’s what my mom says about booze.”

  It was meant to be funny, but he suddenly went very quiet.

  “The hell with the phone,” I said. “How long does it take to get ice cream? Someone wants to reach me, they can leave a message.”

  “That came out wrong,” he said as I backed the car down the narrow driveway. “About my mom.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I mean, she’s kind of messed up, but I love her,” he said.

  “Sure,” I said. “Everyone loves their mom.”

  FORTY-NINE

  ONCE Barry Duckworth was behind the wheel, he got out his phone. Cal Weaver was already in his list of contacts. He brought up the number and tapped it. The phone rang eight times before going to voicemail.

  “Cal, it’s Barry,” Duckworth said. “I’ve just been at the Plimpton house and know Jeremy Pilford is in your care, which is a good thing, but there’s something you need to know. Despite all the various threats made against the kid, I think there’s one very credible one. A guy named Cory Calder. He could be armed. The guy’s a whackjob, Cal, and you need to take this one seriously. I don’t have any reason to believe he knows where you are—Ms. Plimpton filled me in, by the way—but you need to be on guard just the same. Call when you get this, and in the meantime, I’ll send you a picture of this guy in case you should happen to run into him. Take it easy.”

  As he drove away from the Plimpton house, Duckworth realized he was onl
y a mile from Brian Gaffney’s parents’ place. He wanted to see how Brian was doing. The young man might have been released from hospital and gone to stay with his family for a while, which would give Duckworth a chance to ask him whether the name Cory Calder was familiar to him. He had his doubts that it would, but it was still worth posing the question.

  As he pulled up in front of the Gaffneys’ house, his gaze went to the opposite side of the street. A rental cube van was backed up to the open garage of Eleanor Beecham’s place. The front door was propped open with a stick.

  A short, heavyset guy with curly hair who Duckworth did not recognize came out holding a chair from a kitchen dinette set. He put it in the back of the van, and as he re-emerged, Harvey Spratt, the man Duckworth had spoken to the previous day, exchanged a few words with him.

  Maybe there was time for another quick chat with the folks looking after Mrs. Beecham. Norma, in particular. Duckworth had what he would call a lot of balls in the air right now—a tattooed man, a murder, a missing woman, an Internet target—so he didn’t really have time for this, but since he was here, he decided to follow up on what had been bothering him since his first visit.

  He got out of the car and approached the house. Harvey spotted him and said, “Back again?”

  Duckworth nodded amiably. “That I am.”

  “We’re kind of busy at the moment,” Harvey said as the man helping him stopped to see who he was talking to.

  “Just like to talk to Norma a minute,” Duckworth said.

  “Well, she’s pretty busy too.”

  Duckworth stood there. “I’ll wait while you get her.”

  Harvey mumbled something under his breath, then poked his head into the house. “Norma!”

  From inside, “What?”

  “Get out here!”

  “What is it?”

  “That policeman’s here again.”

  Silence.

  Then Duckworth heard someone stomping through the house, and seconds later, Norma was at the door.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Good day, Ms. Lastman,” he said. “Do I have that right?”