Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  Well, so much for that project now.

  Cory’s priority was saving his own ass.

  He got the door open but did not run his hand along the wall searching for the light switch. He couldn’t have anyone looking in, certainly not as the road began to fill up with gawkers and emergency equipment. Even with the flimsy curtains pulled across the windows, the silhouette of a man moving a woman’s body was very likely to attract attention.

  He would kill Beakman—smothering her seemed the best way to go—then move her body out and wipe down the cabin. Doorknobs, toilet handle, anything he could think of he might have touched. Leave no personal traces behind. Get behind the wheel and slowly drive away.

  Cory knew he could never go home again, that he had seen his father for the last time. He was simultaneously depressed and delighted. He loved the man, at some level, but despised him, too.

  The relentless belittling with a dollop of tenderness. “You should try harder to make something of yourself, but maybe you are what you are.” Followed by a look of resignation and disappointment.

  He slipped into the cabin and closed the door silently behind him. Even though it had been dark outside, his eyes needed to adjust further to the gloom of the cabin. But he was able to make out the basic shapes of its contents. The wooden table and four mismatched antique chairs in the center of the room. The sink and counter along one wall. The wood-burning heater on the opposite side of the room, the chimney pipe leading straight up and through the ceiling.

  And, finally, the two beds along the left wall. One empty, one not.

  Yes, suffocation seemed the simplest way to go. Clamp a hand over her mouth, squeeze her nostrils shut, and wait until the life was snuffed out of her.

  You did what you had to do.

  He worked his way carefully across the darkened room and stood beside the bed.

  “Everything’s gone wrong,” he said. “It’s all gone to shit. Someone else tried to do it, and he fucked it up. I’ve lost my chance. I have to leave.” He paused. “I can’t take you with me. At least, not . . . Well, I can’t. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand out to rest it on her back. He felt a strange need to comfort her before he did what he had to do.

  But his hand found nothing. It went all the way down to the surface of the bed. Frantically, he patted the bed from head to foot.

  “Where are you?” he shouted, turning sharply to look into the dark room.

  His first thought was that if she’d managed to get loose, she wouldn’t have stayed around to await his return. She must be gone.

  But then he thought he heard breathing.

  Someone else was in the room.

  “Where are you?” he said again, rising off the bed and whirling around, just in time to see a shadowy figure swinging something his way.

  The steel poker from the wood-burning stove caught him across the side of the head and he staggered across the room. Feebly he raised his arm to ward off a second blow, but the poker hit him so hard he was sure he felt the bone in his forearm snap.

  He dropped to his knees as the poker came around for a third time, this time catching him across the neck.

  He hit the floor, writhing and gagging. He rolled onto his back, and as he looked up, a sliver of moonlight coming through one of the windows briefly lit up the face of his attacker.

  What Cory saw was so unimaginably horrible he managed to utter a gasp between choking noises.

  “Nice to see you again,” said Craig Pierce.

  FIFTY-NINE

  CAL

  BARRY Duckworth called me back more quickly than I had expected.

  “Nothing on that phone,” he said. “It’s a burner. I can’t connect a name to it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  I had been talking with an officer named Higgins from the Town of Sandwich Police Department, filling him in on what Gregor Kiln had tried to accomplish. I wouldn’t let Kiln out of my sight, even as the paramedics examined him. I wouldn’t do that until someone had cuffed his wrists and shoved him into the back of a cruiser. If he left here in an ambulance, I was going to insist that a cop go with him.

  “So this kid,” Higgins said, nodding his head toward Jeremy Pilford, who was standing a few feet away watching the fire department douse the flames that had engulfed Madeline Plimpton’s place, “is the one that was all over the news?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Higgins pointed at Kiln. “So you shot that guy?”

  “I did.”

  “And broke his knee?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Maybe I should be arresting you.”

  “I explained to you what he was trying to do.”

  “Yeah, but you might be givin’ me a story.”

  “See if he wants to file charges,” I said. “My guess is he’s got bigger things to worry about.”

  Higgins pinched the top of his nose, as though trying to ward off a headache. “Look, I think I’m gonna have to bring the chief in on this. Arson, attempted murder, the Big Baby case? You shootin’ this guy. If the chief doesn’t hear about it till morning, my ass is gonna be in a sling.”

  “Good idea,” I said. I asked for the chief’s name—it was Bertram—and contact info so that I could forward it on to Barry. While I’d been fairly forthcoming with Higgins, I’d not mentioned that Kiln’s cell phone was in my pocket.

  Higgins excused himself to call his boss. I sent a message to Barry with the info about the chief. Jeremy wandered over and said, “Madeline’s not gonna be very happy. Have you called her and told her what’s happened to her place?”

  I shook my head. “No, and I’m not going to.”

  For all I knew right now, Madeline was the one who’d sent this guy, although I still couldn’t fathom why she would do that.

  “And if you’ve magically managed to pull another cell phone out of your ass,” I said to Jeremy, “I don’t want you doing it either. We’re on radio silence for a while.”

  “On what?”

  “We’re not calling or talking to anybody. Don’t call your mother or Bob or your girlfriend Charlene or anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Just go along with this, okay?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “No, no guess. Promise me.”

  “Fine, I promise. What are we gonna do now? We’ve got no place to stay.”

  “I think we’ll be heading home very soon. At least as soon as they’ll let us.”

  Two more police cars had arrived, and four officers—two men and two women—got out. Higgins, a cell phone to his ear, waved over one of the women and started a conversation with her. He pointed to Kiln, and the woman nodded several times. As she walked over to where the paramedics were treating our shooter, Higgins resumed his phone conversation.

  Then he called me over.

  “Chief wants to talk to you,” he said.

  I took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Weaver?”

  “That’s right. Chief Bertram?”

  “Yeah. You’re private?”

  He sounded very deeply pissed, and I didn’t think it just had to do with the fact that Officer Higgins had woken him up.

  “Yes,” I said. “Look, I know you have a lot of questions, but before you begin, I’d like to offer my apologies.”

  “Huh?”

  “I just brought a shit storm of trouble your way. That wasn’t my intention. I came here with the Pilford boy because I thought he’d be safe here. He’s been the subject of countless death threats. It didn’t work out. I’m sorry.”

  I wasn’t, actually, but I didn’t see the point in getting on the wrong side of this man from the get-go.

  “Well,” he said, his voice sounding slightly softer than a moment earlier, “you sure got that right. I’m comin’ out there shortly, but in the meantime, I need you to bring me up to speed.”

  I told him the same story
I’d told Higgins. “You’re going to be hearing, any moment, I think, from Detective Barry Duckworth of the Promise Falls Police.”

  “Where the hell is that?” Bertram asked.

  “New York state. North of Albany. He’s going to ask you something on my behalf.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Nothing to the press for about twelve hours. Except that there was a fire.”

  “Not likely to be any questions for that long anyway,” Bertram said. “This isn’t exactly Manhattan. We don’t have CNN watching our every move. But let me ask you why.”

  “I’d like whoever sent this Kiln guy to kill us to think the job got done.”

  There was a long pause at Bertram’s end. Then, “I’ll talk to your Duckworth guy. See if you’re on the level. My phone’s beeping now.”

  “Take the call,” I said, and handed the phone back to Higgins.

  Kiln was being loaded into the ambulance. The officer Higgins had spoken to climbed in with him. I ran over before they closed the doors.

  “Where you taking him?” I asked.

  “Hyannis,” said the paramedic.

  I fixed my gaze on the officer. “Don’t take your eyes off him.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “And who are you?”

  “Just don’t,” I said, and closed the doors.

  The ambulance rolled down the drive, red light flashing but siren off, and sped off once it had reached the road. I’d strolled down the driveway after it and watched it disappear into the distance.

  Here, a hundred feet or so away from the charred beach house, things were slightly calmer, and quieter. I got out Kiln’s phone, brought up the number he’d most recently been in touch with, and dialed it.

  It rang five times.

  “Yeah.” A man’s voice.

  Definitely not Madeline.

  It was low, almost a whisper, as though someone else was in the room he did not want to wake. One word certainly wasn’t enough for me to recognize the voice, and there was no reason to believe this was someone I’d ever spoken to before, anyway.

  I didn’t have the skills to do an impersonation of Gregor Kiln, but maybe it wouldn’t be necessary. I was going to be whispering, too.

  “It’s done,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Both of them.”

  “Fine. Next week.”

  Next week what? Payment? I didn’t want to ask.

  “Need a meet sooner,” I said.

  “Next week.”

  “No,” I pressed. “There was a complication.”

  A pause. “What kind of complication.”

  I dropped my voice even lower. “Can’t discuss now. In person.”

  “Shit.” Another pause. “Ten. Usual place.”

  And where was that?

  “Ten’s good,” I said. “But not the usual place. Think it’s being watched.”

  “What?” His voice went up. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Told you, can’t now. Tomorrow, ten, take a booth at the back of Kelly’s.”

  “What the hell is Kelly’s?”

  “Diner, Promise Falls.”

  “Why the hell do I have to go up there?”

  “Just be there. End booth, by the door to the kitchen.”

  There was another pause. Had he figured it out? Did he know I wasn’t Kiln? I could feel blood pulsing in my temple.

  “You there?” I asked.

  Another three seconds passed before he answered. “Fine, I’ll be there.”

  He ended the call. I closed my eyes, kept playing his voice back in my head, wondering if I’d heard it before.

  Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw a woman running up the road toward me. She was waving her arms frantically. She had what looked like short lengths of rope trailing from her wrists.

  She screamed: “Help me! Help me!”

  As I ran toward her, I thought that Cape Cod was perhaps not the idyllic vacation spot I’d been hearing about all these years.

  SIXTY

  GLORIA Pilford rolled over in bed and saw Bob sitting there, hunched over, his back to her. A sliver of light sneaking from the hallway of Madeline Plimpton’s house through the slightly opened doorway was enough to cast shadows.

  Bob extended an arm and put his cell phone on the bedside table.

  “What’s going on?” Gloria asked. “Is something going on?”

  “No,” Bob said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Around one,” he said.

  “I think I only just got to sleep,” she said. “I was awake for the longest time.” She sat up. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You were on the phone. I heard you whispering. Were you on the phone?”

  Bob turned and looked at her sharply. “For Christ’s sake, just go back to sleep.”

  Gloria shifted her body toward the headboard so she could prop herself up against it. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing!”

  Bob stood and walked across the room to the door and disappeared into the hallway. Gloria threw back the covers, grabbed a housecoat that had been draped over a chair, threw it around herself and went in pursuit.

  She spotted Bob descending the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he turned in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Wait,” she said, scurrying down the steps in her bare feet. “Talk to me.”

  Bob kept walking. Once in the kitchen, he went straight to the cupboard where Madeline kept various kinds of liquor. He put his hand around a bottle of Scotch, grabbed a glass, poured himself two fingers’ worth, and knocked it back. He poured more Scotch into the glass and was about to drink it when Gloria reached up and grabbed his arm.

  “Careful, goddamn it,” he said. “You’ll spill it.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the one with the drinking problem,” she said.

  “I need a little something, is all. Is that a crime?”

  “Tell me who that was on the phone.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He’d freed his arm from Gloria’s grasp and downed the second drink. Before he could reach for the bottle again, Gloria grabbed it, then upended it in the sink.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Bob said wearily. “You think that’s the only thing to drink around here?”

  She left the empty bottle in the sink, stood with her back up against the counter and folded her arms across her breasts. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s just work,” he said to her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “You’re up in the middle of the night, trying to drink yourself blind, and you tell me it’s nothing to worry about. Jesus, Bob, you think I’m not used to worrying about things?” Her face grew suddenly alarmed. “It’s not about Jeremy, is it? Is he okay? Was it him?”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “It wasn’t Jeremy.”

  “Was it Weaver? Did he call you?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “Then who was it?”

  Bob gripped Gloria by the shoulders. “Believe me, it’s . . . it’s nothing. Just sorting some things out with work.”

  “You get work calls at one in the morning?”

  He gripped her harder, squeezed. “Let. It. Go.”

  Gloria struggled to shake him off. “Get your hands off me, you son of a—”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  It was Madeline. Also wrapped in a robe, she walked bleary-eyed into the kitchen, blinked several times, then looked fiercely at Gloria and Bob.

  “Nothing,” Bob said.

  “That’s what he keeps telling me,” Gloria said. “But it’s definitely something.”

  “For the love of God, it’s always something with you two,” Madeline said. “Is it Jeremy? Has something happened?”

  “No,” Bob said quietly.

  “I’ll call him,” Madeline said. />
  “He doesn’t have a phone,” Gloria said. “Not any more.”

  “The detective. Weaver. I’ll call him and see if everything’s okay.”

  Bob raised a hand. “Madeline, it’s one in the morning. Let the man—let Jeremy—have some sleep. We can’t go calling them every five seconds to see if they’re okay. You know where they are, you know they’re safe.”

  Madeline appeared unconvinced, as did Gloria.

  “So what if we wake them up,” Gloria said. “They can go back to sleep after. I need to know that my son is okay.” She stepped away from the counter and approached Madeline. “You’re the only one who has a number for the man. Call him.”

  Madeline nodded. “My cell’s up by my bed. I’ll be right back.”

  Bob was shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Madeline ignored him and kept on walking. Bob turned to make his case to Gloria. “You have to trust the man to do his job.’

  It was Gloria’s turn to have a drink. She’d opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine. She filled a glass nearly to the top and took a sip as Bob watched disapprovingly.

  “Look what’s happening to us,” he said.

  She eyed him with wonder. “Are you surprised? After what we’ve been through? After what I’ve been through? Letting the lot of you humiliate me on a world stage?”

  She took a large swallow. Her eyes misted over and her lower lip trembled. “I’m so ashamed. I’m just so, so ashamed.”

  “Gloria,” Bob said tiredly. “Go back to bed. Take your drink with you if you want.”

  Madeline returned to the kitchen, cell phone in hand.

  “Did you get him?” Gloria asked.

  “I’m just trying now,” she said. She studied the screen, tapped it with her thumb, put the phone to her ear. “It’s ringing.”

  Gloria and Bob went silent, stared at Madeline.

  “Still ringing,” she said. “Maybe he’s got the phone muted.”

  “Yes,” Bob said. “That makes sense.”

  “No,” Gloria said. “That doesn’t make any sense. Not under the circumstances. Like, if the police had to call him, like the detective who was here. Mr. Weaver’d have to leave his phone on in case there was an emergency.”