Far From True

by Linwood Barclay

  “Just before we broke up. She was going to slap me and I went to stop her and I . . . I kind of ended up hitting her.”

  “You hit her?”

  “And Mr. Finley, he found out all about it because he’s close with Trish’s family, and he talked to her about whether to go to the police, whether she should have me charged, and he kind of made it sound like he talked her out of it, but that could change, depending on whether I could help him out or not. You know, like if I ever heard anything interesting that might help him, like, politically. And when I heard you talking to Mom about those murders, I thought that was something he could use, so I told him. I didn’t want to. But I wanted us to be square, you know, so I wouldn’t owe him anymore.”

  “What’d he say?”

  Trevor dropped his head. “He said it was a start.”

  “He’s a fucking blackmailer,” Duckworth said. “I’ll kill him.”

  “He was keeping me out of trouble. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I did a stupid thing. I never meant to hit Trish. I really didn’t. I was just swinging my arm around to deflect her, you know? But my hand, it got her right on the cheek and . . .”

  Trevor began to cry. “I really fucked up. I fucked up huge. I hate this job. I hate working for that asshole. I just. I didn’t—”

  “Come here,” Duckworth said. He pulled his son into his arms, patted his back softly.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Trevor said, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder. “You’re in deep shit. You’re in trouble.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Duckworth said. “We’ll work it out.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Victor Rooney said.

  Walden Fisher, on one knee before the gravestones of his wife and daughter, turned and looked at the man standing on the cemetery lawn behind him.

  “Huh? Victor?” Walden said.

  “You come up here most every day. I went by the house, and when I couldn’t find you there, I thought I’d take a run up here.”

  Walden put both hands on his bent knee, pushed himself up. His left pant leg was damp from the grass.

  “Victor,” he said. “You wanted to see me about something?”

  Victor stood there in frayed jeans and a faded Buffalo Sabres T-shirt. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “I came by to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?”

  Victor shrugged. “Things aren’t working out for me here. I’ve been trying to get work, but I’m banging my head up against the wall. Can’t find anything. This town’s got nothing to offer.”

  “Things are kind of tough everywhere,” Walden said. “Not just here.”

  “Maybe. But I think things are just going to get worse here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Victor shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

  “Where do you think you’ll go?”

  Another shrug. “I haven’t worked that out yet. That’s what I’ll put my mind to over the next few days, while I finish up a few things.”

  “What things?”

  “You know, just stuff. Say good-bye to a few friends, things like that. Do some research online, see where a good place to go might be. Albany maybe. That’s close. But I might go far away, too. Maybe Seattle. I got some friends I went to school with out there. Maybe they got some leads on things.”

  “Good to have options.”

  “I know you blame me,” Victor said.

  “Come again?”

  “For what happened to Olivia. That you think it was my fault.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Victor. I’ve never accused you of killing Olivia.”

  “Did you send that detective to talk to me? Duckworth? He came by my place, asking me how I was dealing with what happened to Olivia. Why would he do that?”

  Walden shrugged. “I didn’t send him. I mean, he came by to see me, asking a few more questions. I guess they haven’t totally given up trying to find Olivia’s killer. I guess the conversation got around to you, but—”

  “So it was you.”

  “I’m sorry, Victor. I never meant to cause you any kind of trouble.”

  “You blame me because I was supposed to meet her. In the park. And I was late. I know you hold me responsible.”

  “I’ve never said that,” Walden told him.

  “You don’t have to. I can tell. I blame myself, too. I just . . . I lost track of time. If I’d been there five minutes earlier, we’d have been in the bar, having a drink, getting a bite to eat.”

  “Plenty of blame to go around,” Walden said.

  “So, it’s not like I’ve decided to forgive myself or anything, but I’ve decided I have to move on. I have to try and get my shit together. Maybe I can do that somewhere else, by starting over.”

  “Just don’t rush into anything, Victor. Think on it through the Memorial Day weekend, at least.”

  Victor glanced at the headstones, then looked back at Walden Fisher. “Maybe you should, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Move on. I mean, coming up here, every day. Talking to Olivia and your wife, like they can hear you. Maybe that’s not that healthy a thing to do. Maybe it’s holding you back from getting on with your life.”

  “This is my life. Paying my respects to them.”

  Victor nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, then. I guess I said my piece.” He half turned, as if getting ready to leave, then stopped. “You hear about that thing last night?”

  “What thing would that be?”

  “The bus.”

  Walden shook his head. “What bus?”

  “A Promise Falls bus. Like, a regular city bus. I was jogging, and coming down the street, there’s this, like, fireball. It’s a bus, totally empty, the whole thing on fire. Someone would’ve had to steal a bus from the compound, splash some gasoline around inside, toss in a match, put it in neutral, and let it roll. It crashed right into the flower shop, caught the building on fire.”

  “That’s horrible. Was anyone killed? Hurt?”

  Victor shook his head. “Don’t think so. Wasn’t anybody on the bus. Had a big number twenty-three on the back. You been hearing about that?”

  “I have,” Walden said.

  “All the stuff that’s been happening—the drive-in and a bunch of other things—is all connected somehow.”

  “That’s what they say.” Walden shook his head in bafflement. “Why would someone be doing something like that?”

  Victor smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  SIXTY

  Cal

  “SAM!” I said, still looking at that closed office door only a few feet away from me.

  Even over the low-level rumble of the washing machines I had just started, I thought I heard a lock being turned.

  Something about that seemed wrong.

  Not taking my eye off the door, I set Crystal’s graphic novel on the top of the washer. But I’d set it on the edge and it fell, open to some inside page, on the floor.

  I left it there and moved toward the door.

  “Hey, Sam!” I said. “I think one of the washers is on the blink!”

  No response.

  I got up close to the door, put my ear to it. Someone was whispering on the other side. I was pretty sure it was Sam’s voice.

  “Sam, everything okay in there?” I said, my mouth right up to the door.

  A pause. Then, “Yes. Everything is fine.”

  Her stilted reply didn’t sound fine to me.

  “One of the washers seems to be broken,” I said through the door.

  Another pause. “I’ll take . . . a look at it in a minute.”

  I unholstered my gun, held it in my right hand, pointed toward the floor.

  I said, “W
hat’s the plan, Ed?”

  A long pause this time. If Samantha had been in there alone, she would have said, almost immediately, “What?” Or maybe, “Ed?”

  The fact that she said nothing right away told me he was in there with her. When I called out his name, it threw him. He needed a few seconds to think of something to tell Sam to say to me.

  Finally, it came.

  “There’s no Ed here,” Sam said, her voice sounding close to breaking.

  I said, “Ed, you need to open this door and send Sam out. You hurt, Sam?”

  “Not so far,” she said.

  “That’s good,” I said, keeping my voice even. “That’s good, Ed. You let Sam out, and I think there’s a pretty good chance no one’s going to get hurt. Whaddya say to that?”

  Two seconds. Then, “Fuck you!”

  Ed’s presence confirmed.

  “He’s got a gun!” Sam screamed.

  “Shut up!” Ed shouted.

  I moved, took up a position to the side of the door.

  “Ed, this is the kind of situation that could get out of hand very quickly. Whatever you came here planning to do, it’s not going to work. It’s not something you’re going to be able to get away with. Best thing you can do now is walk away. You came in through the back, right? So just go. Walk out the door and go. I won’t come after you. Just leave Sam where she is and take off. You hearing me?”

  “I hear ya,” Ed Noble said.

  “That sound like a plan to you?”

  “I guess. Sure. No harm done, right?”

  “That’s right. Just get out of here.”

  “You’re right,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I don’t know what I was thinking. There are better ways to resolve things, right?”

  I heard the dead bolt slide back into the door.

  “I mean, people have their differences, but the best thing to do is sit down and work them out reasonably.”

  The doorknob turned slowly.

  “That’s right, Ed. I like your attitude,” I said, bringing up my gun. “I’m glad we could work things out without anyone getting hurt. You still okay, Sam?”

  Nothing.

  “Sam?”

  And she screamed: “Look ou—”

  The door burst open. Ed Noble, his nose heavily bandaged, came out like a sprinter out of the blocks at the sound of the starter’s pistol. He was crouched low, gun in hand, head turning my way as he launched out of the room. He rolled his body a quarter turn, heading deliberately for the floor on his right shoulder, gun up, pointed my way.

  It looked like a stunt he’d probably seen in a movie. Maybe Liam Neeson or Kiefer Sutherland could pull off a midflight shot and hit the target, but when Noble fired, the bullet went wide, somewhere off to the left, and into a dryer.

  The round glass window shattered.

  Just because Noble wasn’t the world’s best shot didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Which was why, the second he started coming out the door, I headed for the floor as well. But even though I was armed, I wasn’t going to shoot wildly.

  If I was going to shoot, I was going to make it count.

  Noble wasn’t happy with just one shot. Once he’d skidded to a stop, he took another, this one a little closer to home. It hit another dryer on the wall behind me, this time only a couple of feet up from the floor.

  “Shit!” he said.

  Lying on my side, one arm tight against the floor, I extended my arms, both hands on the gun, and prepared to fire.

  But Noble scurried, crablike, toward the broad table near the back of the Laundromat where customers folded their clothes.

  This was dangerously close to the office door, where, I now noticed, Sam was standing, wide-eyed, one hand over her mouth, watching.

  “Get back!” I shouted.

  I was getting to my feet, gun in my right hand, thinking back to the days when I was still a cop and wore Kevlar while on duty. I didn’t have any such protection now. Hunched over, I ran to the other side of the room where I’d have a clearer shot at Noble, who was flat on his back now, aiming my way.

  Another shot, this one going into the ceiling.

  I fired, aiming for body mass. But in the millisecond before I squeezed the trigger, he rolled toward the office. The bullet hit the floor and ricocheted, pinging off an appliance. Any more shots that way might find their way into the adjoining room and hit Sam.

  Not even ten seconds had gone by since this had all started.

  I was getting to my feet just as Noble was scrambling to his. “Don’t fucking move!” I shouted.

  He glanced my way, rose and fired again. I leapt to the right, noticed movement in the open office door.

  It all happened very fast.

  While Noble was looking in my direction, Sam stepped into the main room, right arm outstretched, like she was getting ready to throw out the first pitch.

  But it wasn’t a baseball in her hand. It was the leather satchel full of quarters, the drawstring wound tightly around her wrist.

  She swung it with everything she had.

  Noble saw it just before it connected, but not in time to do anything about it. The sack of metal caught him squarely on that broken nose, and the yelp of pain was louder than any of the shots that had been fired. He stumbled back two steps.

  “Fucking Jesus!” he screamed, putting his free hand over his face. He still had the gun in his right hand, but he’d blinded himself with his left.

  I could have shot him—and God knows I wanted to—but instead I ran toward him, flat out, tackling him around the waist, bringing him down onto the floor so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

  I went for the gun first, putting both hands on his right wrist and slamming it to the floor once, twice, until the gun slipped from his fingers.

  Sam didn’t waste a second in grabbing it.

  Noble was struggling for air, bringing up his knees, collapsing in on himself, blood streaming out from below the bandages that spanned his nose.

  “Yo . . . lan . . . da!” he said between gasps. “She . . . ordered . . . it! It’s . . . all her . . . fault!”

  Sam had Noble’s gun pointed straight at his head. “You motherfucker,” she said.

  “Don’t,” I cautioned her. “Don’t shoot him, Sam. Not now. Not for you, and not for Carl.”

  She didn’t lower the gun. “I’ve had it. I’ve just had it. I can’t take any more of this.”

  “I know, I know. But he’s going down for this. Yolanda, too. Give me the gun, Sam.”

  It took about ten seconds for her to hand it over. I tucked it into my jacket pocket.

  She raised the bloodied bag of coins. “Could I hit him one more time with this?”

  I sighed.

  “What the hell?” I said. “Go ahead.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  AS much as Barry Duckworth wanted to go in search of Randall Finley before he did anything else, he had other priorities. When he’d spotted the mayor’s news conference under way in the park, he’d been on the hunt for the professor, Peter Blackmore.

  He’d gone to the man’s house, but no one had answered the doorbell. A peek through some windows suggested it wasn’t a case of him refusing to come to the door. Duckworth wondered whether Blackmore, even in the midst of personal tragedy, had decided to head out to the campus. Not to teach, but to confer with his good buddy Clive Duncomb.

  He’d have been at the college more than an hour ago if he hadn’t made that impromptu trip to Greenwich to see Trevor.

  By now, Blackmore might be back home. Rather than search for the man in person, Duckworth made some calls. To the man’s house, first, where there was no answer, then to the college’s English department. He reached a secretary and asked whether the professor was there.

  “I saw him around,” the woman said. “He’s very dis
traught. I don’t know if you know, but he just lost his wife. I’ve no idea why he came in here today. I think he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He might be in his office right now. Would you like me to put you through?”

  Duckworth said the last thing he wanted to do, given the circumstances, was trouble the man.

  He pushed his foot down a little harder on the accelerator.

  As he was driving onto the Thackeray grounds, he saw a car going the other way with Peter Blackmore behind the wheel. Duckworth hit the brakes, did a fast three-point turn, and sped after the car. He put on the flashing red lights in the grille, whooped the siren for a couple of seconds. Blackmore glanced in his mirror, put on his blinker like a model driver, and pulled over to the shoulder.

  Blackmore was powering down his window and craning his neck around as Duckworth came up alongside the car.

  “Officer, I’m sure I wasn’t speeding or—”

  When he saw that he hadn’t been pulled over by a traffic cop, he said, “Oh.”

  “Professor,” Duckworth said, leaning over, resting his arms on the driver’s windowsill. The detective was immediately alarmed by Blackmore’s appearance. His face was bruised and bloody. His knuckles, too. “Professor, what happened to you?”

  “Oh,” he said, tentatively touching his face, as though he needed to remind himself that he’d been hurt. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Duckworth stepped back. “Would you please get out of the car, sir?”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Step out of the car, Professor.”

  Blackmore nodded, turned off the ignition, got out, closed the door. “I haven’t been drinking or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, not in the last couple of hours, anyway.”

  “I want to see how you are. You’ve been in some kind of altercation, Professor. Your hands are bloodied, you’ve got a black eye, and your cheek’s all puffed out. Suppose you tell me about that.”

  “I’m fine, really.”