Never Look Away: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  “Nope. It’s Saturday. Won’t be talking to her till Monday morning.”

  The front door eased open. A short, wide woman in blue stretch pants said, “You got company, Ern?”

  “This is Detective …”

  “Duckworth,” he said.

  “Detective Duckworth is with the police, Irene. He can’t have beer but maybe you could have a lemonade or something?”

  “I’ve got some apple pie left over,” Irene Bertram said.

  Detective Duckworth considered. “I probably could be persuaded to have a slice,” he said.

  “With ice cream? It’s just vanilla,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

  Irene retreated and the door closed. Ernie Bertram said, “It’s just a frozen one you heat up in the oven, but it tastes like it was homemade.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Duckworth said.

  “So what’s this about Jan?”

  “She’s missing,” the detective said.

  “Missing? Whaddya mean by missing?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since about midday, when she was with her husband and son at Five Mountains.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Ernie said. “What’s happened to her?”

  “Well,” said Duckworth, “if we knew that, we’d probably have a better chance of finding her.”

  “Missing,” he said, more to himself than to Duckworth. “That’s a hell of a thing.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to her?” Duckworth asked.

  “That’d be Thursday,” he said.

  “Not yesterday?”

  “No, she took Friday off. She’s been taking a few days off here and there the last couple of weeks.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Ernie Bertram shrugged. “Because she could. She had some time built up, so she asked if she could take an occasional day, instead of everything all at once.”

  “So they weren’t sick days,” Duckworth said.

  “No. And it was okay with me because it’s been a fairly quiet summer. Which is actually not that okay. Haven’t sold an air conditioner in two weeks, although it is getting late in the season. You sell them mostly in the spring or early summer, when it starts getting hot. But with this recession, homeowners aren’t willing to put down a couple thousand or whatever for a new unit. Paying the mortgage is hard enough, so they’re getting as much out of their old ones as they can. And the last few days haven’t been that scorching, so there hasn’t been that much to do repair-wise.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Duckworth.

  The door opened. Irene Bertram presented Barry Duckworth with a slab of pie that had a scoop of ice cream next to it the size of a softball.

  “Oh my,” he said.

  “Jan’s missing,” Ernie said to his wife.

  “Missing?” she said, plunking herself down in a third chair.

  “Yup,” Ernie said. “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “She was up at that new roller-coaster park and disappeared.” He zeroed in on Duckworth. “She get thrown off one of the coasters?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said.

  “Because those things, they’re not safe,” Bertram said.

  Duckworth put a forkful of apple pie into his mouth, then quickly followed it with some ice cream so he could let the flavors mingle. “This is amazing,” he said.

  “I made it myself,” Irene said.

  “I already told him,” Ernie said.

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “How would you describe Ms. Harwood’s mood the last few weeks?” the detective asked Ernie Bertram.

  “Her mood?”

  Duckworth, his mouth full of a second bite of pie, nodded.

  “Fine, I guess. What do you mean, her mood?”

  “Did she seem different? Maybe a bit down, troubled?”

  Bertram took another drag on his beer. “I don’t think so. Although I’m on the road a lot. I’m not in the office much. The girls could be turning tricks out of there and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “Ernie!” said Irene, punching him in the shoulder.

  “That was just a joke,” he said to Duckworth. “They’re fine women who work for me.”

  “You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” Irene said.

  “So if, say, Jan Harwood had been depressed of late, you might not have noticed,” Duckworth said between forkfuls.

  “Only one depressed in that office is Leanne,” he said. “Has been ever since she showed up five years ago.”

  “But not Ms. Harwood?”

  “If anything,” Bertram said, suddenly very thoughtful, “I’d say she was more excited.”

  “Excited?”

  “Well, maybe that’s the wrong word. Agitated? That’s not right, either. But acting like something was just around the corner.”

  Duckworth set down his fork and rested the plate on the broad arm of the wicker chair. He noticed that the ice cream was melting, and if he didn’t deal with it soon, it would start dribbling over the edge of the plate.

  “What was just around the corner?”

  “Beats me. But when she came to me, asking about taking a day off here and there, or maybe just half a day, there was something—I don’t know how to describe it—like she was looking forward to something, expecting something.”

  Irene said, “Ernie is very good at reading people. You go into people’s homes, fixing their furnaces and air conditioners, you get to know what people are really like.”

  Duckworth smiled at her, as though he actually appreciated the contribution.

  “How much time had she taken off lately?” Duckworth asked.

  “Let me think … Leanne—the other girl at the—”

  “They don’t call them girls anymore, Ernie,” Irene said. “They’re women. And you got some ice cream about to make a break for it there.”

  Duckworth used his fork to move the melting ice cream away from the edge, then mashed another forkful of pie into it and popped it into his mouth.

  Anyway,” Ernie said, “Leanne might have an idea how many days. There was yesterday, and another day earlier in the week, and a couple the week before.”

  Duckworth had taken out his notepad and was writing things down. When he was done, he looked up and said, “I want to go back to something you said a moment ago.”

  “Yeah?”

  “About Jan being excited. Tell me more about that.”

  Ernie thought. “Maybe it was a bit like when women are getting ready for something. Like a trip, or having relatives in to visit.”

  “But you wouldn’t have characterized her as suicidal at all?”

  Irene put a hand to her breast. “Oh my. Is that what you think happened?”

  “I’m just asking,” Duckworth said.

  Ernie said, “I don’t think so. But who knows how people think, what they keep bottled up inside.”

  Duckworth nodded. He finished off the last of the pie and ice cream in three more bites.

  “Where did they go yesterday?” Ernie asked.

  “Where did who go yesterday?” Duckworth asked.

  “Jan and David. They went on some outing yesterday. Jan mentioned it before she left work on Thursday.”

  “You sure you don’t mean their trip to Five Mountains today?”

  He shook his head. “She said David was taking her somewhere Friday. It was all really mysterious, she said she couldn’t talk about it. I got the idea that maybe it was a surprise or something.”

  Duckworth made another scribble on his pad, then put it into his jacket. He was about to thank Ernie for his time and Irene for the pie when a phone rang inside the house.

  Irene jumped up and went inside.

  When Duckworth rose out of his chair, Ernie did the same. “David must be beside himself,” Ernie said. “Wondering what’s happened to his wife.”

  Duckworth nodded. “Of course.”

  “I sure hope you find her soon,�
� he said.

  Irene was at the door. “It’s Lyall,” she said.

  Ernie shook his head. “What’s he want?”

  “He hasn’t seen Leanne all day. Actually, not since yesterday.”

  Duckworth felt a jolt. “Leanne Kowalski?”

  Ernie went into the house and picked up the receiver sitting by the phone on the front hall table. Duckworth followed him in.

  “Lyall?” Ernie listened a moment, then said, “Nope, I didn’t…. Since when? … That’s a long time to be shopping, even for a woman. Did you hear about Jan? Police are here—”

  “May I take that?” Duckworth said and took the phone away from Ernie. “Mr. Kowalski, this is Detective Barry Duckworth with the Promise Falls Police Department.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s this about your wife?”

  “She’s not home.”

  “When were you expecting her?”

  “Hours ago. She went out to do some shopping. At least that’s what I think. That’s what she usually does on a Saturday. She was going to the mall and then she was going to do the groceries.”

  “Your wife and Jan Harwood work together?”

  “Yeah, at Ernie’s. Can you put him back on? I want to ask whether he called her in on an emergency or something.”

  “He didn’t,” Duckworth said.

  “What’s this about Jan? Her husband called here a while ago looking for her. What are you doing at Ernie’s place? Everything okay there?”

  Duckworth had his notepad out again. “Mr. Kowalski, what’s your address?”

  THIRTEEN

  There was something I’d never been totally honest about with Jan.

  It wasn’t that I lied to her. But there was something I’d done I’d never told her about. If she’d ever flat out asked about it, maybe then I would have lied. I think I might have had to. She’d have been too furious with me.

  It wasn’t that I cheated on her. I’d never done anything like that, not even close. This had nothing to do with another woman.

  One time, about a year ago, I drove by her house.

  This would be the house she grew up in, her parents’ place, a nearly three-hour drive from Promise Falls. It was in the Pittsford neighborhood of southeast Rochester, on Lincoln Avenue. A long, narrow two-story. The white paint was peeling from the walls, and a couple of the black shutters—one on the first floor and one on the second—hung crookedly. The screening in the metal storm door was frayed, and there were chunks of brick missing from the chimney. But while the house needed some attention, it was far from derelict.

  I had been driving back from Buffalo, where I’d gone to interview a city planner who felt that conventional ideas to slow residential traffic—speed bumps, four-way stops—didn’t do anything but anger drivers to the point of road rage, and thought roundabouts, traffic circles, and landscaped medians were a better way to go. It was on the way back that I decided to take 490 north off 90 and head into the Rochester neighborhood I knew to be the one where Jan grew up.

  I think I knew, even before leaving for Buffalo, I was going to take this side trip.

  It never would have been possible if we hadn’t had the leak behind the bathroom sink several days earlier.

  Jan was at work and I had taken the day off as payback for several late-night city council meetings I’d recently covered—this was before we’d turned that beat over to Rajiv or Amal or whoever in Mumbai. I’d gone down to the unfinished side of our basement, where the furnace and hot water tank are, and noticed a steady drip of water coming down from between the studs. That was where the copper pipes turned north to feed the upstairs bathroom.

  I did what I always did when I had a household emergency. I called Dad.

  “Sounds like maybe you’ve got a pinhole leak in one of your pipes,” he said. “I’ll be right over.” He couldn’t disguise the joy and excitement in his voice.

  He showed up half an hour later with his tools, including a small propane torch for welding.

  “It’s going to be in the wall somewhere,” he said. “The trick is finding it.”

  We thought we could hear a hissing sound behind the bathroom sink, about a foot up from the floor. It was a pedestal sink, so it was easy to get up close to the wall for a listen.

  Dad pulled out a saw with a pointed end on the blade that would allow him to stab right into the drywall and start cutting.

  “Dad,” I said, looking at the floral wallpaper and not looking forward to tearing it all up, “would it be worth going in from the other side?”

  “What’s over there?” he asked.

  “Hang on,” I said. As it turned out, the linen closet was on the opposite side of the wall from the bathroom sink. I opened it and started clearing out everything on the floor below the first shelf—-a basket for dirty laundry, a stockpile of toilet paper and tissue boxes—until the wall was clear. I thought, if the pipe could be reached from here, it made more sense to hack through in a place where it wouldn’t be noticed.

  Once I had everything out, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled into the closet and listened for the leak.

  The baseboard that ran along the inside of the closet looked loose along the back. I touched it, and noticed that it seemed to be fitted into place and not nailed. I got my fingers in behind it, and felt something.

  It was the top edge of a letter-sized envelope, which was perfectly shaped to hide behind baseboarding. I worked the envelope out. There was nothing written on it, nor was it sealed, but the flap was tucked in. I opened it, and inside I found a single piece of paper and a key.

  I left the key inside and removed the paper, which was folded once, and was an official document of some kind.

  It was a “Certificate of Live Birth.”

  Jan’s birth certificate. All the details she had never wanted to share with me were on this piece of paper. Of course, I already knew her last name was Richler—rhymes with “tickler”—but she’d gone to great lengths never to speak her parents’ names or even say where they lived.

  Now, at a glance, I knew that her mother’s name was Gretchen, that her father’s name was Horace. That she had been born in the Monroe Community Hospital in Rochester. There was an address for a house on Lincoln Avenue.

  I committed the details of the document to memory, folded it and put it back into the envelope. I didn’t know what to make of the key. It was a type I didn’t recognize. It didn’t appear to be a house key. I left it in the envelope, and put it back where I’d found it, pushing the baseboard back into place.

  By the time I got around the other side of the wall, Dad had already made a hole. “I’m in!” he said. “And there’s your leak right there! You want to turn off the main valve?”

  Before the Buffalo trip, I went to the online phone directories and found only five Richlers listed in the Rochester area, and only one of them was an H. Richler.

  He was still listed as living on Lincoln Avenue.

  That told me at least one of Jan’s parents was still alive, if not both. If Horace Richler was dead, it was possible his wife, Gretchen, had left the listing unchanged.

  I made a call from my desk at the Standard in a bid to clear that up. I dialed the Richler number and a woman who sounded as though she could be in her sixties or seventies answered. Gretchen, I was betting.

  “Is Mr. Richler there?” I asked.

  “Hang on,” she said.

  Half a minute later, a man said tiredly, “Hello.”

  “Is this Hank Richler?”

  “Huh? No. This is Horace Richler.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ve got the wrong number.”

  I offered another apology and hung up.

  It was hard not to be curious about them when Jan had so steadfastly refused to talk about them.

  “I don’t want anything to do with them,” she’d said over the years. “I don’t ever want to see them again, and I don’t imagine they’ll be too destroyed if they never see me.”

  Even
when Ethan was born, Jan was adamantly opposed to letting her parents know.

  “They won’t give a rat’s ass,” she said.

  “Maybe,” I said, “knowing that they have a grandchild will change things. Maybe they’ll think it’s time for some sort of reconciliation.”

  She shook her head. “Not a chance. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  What I’d learned since first meeting Jan at a jobs placement office when I was interviewing some unemployed people for a story six years ago was that her unnamed father was a miserable son of a bitch, and her mother spent most of her time drunk and depressed.

  Jan didn’t like to talk about it. The story of her parents, and her life with them, spilled out in bits and pieces over the years.

  “They blamed me for everything,” Jan said one Saturday night two years ago when my parents had taken a very young Ethan for a sleepover. We’d gone through three bottles of wine—a rare event considering that Jan drank very little—and there’d been every indication we were headed upstairs for some long-overdue debauchery. Unexpectedly, Jan began to talk about a part of her life she’d never shared with me.

  “What do you mean, they blamed you?” I asked.

  “Him, mostly,” Jan said. “For fucking up their lives.”

  “What, by being a kid? By existing?”

  She looked at me through glassy eyes. “Yeah, pretty much. Dad had a nickname for me. Hindy.”

  “Hildy?”

  “No. Hindy.”

  “Like the language?”

  She shook her head, took another sip of wine, and said, “No, with a ‘y.’ Short for ‘Hindenburg.’ Not just because I went through a bit of a pudgy period, but because he thought of me as his own personal little fucking disaster.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah, well, that was true love compared to my tenth birthday.”

  I was going to ask, but decided to wait.

  “He promised to take me to New York to see an actual Broadway musical. I always dreamed of going there. I’d watch the Tonys when they were on TV, saved copies of the Sunday Arts section of The New York Times whenever I found one, looking at all the ads for the shows, memorizing the names of the stars and the reviews. He said he got tickets for Grease. That we were going to take the bus down. That we were going to stay in a hotel. I couldn’t believe it. My father, he’d been so indifferent to me for so long, but I thought maybe, because I was ten …”