“Who?” I said.
“She didn’t say. Just asked for you. I invited her in, but she said she’d wait outside.” His eyebrows went up half an inch. “Nice looker.”
Mom brightened. “Who is she, David?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “but I’m not going to find out sitting here.”
There was no one on the porch when I went out the front door. She was standing at the foot of the steps. I couldn’t tell who it was right away, given the dim porch light, and the fact that she was looking out toward the street, arms crossed over her chest.
“Hello?”
She turned around. “Hey,” Samantha Worthington said.
“Hi,” I said. “You’re unarmed.”
She dug into the front pocket of her jeans. When her hand came back out, it was wrapped around something. I could guess what.
She came halfway up the steps, arm extended. “I believe this is yours. Or your kid’s. I don’t know. All I know is, it’s not Carl’s.”
I opened my palm to allow her to set the pocket watch on it. Our fingers brushed together lightly. Samantha retreated, ran her fingers through her hair to get it out of her eyes, and said, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Not just about the watch.”
“You mean the shotgun in my face.”
“Yeah,” Samantha said. “That.” She forced a smile. “You get some fresh shorts?”
“I did.”
“I was doing laundry, grabbed Carl’s jeans; they felt kind of heavy. Found the watch in his pocket.” She shook her head. “You’d figure, if he was going to lie to me, he’d do a better job of covering up after himself.”
“His future as a master criminal looks uncertain,” I said.
She pointed toward the street, where a small Hyundai sedan sat. “He’s in the car. I brought him to apologize to your boy.”
I opened the door a crack and called in, “Ethan! Out front!”
Almost instantly I heard stomping on the stairs, and then he emerged. “Yeah?”
Samantha looked at her car and made a waving-in gesture. The door opened and a black-haired boy Ethan’s age got out.
My son looked at Carl, then at me. I put the watch in his hand and said, “You can give this to Poppa in a minute.” He looked at it, stunned, like he’d won the lottery. “This is Carl’s mom, Ms. Worthington.”
“Hi,” she said as Carl approached. Once her son was standing next to her, she said to him, “You know what to say.”
“Sorry I took the watch,” he said, looking more at the ground than at Ethan. “That wasn’t right.”
“Sorry I punched you and stuff,” Ethan said.
Carl shrugged. “Okay.”
There was an uncomfortable three seconds of silence. Then Ethan asked, “Do you like trains?”
“What?”
“Do you like trains? My grandpa has some. In the basement. If you want to see them.”
Carl, his face blank, looked at his mother. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” she said. The boy came up the stairs and disappeared into the house with Ethan.
“The Middle East should be so easy,” I said, coming down the steps.
“Carl’s not a bad kid,” Samantha said defensively. “He’s just . . . like his father sometimes. I don’t like it when he gets like that. He can be a bit of a bully. But there’s a good kid in there, I swear. Some days it’s just a little harder to find.”
“Sure,” I said.
“And yet, he’s kind of my rock, you know? He’s there for me. We’re there for each other. I guess that’s why, when you said he had that watch, I just stood up for him.” She raised her hands a moment, a gesture of futility. “Now what do I do? I feel like an idiot standing here. The plan was, Carl says he’s sorry and we go. Now he’s in there with your kid.”
“You want a coffee or something?” I asked. “You’re welcome to come in.”
She looked at the house. “You got a nice place. Beats the shithole I’m living in.”
“Your place isn’t a shithole,” I said. “And besides, this is my parents’ house.”
“I thought, when Ethan said the trains were his grandfather’s, that maybe they’d been handed down to him or something.”
“No. My dad built a small layout in the basement for Ethan. At least, he says it was for Ethan.”
“When I looked up an address for Harwood, this was the only one that came up. So, that’s cool that you live with your folks? You and your wife and Ethan?”
“Just Ethan and me.”
“Oh,” she said. “Divorced?”
I shook my head. “My wife passed away a few years ago.”
She nodded quickly. “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize. So, well, whaddaya know. We’re both raising boys on our own.”
Did I want to know why she was a single parent? The short answer was yes, I was curious. But did I think it was a good idea to ask? Maybe not. I was grateful she’d returned the pocket watch, and it was nice of her to apologize for scaring the shit out of me. Once Ethan finished showing Carl the trains, Samantha Worthington and her son could be on their way.
So all I said was “It can be a challenge.”
“No shit,” she said. “Especially when your ex is in jail and his parents think they should have custody.”
Well, there it was. No need to ask. Although I now had even more questions. Before I could choose just one of the many bouncing around in my head, she asked, “So what do you do?”
“The last fifteen years or so I’ve worked for newspapers,” I said. “I’d worked at the Standard, then went to the Boston Globe, then came back here to work for the Standard again, and first day on the job they closed the paper.”
“Oh, man, that sucks,” she said. “I didn’t know they’d shut down the Standard.”
“It’s been quite a few weeks now.”
She shrugged. “I don’t read the papers. Books, mostly. I’ve got enough shit going on in my own life, I don’t need to read about everyone else’s. I like escaping into a good story instead, where everything’s made up. It doesn’t have to be happy. I don’t mind bad things happening to good people, so long as they’re not real. God, I’m blathering. So that’s why you’re living with your parents? You’re out of work?”
“We’re moving out shortly,” I said. “I just got something else.”
Had I already made up my mind about Finley’s offer, or did I reach a decision in that instant to deflect shame?
“Oh, that’s great,” she said. “Congrats.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you do?”
“I work in a Laundromat,” she said. “It’s pretty exciting. Cleaning the washers, emptying out the coin holders, keeping the detergent dispensers full.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Are you kidding me? Every day I want to kill myself.”
“Sorry. My sarcasm detector is in the shop.”
“Yeah, well, you should get it fixed. Who the hell would want to work in a Laundromat? The only good thing is, I’m on my own; if things are slow I can read. And I can nip out and do things if I have to, like pick up Carl at school.” She rolled her eyes. “And when the school calls in the middle of the day and says he’s being suspended for fighting, I can go and get him.”
Carl seemed too old to be chauffeured to and from school. Samantha must have been reading my thoughts.
“If I don’t watch him, they’ll snatch him.”
“They?”
“Brandon’s—that’s my ex—parents, or maybe even friends of his, or theirs. They’ve got money—his parents, that is—and his friends, like Ed, that asshole, are just dumb enough to think grabbing Carl would be a smart thing to do. My former in-laws always hated me, and hate me even more n
ow that I’ve moved away from Boston to Promise Falls. Once Bran got sentenced for those holdups I was gone.”
“Holdups?”
“Bank robberies, actually,” she said offhandedly. “Armed. He’s not even up for parole for ten years. And they think it’s my fault. Like someone else stuffed all that money in the trunk of his car.”
This woman had problems like the Standard had typos.
“That’s who you thought might have been at the door when I came knocking,” I said.
“Yeah,” Samantha said. “But I wouldn’t have shot ya.”
“Why’s that?”
“You got nice eyes.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
WALDEN Fisher was driving through downtown Promise Falls shortly after nine, heading home, when he thought he saw Victor Rooney’s aging, rusted van parked at the curb.
Not parked all that well, either. It was a parallel-parking spot that Victor appeared to have gone into nose-first. The van’s back end was jutting out a good three feet into the path of traffic, about half a block past Knight’s, one of Promise Falls’ downtown bars.
Walden was betting that was where he’d find Victor, should he choose to go looking for him. He took his foot off the gas pedal of his Honda Odyssey and held a quick debate in his head about what to do.
He found a vacant spot in the next block, pulled up alongside the car ahead, and backed in, the way it was supposed to be done. Walden got out and walked back almost two blocks to Knight’s and went inside.
It could have been any neighborhood bar in America. Rock music coming out of the speakers, but not loud like a nightclub. Patrons could still carry on a conversation without having to shout at the top of their lungs. Low lighting from Tiffany lamps, a pool table in the back, a few tables packed with guys who’d just finished playing together on some team for some sport in some local community center, a handful of guys on stools watching a baseball game on a flat-screen hanging on the wall above the bar.
At the far end, sitting alone, watching the game without really watching it, was Victor, his right hand wrapped around a bottle of Old Milwaukee. Here was the man who’d almost become Walden’s son-in-law.
Walden hauled himself up onto the stool next to him. “Hey, there, Victor.”
The man looked at Walden, blinked twice, focused. “Jesus, Mr. Fisher, how are you?”
“I’m okay, good. Saw your van out there. Thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
“Funny seeing you,” he said, raising his bottle to him. “Uh, would you like a beer?”
The bartender, a thin, elderly man who looked like a walking twig, had approached. Walden glanced at him and said, “Just a Coke.”
The bartender nodded, retreated.
“You sure you don’t want a beer?” Victor asked. Walden thought Victor sounded as though he’d had a few already, and judging by how he’d parked the van, probably a few before he’d arrived.
“I’m sure,” Walden said. “What are you up to these days?”
Victor shrugged. “A bit of this, a bit of that. Odd jobs. Construction. I’m in kind of a lull at the moment.”
“I heard you and the fire department came to a parting of the ways.”
“Yeah, well, that really wasn’t for me. It’s a pretty macho environment, you know? I gave it a shot, but I never felt comfortable there. Too gung ho for my tastes.”
“Sure.”
“Fuck ’em, I say. I get by. I do.”
“If you ever need anything, you know you can give me a call.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fisher. It really is. But what I need, I don’t think you or anyone else can provide.”
“What would that be?”
“I need someone who can help me get my act together,” he said, setting the bottle down and miming something with his hands, as though he were assembling something. “You see, my act is in pieces. Isn’t that a funny saying? Get your act together? What’s that supposed to mean? That we’re all actors? That all of this is some performance? What was it Billy Shakespeare said? That all the world’s a stage and men and women merely players. Something like that. I think what we’re in is a tragedy without any kind of ending. What do you think, Mr. Fisher?”
“I think you’ve had a lot to drink, Victor.”
“You are correct,” he said. “Don’t think I’ll be jogging tonight. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get up every day and go about your business. How do you and Beth manage that?”
“Beth passed on,” Walden said. “Just a while ago.”
“Oh, bloody fuck,” Victor said, shaking his head, taking a drink. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” Another head shake. “I almost—this is going to come out wrong, and I apologize in advance—but I almost kind of envy her. If I died, I could stop being so sad.” He paused. “And angry.”
“It’s been three years,” Walden said.
“Later this month,” Victor said, nodding, indicating he was already well aware. “Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend. Isn’t that kind of ironic? We shall remember Olivia on Memorial Day. Oh, yes, we shall.” He raised his beer in a toast. “To Olivia.”
“You should probably head home,” Walden said.
“Like I said, I don’t know how you manage. I mean, I was never actually married to her. She was the love of my life—God, what a cliché—but it’s true, you know? But I only knew her a couple of years. But she was your daughter. That’s got to be worse.”
“You find ways to manage,” Walden said.
“I don’t even know if I’m still grieving, exactly,” Victor said. “But it was like what that writer said in that book. It was a tipping point, what happened to Olivia. I went off the deep end then, and I’ve been trying to climb back up ever since, but once you’re down there, all this other shit happens to you that keeps you there. Is this making any sense?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve had plenty of time to get over Olivia, right? Lots of time to move on.”
“You never get over it,” Walden said.
“Yeah, I get that. But people have to find a way to move forward, right? I mean, fuck, look at all those people who were in concentration camps. What could be worse than what they went through? Yet they went on with their lives when they got freed and the war was over. I mean, sure, they probably never got over it, but they became functioning members of society.” He squinted at Walden. “Would you call me functioning?”
“I don’t know that I’m qualified to judge that,” Walden said.
“Well, let me answer it for you. I am not. But I’ll tell you what I am, to this day. I’m angry.”
“Angry,” Walden repeated.
“At myself. And all the others. What do you think they’ll do on the third anniversary?”
“I bet they won’t give it a thought.”
Victor pointed his index finger at Walden. “Right you are, Mr. Fisher.”
“Walden. You know you can call me Walden.” He paused. “What do you mean, angry at yourself?”
Victor looked away. “I was late.”
Walden nodded. “I know.”
“I was late meeting her. If I’d been on time, none—”
Walden rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself.”
The younger man looked at him, smiled. “I think you’d have been a damn fine father-in-law.”
Walden was less certain Victor would have been the best son-in-law in the world, but it did not stop him from saying, “And I’d have been proud to be your father-in-law.”
The bartender set a Coke on the counter but Walden didn’t touch it.
Victor surveyed the room. “You think it was any of them?” he asked, taking another pull off the bottle.
“Any of them what?”
&n
bsp; “You think it could have been any of these guys sitting right here? Who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Every time I walk around this town, I look at everybody and wonder, Was it you? Or you?” He finished off the bottle. “These are our neighbors. I was born in this town, grew up with these people. For all I know I’m living next door to a maniac. Maybe hanging out in a bar with one.”
Victor raised the bottle, then rammed it straight down onto the bar, shattering it, leaving him with nothing in his hand but the neck and shoulder.
“Hey!” the bartender said.
But other than that, the place went silent. All the patrons stopped their conversations in midsentence and turned to look down toward the end of the bar, where Victor had come off his stool and was standing, staring at all of them.
“Was it any of you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Vick,” Walden said quietly. “Stop.”
“You need to take your son home,” the bartender told Walden.
“He’s not—” Walden started to say, then decided not to bother.
“Was it?” Victor Rooney asked again, moving closer to a table where five men were sharing a pitcher. “Was it any of you assholes?”
One of the men, broad of chest and more than six feet tall, kicked his chair back and stood up. “Think maybe you’ve had enough, pal,” he said.
Walden tried to take Victor by the arm, but the younger man shook him off.
“Oh, I’ve had enough, that’s for sure,” Victor said. “I’ve had enough of the whole lot of you.”
Another man stood. Then a third.
“Come on,” Walden said, getting a firmer grip on the man’s arm. “I’m taking you home.”
This time Victor didn’t shake him off. He allowed Walden to lead him toward the door, but not before whirling around for one last shot.
“Assholes!” he said. “Every last one of you!”
Walden got him through the door and pushed him out onto the sidewalk.
“You pull a stunt like that again,” Walden said, “and you’re going to end up in the hospital. Or worse.”
Victor was fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Once he had them out, Walden grabbed them.
Broken Promise: A Thriller Page 17