Broken Promise: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  “Who was that?” Marla asked. She was sitting on the other side, dipping a spoon tentatively into the bowl of tomato soup her mother had just prepared for her.

  “Just the hospital,” Agnes said. “Even with all that’s going on, they won’t leave me alone.” She looked out the window, holding her gaze as though staring at something.

  They heard Gill coming down the stairs. He slipped an arm around his daughter, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and took the stool beside her.

  “Got any more of that soup?” he asked his wife.

  Agnes said nothing.

  “Agnes?”

  She stopped looking out the window, faced him. “What?”

  “Is there any more soup?”

  “Hang on,” she said, and reached for another bowl in the cupboard.

  “I put your bag in your old room,” Gill said to Marla. “I think you’ll be staying with us for a while. Don’t you think, Agnes?”

  “Hmm? Yes, of course. Even . . . even when the police let you go back into your house, you should stay with us. For as long as you like.”

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You just seemed a little weird there for a second.”

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  Marla said, “You know, I don’t have to go home anyway. I can do my work anywhere. As long as I have a computer. Dad, could I borrow your laptop? Mine’s still in the house.”

  “Sure, I don’t see why—”

  “I don’t know about that,” Agnes snapped. Suddenly alert, as though she’d just woken up. “Natalie told me how that detective reacted to what you were doing for a living. He was not impressed. You need to find something else to do.”

  “But, Mom, I—”

  “No, you listen to me. Going on the Internet and making up reviews—lying—about companies you’ve never had anything to do with, that makes you look bad. Don’t you understand that?”

  Marla’s face fell. “I was really good at it. And I like writing.”

  “That’s not writing,” Agnes said. “Writing is a short story, or a novel, or poems. If you want to write, write that kind of thing. But you need to make a living some other way.”

  “Jesus, Agnes,” Gill said. “You don’t think she’s been through enough in the last couple of days? You really think this is the time for career counseling?”

  “She was the one who brought it up,” Agnes said. “I didn’t. All I’m saying is, when you’re feeling better, and you want to get back to work, you need to direct your talents in another direction. You can do that. I know you can. You have lots of talent, lots of natural ability.”

  “What kind of talents do I have?” Marla asked. “I don’t really know how to do anything.”

  “That’s not true,” her father said. “You’re good at lots of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, let’s start with the writing. There’s lot of other ways you could do that without making up Internet reviews. Like maybe advertising? And think of all the companies that need people to write reports for them. And newspapers. You could—”

  “Newspapers are dying, Dad. Look what happened to David.”

  “You’re right, you’re right, but—”

  The cell phone tucked into the pocket of his sports jacket started to ring. He reached for the phone, saw who it was, accepted the call.

  “Hey, Martin, how are you. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I’ve been dealing with some issues on the home front and I’m not going to be able to look at your proposal anytime soon. Yeah, sorry about that. Take care.”

  Gill ended the call, set the phone onto the countertop, and made a show of pushing it away from him. It slid across the granite and bumped into Agnes’s phone, an identical model, nudging it like a curling stone.

  “They’re a curse, those things,” he said. “We think they’re these great gadgets but we can never get away from everyone who wants us.”

  “You could turn it off,” Agnes said, ladling soup into a bowl.

  “I know, I know; I’m guilty. I could turn it off, but I don’t, because I’m afraid I’ll miss something. I could say the same thing to you, you know. You’ve got a phone practically glued to your palm.”

  Agnes leaned across the island, handed Gill some soup.

  “This looks good,” he said. “Where’s this from?”

  “Marla and I stopped at the deli on the way home and picked it up,” Agnes said, then shook her head sadly. “It never even occurred to you that I might have made it.”

  “If it had, I can see I’d have been wrong.”

  “Stop,” Marla said. “Even when you guys kid each other, it sounds like fighting.”

  “We’re not fighting,” Agnes said. “Gill, have you heard from Natalie today?”

  He shook his head. “No. I think maybe she’s waiting to see what the cops do next. If they think they have a case, and they file a charge, you know, if they decide to—”

  “Take me away in handcuffs,” Marla said.

  Gill sighed. “If they think they have a case against Marla, and arrest her, things go into overdrive. She said they’re doing a rush on those bloodstains that were found on the door at Marla’s house.”

  “I’ll bet the angel left them,” Marla said. “She must have gotten blood on her hands when she took Matthew from that woman’s house after someone killed her.”

  Agnes turned away, removing from the burner the pot she’d used to reheat the soup.

  “Can you tell us anything more about this angel?” Gill asked.

  “I don’t know what else to say,” Marla said.

  “I think,” Agnes said, her back to them, “that we have to be proactive here. I’ll call Natalie and tell her we want to know what her game plan is, should we need it.” She shook her head in frustration. “I think the fact that there’ve been no charges up to now is a good sign. They just don’t have the evidence. I know things are going to be okay. They only charge someone when they think they’ve got a strong case.”

  “You’re rambling, Mom,” Marla said.

  “I’m just trying to make a point, that’s all. I’m calling Natalie right now.”

  She spun around, swept up the phone in one quick movement, and left the kitchen. She went into the living room, sat down on the couch, and glanced at the list of recent calls. She immediately spotted a number she knew, and said, just loud enough that Gill heard her in the kitchen, “How did I miss this from Carol?”

  Agnes tapped on the number to return the call.

  In the kitchen, Gill dropped his spoon in his soup, splattered some tomato on his crisp white shirt, and looked at the other phone resting a couple of feet away from him.

  Agnes held the phone to her ear. Her assistant answered after the third ring. “Hey,” Carol said in a whisper. “I thought we were going to take a break. Where are you, Gill? Are you at home?”

  “Carol?” Agnes said.

  A second of silence. Then: “Ms. Pickens?”

  Again Agnes said, “Carol?” A pause, and then: “Why did—”

  She cut herself off, ended the call. Tossed the phone onto the cushion. Took a moment to consider what she’d just learned.

  Gill came into the room with the other phone. Smiling innocently. “I think this one is yours.” He extended his hand, but Agnes ignored it.

  “It was going on right under my nose,” she said. “My own assistant.”

  Gill shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Agnes, but whatever it is, you’re wrong. Carol just happened to call me; I guess she couldn’t reach you at the time, and—”

  Agnes raised a hand, picked up Gill’s phone again. “She called you while I was still in my office. I was right there.” She studied the screen more intently, looking at the call h
istory. “She called you yesterday. And three days ago. And two times on Monday.”

  Agnes stood, then suddenly pitched the phone at her husband, catching him on the temple. It hit the floor hard, skidded along the marble.

  “Jesus!” Gill said, putting his hand on his head. “I’m telling you, she—”

  “Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  Marla appeared at the edge of the room, rubbing her bandaged left wrist with her right hand. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “It’s okay,” Gill said. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “A misunderstanding?” Agnes said. “Is that what you call fucking my assistant? A misunderstanding?”

  “There’s someone at the door,” Marla said shakily.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” Gill said, raising his voice. “A few phone calls, that’s proof of nothing! For God’s sake, Agnes, you’re absolutely paranoid about this.”

  “You know what she said? Just now? Before she realized it was me? She said she thought you two were going to take a break. What do you suppose she meant by that?”

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  “Who knows what the hell she meant?” Gill said. “I always thought she was a bit off her nut. I don’t know how she’s lasted as long as she has working for you. She’s a total incompetent, you ask me.”

  “I hate you,” Agnes said. “If you’d fucked around with anyone else, I’d still hate you, but maybe not quite so much. This . . . this is just rubbing my nose in it.”

  “Enough!” Marla screamed.

  Now someone was pounding on the door. And shouting, “Ms. Pickens! Mr. Pickens!”

  Agnes’s finger was in her husband’s face. “I’ll ruin you. I will. I’ll ruin you.”

  “I’m glad it was her,” Gill said. “I really am.”

  Marla went to the front door, threw it open. Detective Barry Duckworth was standing there with two uniformed officers.

  Agnes and Gill Pickens turned and stared, dumbfounded.

  Duckworth waved a piece of paper. “I have a warrant for the arrest of Marla Pickens.”

  Marla’s arms hung limply at her sides. She looked numb.

  Agnes glanced at her husband, took the phone he was holding, and said, “I’ll call Natalie.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ACTING Promise Falls detective Angus Carlson’s first day out of uniform wasn’t going to be anything to brag about to his wife when he took her out for dinner that evening. Barry Duckworth had left him a note of things he wanted him to follow up on.

  First up, the squirrels.

  Carlson figured this was Duckworth’s way of getting even. Okay, so maybe he cracked a couple of stupid jokes. Just trying to break the tension was all. Where was the harm in that? Carlson had always been looking for ways to lighten the mood. What had his mother always said? Turn up the corners of your mouth.

  But Duckworth’s list of to-dos didn’t end with squirrels. He wanted Carlson to head back out to Thackeray to interview three young women who’d been attacked, presumably by some guy named Mason Helt, who’d been shot in the head by campus security chief Clive Duncomb.

  Finally, Duckworth wanted Carlson to go back out to Five Mountains and learn more about those three naked mannequins—“You’ll Be Sorry” painted across their chests—that had gone for a spin on the Ferris wheel.

  Duckworth had added some cryptic notes about the number 23. How that number was a common element in all three incidents. How it might mean something.

  “Hmm,” Carlson had said under his breath as he read the detective’s notes. Duckworth wanted him to be on the alert for any recurrence of that number.

  He began his day at the park where the squirrels had been found. Walked carefully through the adjoining wooded area. Talked to anyone who happened to pass by, asked whether they’d noticed anything odd the night before last. Knocked on the doors of nearby houses to ask the same.

  Came up with a big fat zero.

  At one door, an elderly man grinned and said, “This case’ll be a tough nut to crack!”

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that funny.

  He didn’t do much better at Thackeray. None of the women he wanted to interview was available. Two had gone home for a couple of days. The third, who apparently was going to be spending the summer at the college taking extra courses, couldn’t be found. Another student who lived across the hall from her said she could be at the library, or in town doing some shopping, or just out for a long walk.

  Carlson wasn’t going to waste his entire day out there.

  Next stop: Five Mountains.

  He went straight to the administration offices, where he found Fenwick. According to Duckworth’s exhaustive note, she was going to draw up a list of people who had operated the Ferris wheel during the months the park was open. While it was possible anyone with some mechanical smarts might have been able to get the ride going, someone who’d actually run the thing would have an edge.

  “I’m still freaked out about this,” Fenwick said, sitting at her computer, tapping away.

  “Sure,” Carlson said. “That’s totally understandable, you being here alone and all, late at night.”

  “I thought I was going to have a list for you this afternoon, but I haven’t heard from our former facilities supervisor. He’d know who ran each ride, but of course, head office fired him, and it’s not like he’s in any rush to do me a favor. If I don’t hear from him by the end of today I’ll call him. Weren’t you in uniform last night?”

  “I was,” he said.

  “You look pretty good out of uniform,” Gloria Fenwick said, smiling.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

  “I think maybe it came out wrong.”

  “I think it came out just right,” Carlson said.

  He asked her about how someone would gain access to the park. The admin offices were behind a locked gate, and a fence ran around the perimeter of the property. Who had keys? he wanted to know.

  Fenwick explained that once most of the Five Mountains staff had been fired, the locks were changed. Fenwick and a couple of other office staff who were tasked with winding the place down had keys, as did the security firm that checked on the property several times a day. That was it.

  “You seem to be taking this very seriously,” she said. “I mean, as unsettling as it was, there was no real damage done.”

  “Detective Duckworth takes everything very seriously,” Carlson said.

  He thanked her, said good-bye, and checked out the Ferris wheel first. In the light of day, things looked a lot less sinister. Of course, the mannequins had been taken away, which helped. There was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had gone on here the night before.

  Carlson left the Ferris wheel and headed for the closest fence that surrounded the property. If whoever brought in the mannequins didn’t have a key, and there was no indication the locks had been broken or tampered with, the fence had to have been breached somewhere.

  It was a wire fence, about nine feet tall. A single strand of barbed wire ran along the top of it to discourage intruders. Not that effective, but then again, Five Mountains probably didn’t want to run several strands. They wouldn’t want to be sending off a prison vibe.

  Rides and exhibits backed up to the fence, where the grass grew taller and was untended. Carlson figured someone could put a ladder up against the fence. It was rigid enough. Drag three mannequins up, toss them over. But then the intruder would have to get over, too.

  A lot of work.

  The park property, a rough rectangle, was about fifteen acres, so it was a long, slow trek along the fence. Carlson didn’t notice anything until he’d rounded the second corner.

  The fence had been cut.
/>   Someone would have needed something like bolt cutters, he figured. The chain link had been cut along a post, starting at ground level and going up about five feet. Several links had also been severed along the bottom, creating a simple doorway.

  The grass, Carlson noted, was matted down on both sides of the fence. About twenty yards beyond it was a two-lane road that ran along the back of the amusement park property.

  He could see where someone had worn down a path in the grass between the fence and the road. He thought about what must have been involved. Someone drives up in a truck or van, has to unload three mannequins. Probably has to drag them one at a time to the fence, push them through. Maybe then he moves or hides the truck, returns, carries the mannequins one by one to the Ferris wheel, because that’s going to take some time.

  Gets the three dummies—which probably had their message painted on them before being brought out here—positioned into one of the carriages. Which, Duckworth had noted, was numbered 23.

  As if that really mattered.

  The Ferris wheel gets turned on, and the intruder takes off. Gets through the opening in the fence, hops behind the wheel of his truck or van, and speeds away.

  Carlson wondered why anyone would go to that much trouble. It was backbreaking work. This didn’t strike him as something a few teenagers would do for a lark.

  This was someone who really wanted to send a message.

  YOU’LL BE SORRY.

  Who was it meant for? Why did the person sending it feel aggrieved? And if this was a real threat, what was coming next?

  “Beats me,” Angus Carlson said to himself.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  JACK Sturgess came back out of Doris Stemple’s apartment for the second time, got out his phone, and called Bill Gaynor.

  “Pick me up,” he said.

  Seconds later, the Audi whisked down the street, came to an abrupt stop long enough for Sturgess to get in on the passenger side, then sped off.

  Matthew, in back, strapped into his car seat, was crying. More like shrieking.

  “Jesus, can’t you shut him up?” Sturgess said.

  “He’s a baby, Jack. That’s what they do. Where are we going?”