Broken Promise

by Linwood Barclay

  “And tell me what I did,” Marla said.

  “You . . .”

  Agnes stopped a moment and turned away, but didn’t take her hand off her daughter. She took another breath and, once composed, continued.

  “You looked into Agatha’s face and you said she was beautiful.”

  “I bet she was.”

  “You said she was the most beautiful child you had ever seen.”

  “And then what? I kissed her, didn’t I?”

  Agnes closed her eyes. She could barely say the words. They came out in a halting whisper. “Yes, you did.”

  “On the forehead?” Marla asked.

  “Yes,” Agnes said, opening her eyes.

  It was Marla’s turn to close hers. “When I think hard, I think I can taste her. I can remember the feel of her on my lips. And the smell of her. I’m sure I can. And what happened after that?”

  “We had to take her away,” Agnes said. “The doctor took her away. And I let you rest.”

  “I was very tired. I think I slept for a long time.”

  “You did.”

  “But you were there when I woke up,” Marla said, and smiled. “I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve been since then. I know I’m not quite right, that I’ve gone a little crazy.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re fine. You’re strong. You’re a good girl and I’m very proud of you. You’re getting your life back on track.”

  Marla looked into her mother’s face. “I hope so. I don’t think I’ve given you much to be proud of.”

  Agnes leaned over the bed and took her daughter into her arms. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t think that for a minute.”

  “But I know,” Marla said, her voice muffled by her mother’s shoulder, “you’ve always been worried about what people think. I know I haven’t lived up to your expectations.”

  “Stop it,” Agnes said. “Just stop it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my friend. When I was in my teens. My best friend, Vera.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Agnes smiled. “I know. I’ve told you about her many times. About how, when she was twenty-three, and six months from graduating at the University of Connecticut, she got pregnant.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to listen. You need to hear this, even if I’ve told you before. It was actually her professor who got her pregnant. Those kinds of things happened back then, professors having affairs with their students. This was before that was seen as inappropriate, before sexual harassment policies. Vera was going to go to medical school after college; she wanted to be a surgeon, but when she got pregnant, everything changed. It was a difficult pregnancy, and she had to withdraw from her courses. And, of course, this professor was hardly going to leave his wife and marry Vera. He tried to get her to end the pregnancy, but her faith wouldn’t permit that. And so she had this child, and was on her own to raise it—her parents pretty much disowned her—and none of her dreams . . . none of them ever came true. Of course, she wanted to have a baby one day, but this child, it came at the wrong time for her. Her life could have been very different, and my heart aches for her every time I think about her. That baby came at the wrong time for her.”

  “Mom, I know. . . .”

  “What I’m saying is, I know how sad you must be, how devastating this has been for you. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be for you. It wasn’t the right time. Look at you. These Internet reviews, they might lead to something better, more rewarding. You’re moving forward. What happened last night”—and Agnes glanced at her daughter’s bandaged wrist—“is a bump in the road. A big bump, sure, but a bump in the road. You’re going to be okay. You’re moving ahead.”

  Marla’s eyes closed briefly. She was drifting off.

  Agnes released her daughter and said, “You start getting ready. I’m going to step out into the hall and call Dr. Sturgess to let him know I’m discharging you on my own.”

  “Okay.” Marla paused. “I say bad things about you sometimes, Mom. But I love you.”

  Agnes forced a smile, stepped out into the hall, walked past the nurses’ station, giving the staff a curt nod, and continued on down the hall until she reached a supply room full of linens.

  She stepped in, closed the door, leaned her back up against it to make certain no one would walk in on her, placed her hand over her mouth, and wept.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  David

  FROM Derek’s, I went to the address for Marshall Kemper that I’d gotten from Mrs. Delaney at Davidson House.

  It was, as it turned out, around the corner from Samantha Worthington’s place, and was little more than a low white box of a house that had been divided into two. There were two doors fronting the street, pushed to the far ends of the house, and two identical windows set beside them.

  Kemper’s apartment was 36A Groveland Street, the other 36B.

  I got out of the car, walked up to 36A, and, finding no doorbell, knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again, louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  I got my face up close to the door and called out, “Mr. Kemper? Are you in? My name’s David Harwood! I need to talk to you!”

  Stopped yelling and listened. Not a sound from inside.

  I walked over to 36B and knocked. I could hear a TV, so when no one came after the first knock, I decided to try again. A few seconds later, an elderly woman slowly opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Hi,” I said. “I was looking for Marshall Kemper.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s the man who lives next door. You got the wrong place.”

  “I know that. He’s not home. I wondered whether you’d seen him around.”

  “Whatcha want him for?”

  “He’s an old friend,” I said. “I was passing by and thought I’d drop in on him. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t keep track of his comings and goings. But I don’t see his van out there, so I guess he’s not home. I’m missing The Price Is Right.”

  “Sure, sorry,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

  She was starting to close the door, then stopped, as if something had occurred to her. “Maybe him and that girl went off on a holiday together or something.”

  “Girl?” I said. “You mean Sarita?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe. Nice little thing. Always says hi to me. Oh, it’s the showcase. Gotta go.” She started to close the door but I put my hand up to stop it.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “When did you last see Sarita?”

  Third shrug. “Last night, maybe? I don’t know. I get the days mixed up sometimes.”

  This time, when she went to close the door, I didn’t try to stop her.

  So Sarita, if it was Sarita, had been here recently. Since Rosemary Gaynor had been murdered. Maybe Kemper had taken her in, was hiding her. Maybe the two of them had taken off together. Which strongly suggested they had something to do with the woman’s murder. The harder it was to find Sarita, the more likely it seemed to me that Marla really hadn’t killed that woman.

  Not that I’d found out anything useful so far that might help my cousin. Even Derek wasn’t willing to dismiss outright the idea that she could be a killer. Nothing she did would surprise him, he’d said. Not the sort of thing you wanted to hear someone say on the stand in front of a jury.

  I went back to 36A and banged on the door once more.

  “Sarita?” I called out. “Sarita Gomez? Are you there? If you are, I really need to talk to you. I’m not the police. I have nothing to do with them. I’m trying to help out a friend. If you’re in there, please open the door and talk to me.”

  I waited.

  After thirty seconds, I used my hand as a visor and peered through the window. I could make out a bed and a kitchen area, a couple of chairs. But I didn’t see any movement.

&
nbsp; “Nuts,” I said under my breath.

  As I walked back to my car, my phone rang. I looked at it, saw that it was Finley.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “So how long I gotta wait before you start helping me out?”

  “I don’t know. Another day or so, maybe.”

  “Because this job isn’t going to sit around forever,” Finley said. “Plenty of others who’d like to take it.”

  “Then maybe you should hire one of them,” I said.

  “Fuck it, you’re the one I want. Just get done doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing. I’m hearing things through the grapevine, that there’s something weird going on in town. A bunch of dead squirrels—I found those myself—and the Ferris wheel out at Five Mountains starting up on its own with some mannequins in it with some creepy threat written on them, and last night at Thackeray—”

  “Save it,” I said. “I haven’t started yet. When I have, you can tell me all about it.”

  “This is serious shit, Harwood. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was going around trying to rattle the good folks of Promise Falls.”

  “What, are you saying these things are connected?”

  “Who knows? And even if they aren’t, this is the sort of thing I can use. Telling people they deserve to feel safe in their homes, that—”

  “I meant what I said. Save it. Soon as I can devote all my attention to your needs I’ll let you know.”

  Finley grunted. The call ended. We all have our ways of saying good-bye.

  Getting behind the wheel, I wasn’t sure what to do next.

  When in doubt, head home. I figured I could come back here later in the day, see if Kemper or Sarita had turned up.

  It wasn’t my subconscious at work that took me past Samantha Worthington’s on my way home. It really was the most direct route. But as I approached her address, I found myself taking my foot off the gas so I could look at her place as I drove by.

  It wasn’t as if I’d been thinking of her every single moment since she’d been to the house to return the pocket watch. But she’d been in the back of my mind. Like a head tune that’s been playing for hours without your realizing it, and then suddenly you say, “How the hell did I get the theme from The Rockford Files in there?”

  But Samantha’s lurking presence in my thoughts was a bit different from a tune from a seventies TV show.

  She’d be at her job now, I figured. Managing the Laundromat. I didn’t know which one, which was probably just as well. If I had, I might have found myself concocting some lame excuse to drop by.

  I could just imagine what my mother would say if I headed out the door with a basket of dirty laundry. “What are you thinking?” she’d say. “You are not taking that out to be done! You leave that with me right now!”

  Add it to the list of reasons I needed to move out.

  What I didn’t expect, as I rolled past Samantha’s place, was that she would walk out the front door.

  And look right at me.

  Shit.

  I had an instant to decide how to handle it. I could speed off, pretend I hadn’t seen her. Except it was pretty clear I had. I could still speed off, but she’d be left with the impression that I was up to something, that I had something to hide, that I was stalking her.

  Which I was not.

  Okay, maybe driving by here the night before was a little suspect, but this was legit. I was just passing by going from point A to point B.

  I could wave and keep on going.

  But that would look stupid.

  I hit the brakes. Not too hard. Not hard enough to squeal the tires. But a nice, even slowdown. I brought the car to a halt at the opposite curb and powered down the window.

  I said, “Hey, I thought that was you.”

  She walked to the sidewalk, talked to me across two lanes. She grinned. “You got me under surveillance?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Right here in broad daylight. Just heading back to my folks’ house from a job thing.” Kind of a lie, although I had just been talking to Finley. “You off today?”

  Samantha shook her head. “No. But like I said, I can leave the place unattended for short periods of time. I came home for some lunch. Heading back now.”

  “Thanks again,” I said.

  “For what? The watch, or not shooting you?”

  I smiled. “Take your pick.” I still had my foot on the brake. “I should let you go.”

  “Listen,” she said, “do you have two seconds?”

  I moved the gearshift into park, but the engine was still running. “What is it?”

  “My wifi is out, and I think it’s the modem, but I never know how to reset the thing, and when Carl gets home he’ll want to go online and won’t be able to.”

  I nodded, put the window up, killed the engine, and locked the car. I waited for a blue pickup truck with tinted windows to pass, then ran across the street.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” she asked. “I could call someone.”

  “No, you don’t want to do that,” I said. “Usually all you have to do is unplug it, wait a few seconds, plug it back in, and wait a couple of minutes. You bring a cable guy out to the house and he’ll charge you a hundred bucks.”

  “I really appreciate it,” she said, leading me back to her front door. She had her keys out, unlocked the door and swung it open.

  “Where’s the modem, Samantha?”

  “Sam,” she said. “Call me Sam. It’s right there, under the TV, with the DVD player and the Nintendo and all that stuff.”

  I was in a small living room the moment I stepped into the place, with the entertainment unit on the side wall. I got out my phone and went to the settings to see whether I could detect any wifi signal. I wasn’t getting anything.

  I got down on my knees, took hold of the modem, pulled out the wire on the back that led to a power bar.

  “Can I get you anything?” Sam asked. “A Coke, a beer?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. I was counting to ten in my head. When I got there, I pushed the wire back into the jack. “Okay, let’s see what happens here.”

  The row of lights on the modem started to dance.

  “That looks promising,” Sam said.

  “See if you can get on.”

  She had a laptop on a table in an L off the living room. She sat down, tapped away. “Hang on. Okay, yeah, it’s connected. Oh, that’s great. Thanks for that.”

  I stood, positioning myself on the opposite side of the table. “No problem.”

  “I Googled you,” she said, glancing down at the computer. She laughed. “That almost sounds dirty, doesn’t it?”

  But her smile faded when I said, “Why’d you do that?”

  “Don’t be mad. I mean, mostly what I found were lots of stories with your byline on them, that you wrote for the Standard.”

  I guessed they hadn’t shut down the Web site yet.

  “But there were also stories about you,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I do that with people I meet all the time. Google them, I mean. I just, you know, was just curious.” Her face became more serious. “I had no idea what I’d find. I’m really sorry.”

  I said nothing.

  “Your wife, Jan?”

  I nodded.

  “That was terrible. Really tragic. It wasn’t like I was expecting to find anything like that. Mostly I was just checking to see that you weren’t a serial killer or anything.”

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, if you are, the Internet doesn’t know about it. It has to have been hard these past few years.”

  I shrugged. “You deal with what life hands you, I guess. There’s not really much else you can do.”

  “I get that. I mean, really, I do. We’ve all got a history, don’t we?”

  “I guess we do,” I said. “And we have to live with it.”

  She forced a grin. “Whether we like it or
not.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I said.

  I felt like we were spinning our wheels. We stared at each other, neither of us moving, neither of us heading toward the door.

  Sam touched her fingers to the hollow at the base of her neck, rubbed lightly. The top of her chest swelled with each breath. “How long has it been?”

  I waited several seconds before answering, wanting to be sure I understood what she was asking.

  “A while,” I said. “In Boston. Couple of times. Didn’t mean anything. I’ve been . . . reluctant. I’m just worried about Ethan. I’ve been trying to limit my complications.”

  Sam nodded. “Same.” A pause. “I wouldn’t want to add to those. But . . . it wouldn’t have to mean anything.”

  I came around the table as she pushed her chair back and stood. It just happened. My mouth was on hers. We were two people who’d walked in from the desert and hadn’t had water in weeks.

  She twisted in my arms, presented her back to me, and pressed herself up against me. Hard. I slipped my arms under hers and took a breast in each hand. Found her nipples beneath blouse and bra.

  Sam tipped forward, put her palms flat on the table.

  “Here,” she breathed. “Right here.”

  And for a while, I let my own needs come before Marla’s or Randy’s or anyone else’s. Maybe even Sam’s.

  • • •

  When I left an hour later, I happened to notice a blue pickup truck parked up the street, windows too tinted to tell whether anyone was inside, but didn’t give it another thought.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “WHAT the hell!” Marshall shouted in the cocoon of his black van, looking at the note that Bill Gaynor had left for him in the bag. “You prick!”

  So Gaynor just decided he’d change the location of the drop, did he? Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he was running this operation?

  “Son of a bitch,” Marshall said to himself.

  Was the guy setting him up? Leading him into some kind of trap? Hard to know, when Marshall hadn’t called him yet to find out where he wanted to hand over the money. But it was fishy, no doubt about it.