Broken Promise

by Linwood Barclay

  I was a different man now. More cautious, less foolish. Or so I’d thought. Maybe the way to handle things with Sam was—

  I’d have to put that thought on hold.

  A door was opening. But wait, it wasn’t Kemper’s apartment; it was the place where the old woman lived.

  Someone was stepping outside. Maybe the old woman was coming out for a breath of fresh air.

  Except it wasn’t her.

  It was a much younger woman. Late twenties, early thirties, I guessed. Slim, about five-four, with black hair. Dressed in jeans and a green pullover top. A friend of the old woman’s, I figured. A care worker of some kind, maybe.

  I thought she’d start walking down to the road, but instead she took a few steps over to the door of Marshall Kemper’s apartment. She used a key to open it and disappeared inside.

  I’d never seen a picture of Sarita Gomez, but I was betting I’d found her.

  I had my hand on the door handle, preparing to get out, when a cab drove past me and stopped out front of Kemper’s place. Seconds later, the apartment door opened and Sarita reappeared, pulling behind her a medium-size suitcase on wheels. The cabdriver popped the trunk, put the bag in for her, but let Sarita handle the rear passenger door herself. The man got back behind the wheel, and the tires kicked up gravel as he sped off.

  “Shit,” I said, and turned the key.

  The cab was heading back into downtown Promise Falls and came to a stop outside the bus terminal. I pulled to the curb and watched as Sarita got out, handed the driver some cash, then waited for him to haul her bag out of the trunk. Dragging it behind her, she entered the terminal.

  I got out of the car and ran.

  The Promise Falls bus terminal is hardly Grand Central. Inside, it’s about the size of a school classroom, with two ticket windows at one end and an electronic schedule board overhead. The rest is filled with the kind of chairs you’d find in a hospital emergency room.

  The woman I’d followed was at the ticket booth. I went and stood behind her, looking like the next in line, close enough to hear the conversation.

  “I want to buy a ticket to New York,” she said.

  The man behind the glass said she could buy the entire ticket now, but she would have to change buses in Albany.

  “Okay,” she said. “When does the bus leave for Albany?”

  The man glanced at a computer monitor angled off to one side. “Thirty-five minutes,” he told her.

  She handed over some more cash, took her ticket. When she turned around she jumped, evidently unaware someone was behind her.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said. I let her wheel her bag past my toes, then stepped up to the window.

  “Help ya?” the ticket agent said.

  I paused, then said, “Never mind.”

  I turned around and spotted the woman, sitting in the far corner of the room, as if trying to make herself invisible, which was not easy, since there were only half a dozen people here waiting to catch a bus.

  I walked over and took a seat two over from her, leaving the one between us empty. I took out my phone, leaned over, my elbows rested on my knees, and opened up an app at random.

  Without looking in her direction, I said, “You must be Sarita.”

  I sensed her stir suddenly. “What did you say?”

  This time I turned, sitting up at the same time. I could see fear in her eyes. “I said, you must be Sarita. Sarita Gomez.”

  Her eyes darted about the room. I could guess what she was thinking. Who was I? Was I alone? Was I a cop? Should she try to run?

  I said, “I’m not with the police. My name’s David. David Harwood.”

  “You are wrong,” she said. “I am not whoever you said. My name is Carla.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re Sarita. I think you worked for the Gaynors. And I think you’ve been hiding out with Marshall Kemper the last couple of days, and are now looking to get out of Dodge.”

  “Dodge?” she said.

  “You want to disappear.”

  “I told you, I am not that person.”

  “I’m Marla Pickens’s cousin. I don’t know if that name means anything to you, but the Gaynors’ baby was left on her doorstep two days ago. The police think she stole the baby, and probably killed Rosemary Gaynor in the process.”

  “She did it before,” the woman whispered.

  I leaned in. “She never killed anyone.”

  “But she took a baby,” she said quietly. “At the hospital.”

  “You know about that.”

  The woman nodded. She was glancing at the door.

  “You are Sarita.”

  Her eyes landed on mine. “I am Sarita,” she said.

  “Would you like to tell me what you know, or would you like me to call the police?”

  “Please do not call the police. They’ll either send me home, or find a reason to put me in jail.”

  “Then why don’t we talk,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling you may be able to explain a lot of things.”

  “Quickly,” she said. “I will tell you quickly, so I do not miss my bus.”

  I shook my head sadly. “You’re not making that bus, Sarita. It’s just not going to happen.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  ARLENE Harwood had decided on pork chops for dinner and wondered whether Don would like rice or mashed potatoes with them. She even had some sweet potatoes in the fridge, which Don was not all that crazy about, but would tolerate once in a while, just so long as she put enough butter on them, and maybe even a sprinkling of brown sugar. She was pretty sure Ethan didn’t like sweet potatoes, but she could do up a baked potato for him, or throw some frozen french fries into the oven.

  It was nice having all these men around. She knew David wanted to move out as soon as he could, and take Ethan with him, of course. It was the right thing to do. But she was enjoying having them here in the meantime.

  She went into the living room, thinking her husband might have fallen asleep in the recliner, but he wasn’t there. Her leg was really hurting today after her stumble on the stairs the day before, so she didn’t want to have to trek up to the second floor to search for him. So she went to the foot of the stairs and shouted his name, speculating that he was in the bathroom, extending his stay because he’d found something interesting to read in National Geographic.

  No answer.

  Then Arlene went to the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. “Don? You there?”

  When she didn’t get a reply, she figured there was only one place left to check. She went out the back door and limped across the yard to their garage. The main door was closed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She tried the side entrance, found it unlocked, and entered.

  And there was Don. Standing in front of his workbench, clutching a bottle of beer. There were two empties standing in front of him.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said.

  “I was right here,” he said.

  “Well, I had to look in all the other places first before I found that out, didn’t I? Me with a bad leg and all.”

  “You should have looked here first.”

  “What are you doing drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon?” she asked. “In the middle of the summer, maybe, but now?”

  “Is that why you were looking for me? To find out if I was having a beer?”

  “I didn’t know you were having a beer until I found you.”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  She did not answer him. She crossed her arms and looked sternly at him. “What’s going on with you?”

  He grunted. “There’s nothing going on with me.”

  “How many years have I been married to you? Whatever the number is, double it, and that’s what it feels like,” Arlene said. “I can tell when something’s eating at you. You started acting funny yesterday.”

  “I told you, I’m fine. What did you want?”

>   “I wanted to ask you . . .” She stopped herself. “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “What the hell did I want to ask you?” She shook her head. “This is driving me crazy.”

  “Where were you when you decided you just had to find me?” Don asked. “They say if you think where you were when—”

  “Rice or potatoes?” she asked him.

  “What?”

  “With pork chops. Rice or potatoes, or sweet potatoes? Oh, and I’ve got a box of that Stove Top stuffing that Ethan likes.”

  “I don’t care,” Don said. “Make whatever you want.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Talk to me.”

  He pressed his lips together, as though keeping the words he wanted to say from escaping. He shook his head.

  “Is it David? And Ethan? Is it getting you down, having them here? He just needs time to get his life back together. It would have been better if he’d just stayed in Boston, hadn’t quit that job at—”

  “It’s not that,” Don said. “I . . . I like having them around. I like having my grandson here.”

  The corner of her mouth went up. “Me, too.” She paused, then said, “You’d better spill what it is that’s on your mind fast, because I need to head upstairs and lie down with some ice on this goddamn leg. Talk.”

  Don opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The fourth time he tried, words came out.

  “I have regrets,” he said.

  Arlene nodded. “Sure. We all do.” She hesitated. “I hope I’m not one of them.”

  He shook his head, put a hand on her shoulder. “No.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess,” she said.

  “There are times when I could have been a better man.”

  “Better for whom?” she asked.

  “Just . . . better.”

  Arlene had always thought, even with all his faults—and there was no question Don had a few—he was as good a man as any woman could hope to find. It was difficult for her to imagine that this was a man who harbored deep secrets, that there could be anything he’d done that would make her think less of him.

  She’d never had any reason to believe he’d been unfaithful to her, even though there would be the occasional fleeting thought. But that had more to do with her own insecurities than with suspicions about Don’s behavior.

  “There’s times,” he said, “when you wish you acted differently, but you can’t go back and do things again. The moment is gone; there’s nothing you can do. And the thing is, even if you tried to do the right thing, there’s no guarantee you might have been able to make a difference. But it haunts you just the same. You feel like less of a person.”

  “Okay,” Arlene said slowly.

  “Like, for instance,” he said, “you remember that time you were backing into that spot at the Walmart, and you—”

  “Oh, please don’t bring that up.”

  “You dinged that car, and you got out and had a look, and it was a little dent, and you thought about leaving a note, but finally you decided to get back in the car and drive off and go shop somewhere else instead that day?”

  Now she was annoyed. “Why would you bring that up? That was years ago. I felt so guilty about that. I never should have told you. To this day I feel bad I didn’t leave a note. You remember two years ago I was using that machine at the drugstore where you can check your blood pressure? And I thought I broke it? And I told them about it and offered to pay? And lucky for me, they said it had broken down before and it wasn’t my fault, but it could have been. I was prepared to do the right thing, so why you’d dredge up that other matter I don’t—”

  “I only mention it because it was nothing,” Don said. “It was nothing compared to what I did—or didn’t do.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Those lips were pressed together again. Arlene sensed he was getting to the hardest part. He said nothing for more than a minute, but finally said, “I was one of them.”

  “One of what?”

  “One of the people who did nothing,” Don Harwood said.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ANGUS Carlson phoned his wife, Gale, at the dental clinic where she worked as a hygienist. She was with a patient, doing a cleaning, but Carlson told the woman at the desk that it was an emergency.

  Several seconds later, Gale came on the line. “What is it? What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “It’s not that kind of emergency,” he told her. “It’s something good.”

  “Oh, God, you gave me a heart attack. You’re a cop! Someone says it’s an emergency and my mind goes to the worst possible place!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

  “I’ve got someone in the chair. What’s happened?”

  “I got a promotion.”

  “What?” Excited now, no longer annoyed. “What kind of promotion?”

  “It’s temporary,” he said. “But if I do a good job, they might make it permanent.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Detective,” he said. “They’ve got me working as a detective.”

  “That’s fantastic! That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.”

  “I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to be the first call.”

  “Does this mean you’ll get more money?”

  “I’ll probably get a bump up while I’m doing it.”

  “Because,” Gale said gently, “if you get a raise, this could be a good time—”

  “Only thing I’m a bit worried about is this guy I have to work with. Duckworth. I don’t think he likes me. There was this thing with squirrels, and I was just making a joke and—”

  “Squirrels?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to work it out with him. Prove to him I’m not an idiot.”

  “You’re not,” Gale said. “You’re going to do great. But what I was going to say was, if you’re going to be making more money, maybe this would be a good time to think about starting a—”

  “Please, Gale, don’t go there,” Angus Carlson said.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “I know what you’re going to say. That’s not why I’m calling you. I don’t want to get into that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gale said. “I just thought—”

  “You know how I feel about this.”

  “I know, but we’ve had this discussion. I’m not like her. I’d be a good mother. Just because—”

  “That reminds me. I’m going to let her know.”

  “Let who know?”

  “My mother. I’m going to let her know.”

  “Angus.”

  “I am. She never thought I’d amount to anything. I’m going to tell her.”

  “Angus, please,” Gale said. “Don’t say that. Let it go. We left that behind. We came here to get away from all that.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, his voice somewhat distant: “Okay, okay. You’re right. I don’t have to do that.”

  “We should . . . celebrate,” Gale said, her voice starting to break. A sniff, then: “When you get home.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “You sound like you’re crying. This is a big thing for me, Gale. Don’t ruin it by crying.”

  “I said I wasn’t crying. I have to go. I have to get back to Mr. Ormin.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll go out. You want to do that?”

  “You pick,” Gale said. “I have to go.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THE first thing Sturgess and Gaynor had to do was get rid of Marshall Kemper’s van. The doctor drove; Gaynor followed in the Audi. Sturgess was mindful that he didn’t want to take any route, or leave the van, anyplace where there might be video cameras. He did not want to be showing up on any surveillance video driving a vehicle owned by a man who would soon be on a missing-persons list. That left out the parking lots of major department stores, fast-food outlets, or gettin
g onto a toll road like the New York State Thruway.

  Nor did Sturgess want to take a lot of time disposing of the van. He needed to return to Kemper’s place, where he believed Sarita was waiting for the man. And then it hit him—the solution was simple: Leave the van at Kemper’s house.

  He phoned Gaynor in the Audi, told him where he was going. The doctor could hear a baby making gurgling noises in the background. “Hang back a block or so,” Sturgess said. “We don’t want anyone seeing your car, noticing your license plate, out front of Kemper’s place.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “You just take care of your kid,” Sturgess said. “I’ll handle this.”

  He opened the map program on his smartphone—the van did not have GPS in it—and looked up Kemper’s Groveland Street address. As soon as he saw it on the screen, he realized he knew roughly where it was, and wouldn’t need directions.

  He kept glancing in the mirror, saw the large mouth of the Audi grille trailing him right up until he turned onto Groveland, at which point Gaynor hung back. Sturgess pulled into the driveway at 36A and 36B. Kemper’s place was on the left.

  He turned off the engine and sat for a moment before getting out. If Sarita was inside, she might have heard the van pull up and, thinking it was her boyfriend, run outside to greet him.

  When she didn’t, the doctor got out and went to the door. Knocked. When no one answered, he knocked harder. Finally he tried turning the knob and, finding the door unlocked, stepped inside.

  “Hello?” he said. “Sarita, are you here?”

  It was a small apartment. He walked to the middle of it, surveyed the unmade bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, an untouched breakfast sandwich, men’s clothes scattered across the floor. The bathroom door was open. He poked his head in, pulled back the bathtub curtain. Not only did he not see Sarita, he saw no signs that a woman was living here. Which meant either Kemper had been lying, or that he’d been telling the truth, and Sarita had skipped.