“How’s Gill?”
David filled her in, walking slowly to force her to do the same. When Arlene reached Marla, she gave her niece a hug and kissed Matthew on the cheek.
A paramedic said, “That your car?”
David whirled around, admitted that the Mazda was his.
“Get it the hell out of here.”
David said to his mother, “Can you hang in here with Marla now?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I have to go.”
Arlene nodded. “Go.”
David got behind the wheel and carefully steered his way back to the street. Once he was clear of the hospital, he pulled over, got out his phone again, and tried Samantha Worthington’s cell.
Still no answer.
He felt physically ill. He feared the worst—that Sam and her son, Carl, were both already dead.
He had to get there. David put the phone back into his pocket, took his foot off the brake pedal, and floored it.
He raced through the streets of Promise Falls to reach Sam’s place, a narrow row house sandwiched in between several others. The Mazda screeched to a halt out front of her house. David got out so quickly he didn’t bother to close the driver’s door.
He leapt up the stairs to the front door, rang the bell, and pounded on the door at the same time.
He put his mouth close to the crack where door met jamb. “Sam!” he shouted. “Sam! It’s David!”
No one came to the door. He couldn’t hear or sense any movement on the other side.
There was no point in calling the police to enter the premises and see if they were okay. The cops were too busy. He was going to have to do it himself. At least he wasn’t worried that he’d be looking down the barrel of a shotgun, like he was the first time he’d knocked on this door.
David turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door did not budge. The house was locked up.
“Shit.”
He’d have to break it down. He took two steps back, turned sideways, then ran into the door with his shoulder.
“Son of a bitch!” he said. His shoulder felt as though it had dislocated, and for all his effort, the door was still locked.
He rotated his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t done any serious damage, then set his eye on the closest window, which was low enough that he could crawl into the house if he could open it. He stepped between some shrubs and the foundation to get in front of it, tried to raise the glass, but it was no good.
David slipped off his jacket, wrapped it around his lower right arm, then rammed his elbow into the glass. Better luck here than with the door. The glass shattered. He cleared more of it away with his protected arm, then reached in, found the lock, slid it open, then raised the glass.
No alarms rang. Sam did not have a security system. That’s what the shotgun was for.
He brushed away the glass fragments, then hoisted himself up onto the sill and tumbled into the house, headfirst.
He rolled into the living room.
“Sam!” he shouted.
He went to the kitchen first. No dishes out, nothing in the sink. No pot of coffee on the go.
The two bedrooms were upstairs.
David bounded up the steps two at a time, went into Carl’s bedroom first. No Carl, and the bed was made.
Same story in Sam’s room. Everything looked in order, pillows in place.
The good news was, he hadn’t found Sam and Carl in the house dead. But the bad news was, he hadn’t found Sam and Carl in the house.
Where the hell were they?
It hit him then that he didn’t remember seeing Sam’s car out front. He went to the bedroom window, which looked out onto the street.
Sam’s car was not there.
He did recall, from an earlier visit, seeing the edge of a suitcase under Sam’s bed. He dropped to his knees and lifted the bed skirt.
The suitcase was gone.
He came back downstairs and thought to look for one last thing. Something Sam always kept in the closet by the front door.
He opened it, pushed aside some coats hanging in the way.
This was where Sam kept her shotgun, and it was not there.
As he closed the closet door, he began to feel light-headed. He turned and rested his back against the door, and as the events of the morning overwhelmed him, he put his face in his hands and began to sob.
FOURTEEN
“LET’S go, let’s go, come on, people, let’s go! Move it, move it!”
Finley was standing on the loading docks at Finley Springs Water, acting as a traffic cop as forklifts delivered pallets of bottled water from deep inside the plant to the open doors of the panel vans. There were vans backed up to each of the three doors, and others waiting to take their place once a space was created.
Shortly after his first phone call with David, he’d gotten on to his foreman to start rounding up every one of the company’s twenty-two employees. Those who’d gone out of town for the weekend, if they could be reached on their cell phones, were ordered to get their asses back as fast as possible.
Four employees couldn’t be raised on their cells or home phones.
“They might be sick, at the hospital,” the foreman said.
Finley had to agree that was possible. But getting in as many as they did allowed Finley to put the plant into full production, and get every truck on the road.
Trevor Duckworth was one of the first to arrive, and Finley had greeted him warmly.
“Good to see you,” he said, clapping his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I was just helping your dad get a handle on what’s been happening.”
“Uh-huh,” Trevor said.
“I was giving him some info on the water plant, what might have gone wrong.”
“Great.” Trevor cocked his head. “How do you know your own water supply isn’t going to make everyone sick?”
Finley’s head recoiled, as though he’d been struck. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Where does the town water come from? Doesn’t it come from springs and stuff in the hills around Promise Falls, just like your water? If the problem’s at the source, wouldn’t all this stuff be bad, too?”
Trevor waved a hand at the hundreds of cases of water.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Finley said. “That’s just nuts.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. My water is one hundred percent pure and drinkable. I just know it. I know it in my gut.”
Trevor did not look convinced.
“Fine, I’ll prove it to you,” Finley said. He took a few steps over to the closest pallet load, used both hands to rip a small hole in the plastic casing that held two dozen bottles together, and pulled one bottle out. He twisted the lid, heard the distinctive crack of the plastic seal being broken, tipped the bottle up to his mouth, and started drinking.
Once he’d downed nearly half the bottle, he glared at Trevor Duckworth and said, “There. You want one?”
“When was it bottled?” Trevor asked.
“What?”
“All the problems started this morning. When was that bottled? Maybe anything bottled before today is safe, but—”
“Fine, for fuck’s sake,” Finley said. He turned and bellowed, at no one in particular, “Get me a fresh bottle! From this morning!”
A young woman scurried off, returned in thirty seconds with a plastic bottle, and handed it to her boss.
“Let’s try this,” he said, going through the same ritual again, cracking the lid, drinking half the bottle this time.
“God, I’m gonna have to take such a piss,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That water tasted absolutely perfect. Cool, fresh, no aftertaste. Not a hint of anything wrong with it.”
Trevor shrugged. “Okay, then. Which truck you want me to drive?”
“Just help load them all—then I’m going to give everyone their instructions.”
Finley took out his phone, thinking it was time to bring in David Ha
rwood.
He needed the man’s help now more than ever. He’d hired Harwood to do his publicity, help run his mayoral campaign, but every time Finley had instructions for him, the guy had some fucking crisis. Finley couldn’t recall ever knowing someone with so many problems. All that shit years ago with his wife, then more recently this thing with his cousin and the baby. God almighty, it was a fucking soap opera with him.
Granted, he had to cut David and everyone else in this town some slack today.
Good thing he’d been sending David home with plenty of free bottled water. If he hadn’t, Finley might have lost his right-hand man this morning. But David was not the only one. He’d been sending all his employees home, lately, with free cases of water. Told them that if they worked for the company, they had to demonstrate brand loyalty.
Went to the company’s integrity, Finley told them.
Finley’d overheard one of the drivers gripe recently that they weren’t drinking Finley water; they were “drinking the Kool-Aid.”
The irony of that comment hit hard today. It was the good people of Promise Falls, who’d been foolish enough to have faith that their local officials would look after them, who’d drunk the Kool-Aid.
Finley had been very clear with Lindsay that any water she took up to Jane was to be of the bottled variety. Even the coffee or tea, or even lemonade, was not to be made from what came out of the tap. The rules had been put in place some time ago. How would it look, he’d told Lindsay one time, if it got out he didn’t drink Finley Springs Water?
It’d be like Henry Ford getting caught driving around in an Oldsmobile.
Finley took out his phone and entered David’s number. One ring, two . . . three . . . four . . .
“Hello.”
“David?”
Finley wasn’t sure. It didn’t sound like David, unless David had suddenly come down with a terrible cold or something.
“Yeah, this is David. What is it, Randy?”
“You okay? You sound funny.”
David cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
“You got a second?”
A pause at the other end of the line. Finally, “Yeah, go ahead.” “You sure?”
“I said go ahead.”
“I’m about ready to drop hundreds of cases of free water right downtown. But people need to know it’s there. Plus, I’m about to give a little rallying-cry, pep-talk kind of thing here at the plant. I’d like you to be here. There needs to be a record of all this. Could be very helpful in the coming months.”
When David didn’t say anything right away, Finley said, “I’m doing a good thing here, David. I know you think it’s all self-promotion, and I won’t deny there’s an element of that, but I have an opportunity here. I have an opportunity to help people. I have an opportunity to actually do something good.”
A pause. Then, “I’m on my way.”
Finley broke into a grin. “That’s what I want to—”
David had already hung up.
• • •
The trucks were loaded and ready to go, but Finley had not yet given the word for them to move out. He was waiting for David to show up. He wanted his pep talk recorded. He could have gotten anyone here to film him on a smartphone, but Finley didn’t just want David to record it—he wanted David to hear it.
It was important, Randall Finley realized, that David actually believe in him. It was an extension of his philosophy about his employees drinking his bottled water. If David was going to be telling the good folks of Promise Falls that Finley was the man to lead them into the future after the next election, it needed to come from the heart.
Okay, maybe that was expecting too much. But David was not going to be effective if people thought he was just mouthing the words, that he was nothing more than a paid mouthpiece.
“We need to go,” Trevor said, leaning up against the back doors of one of the trucks.
“Another minute,” Finley said. “We just need to—”
There was David. Running up a short set of concrete steps, coming into the plant through the loading dock.
“Okay,” Finley said. “I want to say a few words to everyone before you go.”
He took a breath. “This is turning into one of the darkest days, if not the darkest day, in the history of Promise Falls. We’re witness to a tragedy of immense proportions. I thank God all of you are okay, but it’s very likely people you know, perhaps even loved ones, are in the hospital now, waiting for treatment.”
Finley tried to see David out of the corner of his eye, make out whether he had his phone out and was getting all this.
“What we have today is a chance to make a small difference in people’s lives. To bring them something life sustaining.” A pause. “Water. So simple and yet so fundamental to our survival. It’s like air. We take it for granted, but when we don’t have it, we can’t go on. People have been stunned to learn this morning that what is coming out of their taps may be poison. And until this horrible state of affairs has been dealt with, we’re going to step in and do what we can by offering free, safe, pure drinking water. I don’t care what it costs me. There’re thousands and thousands of dollars of product in those trucks, but I don’t care. Some things are more important than money. Being a good citizen counts above all.”
Finley snuck another look at David. Phone out.
Thank God.
Finley continued. “We’re going to drive over in a convoy and set up along the street next to the park downtown, by the falls. I think word’ll spread quickly of what we’re offering. And remember, you’re not just there handing out free water. You’re there to offer hope, a comforting word, a shoulder to cry on.”
Someone muttered, “Fucking hell.”
“Okay, so, off we go!” Finley said.
As the workers of Finley Springs Water piled into the trucks and began to drive off, Finley walked over to David, whose eyes were red and bloodshot, and said, “You get that?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like shit. What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m fine.”
“What about whoever it was you were taking to the hospital?”
“My uncle. He was alive last I saw him.”
Finley gave David a friendly punch to the shoulder. “That’s good, then, right?”
“Sure.”
“We need to head downtown, and we need to let the media know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll start making some calls.”
“Well, make them on the way. Time’s a-wastin’. We’ll go in my car.”
“You need to be careful,” David said.
Finley cocked his head. “Careful?”
“Of how you play this.”
“Not sure I’m following you, David,” Finley said.
“You don’t want to look like you’re taking advantage. Like that night the drive-in screen came down. Acting like you wanted to help people, but not until the camera was on.”
“You misjudge me. You’re as bad as Duckworth.”
“Duckworth?”
“Never mind. What would you have me do, David? I have an opportunity here to genuinely help people in a crisis. You saying I should do nothing? For fear it would make me look opportunistic? Wouldn’t that be just as cravenly political?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Well, what the fuck are you saying, David?”
David shook his head. “Fine, do what you want. Go save Promise Falls.”
Finley grinned and gave David a pat on the shoulder. “Why don’t we?”
FIFTEEN
Duckworth
AS critical as it was for me to get out to Thackeray College, I was determined to make a stop along the way at Tate Whitehead’s house. I was in the early stages of this poisoned-water investigation—we still didn’t know what was actually wrong with the water supply—but Whitehead was a so-called person of interest in what might end up being a mass murder.
In my mind, that trumped one d
ead student right now.
Garvey Ottman’s note had led me to an address in the downtown. There’s a block of two-story houses in Promise Falls that were built nearly a hundred years ago that most developers in town want to get their hands on so they can tear them down and build condos and retail shops, although in this real estate market it was hard to believe that was smart business sense. Off the top of my head, I knew Frank Mancini, who had bought the Constellation Drive-in property, wanted this block.
The homes were linked together in groups of six, with sagging porches, rotting handrails, missing shingles. No one wanted to put any money into fixing these places, figuring they’d all be sold and razed.
I parked in front of 76 Prince Street—not even a hundred years ago would these addresses have been deemed suitable residences for visiting royalty—and went to the front door. Finding no doorbell, I banged on the door with the side of my fist.
I heard movement in the house, and fifteen seconds later a thin, silvery-haired woman opened the door a crack.
“Yeah?” she said, showing some brown teeth.
I showed her my ID. “I’m looking for Tate Whitehead.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Probably at work,” she said. “At the water treatment plant. They’re having some problem up there, case you haven’t heard. Fire truck was driving around telling everybody not to drink the water. Check at the plant.”
She started to close the door, but I put a hand up to stop it. “Are you Mrs. Whitehead?”
“I am.”
“When did you last talk to your husband?”
“Last night ’fore he went to work.”
“What time would that’ve been?”
“Around nine, I guess. My husband works the overnight shift there. Sometimes I fall asleep before he goes, but I heard him leave last night.”
“And when does he usually get home?”
“Around six thirty, most nights. Well, mornings, actually.”
“Most?” I asked.
“Mostly, yeah.”
“If he’s late getting home, why would that be?”
She eyed me suspiciously. “What’s all this about? If you want to talk to him, just go up there.”
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