The Twenty-Three

by Linwood Barclay

  Those squirrel traps on the shelf, for example.

  Or the random leftover limbs from some mannequins.

  The various items that had been used to assemble the bombs that brought down the drive-in.

  The man couldn’t keep the body here indefinitely. Once it, and the other incriminating items, were disposed of, he’d have to give the garage one hell of a vacuuming. Eliminate any chemical traces.

  Only now was he starting to think about how to cover his tracks. He’d been so consumed with the mission that he’d never given a lot of thought to evading capture.

  There was once a time when he’d thought he didn’t care about being found out. Once he’d made his point.

  Only now, he wasn’t so sure he was finished. Many had died, there was no doubt about that.

  But was it enough?

  Maybe I’m not done.

  TWENTY-TWO

  CAL Weaver said to Crystal, “You okay here if I go into the kitchen and talk to my sister?”

  Crystal, sitting on the couch, her eyes alternating between the Weather Channel on TV and the drawing she was working on, said, “Are you going away?”

  “No. Just to the kitchen. And even if I do have to go somewhere, I’ll be coming back here.”

  “Not your motel.”

  “No. But I have to go back there to check out, get my stuff.”

  “Can I come with you when you do?”

  Cal nodded. “Maybe. We’ll talk about that. And I’m going to try to get hold of your dad again.”

  Crystal said, “It’s going to be sunny all weekend.”

  “Isn’t that great?” Cal said. He patted the girl’s knee, got up from the couch, and went into the kitchen.

  “The poor thing,” Celeste said. Even though Cal and Crystal had recently eaten, Celeste had thrown herself into making sandwiches. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to get a glass of water and had to stop myself.”

  “Yeah,” Cal said.

  “Have you been able to get in touch with her father?”

  “Not yet.” Cal put a hand on his sister’s arm. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “What?”

  “About imposing. I thought it would just be the girl, for a while, but now it’s both of us.”

  “It’s okay,” Celeste said.

  “I know Dwayne’s not happy about it.”

  Celeste bit her lip, turned away, took a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator. “Yeah, well, that’s tough for him.”

  “I know you guys are already under a lot of stress, and now—”

  Celeste turned swiftly. “What do you know, really?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think you know what goes on between him and me, but you don’t know anything.”

  She opened a drawer quickly enough to make the contents rattle, grabbed a knife, and began slicing a tomato.

  “What don’t I know?” Cal asked. “Is there something I should know? Something you want to let me in on?”

  She had her back to him as she sliced. The knife was hitting the cutting board with a thwack! each time it came down.

  “Shit!” she said, dropped the knife, and grasped the hand that had been holding the tomato. Blood was dribbling from a cut on the side of her index finger.

  “Here,” Cal said.

  He grabbed some paper towels, wrapped them around her finger.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” Celeste said.

  “Just hold it for a minute, then we’ll have a look.”

  Celeste held both hands to her chest, her head down, as though trying to fold in on herself.

  “You need to talk to me,” Cal said.

  “I need to talk to you?” she said. “How many times have I tried to get you to open up about Donna and Scott?”

  “That’s not what we’re doing right now,” Cal said. “We can get into that another time.”

  “That’s what you always say. But aren’t you hurting? Aren’t you hurting more than any of us? You keep everything bottled up inside. I can feel this anger coming off you all the time, like you’re on a low boil.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about what’s happened,” Cal said. “It’s over. Donna and Scott are gone and I can’t bring them back. But we can deal with whatever’s going on with Dwayne, between the two of you. But if you want to avoid facing that, then by all means, keep bringing up my wife and son.”

  Celeste needed a moment. Then, “He’s . . . he’s not the same.”

  “What do you mean? Since he stopped getting work from the town?”

  A nod, but then a shrug. “I think it started even before that. He’s been getting—I don’t know . . . more distant. We don’t even . . . we’re not close like we used to be. We hardly ever . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s, like, ‘everyone’s all against me.’ Thinks everyone is taking advantage of him. It’s always everybody else’s fault. He didn’t use to be this negative about everything.”

  “It’s gotta be work,” Cal said. “That has to be getting him down. If I was in his shoes, I’d be worried sick. Things’ll turn around sooner or later.”

  “It’s not just . . . I can’t talk about it.”

  Cal pulled Celeste toward him, hugged her. “Come on. This is me. When have we ever not been able to talk about stuff?”

  From the living room, Crystal shouted: “Rain Tuesday!”

  Celeste said, “It’s hard for me to say the words.”

  “Just say them.”

  “I . . . I wonder if he’s seeing someone.”

  Cal loosened the hug to put some space between them. He looked her in the eye and said, “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s away so much. He says he’s going out and I ask him where and he just says ‘out.’ Like to the bar or something. And he’s gone a long time.”

  “Maybe that’s all he’s doing.”

  “I don’t think so. One time, he said he’d been out drinking, but I didn’t smell anything on his breath at all.”

  Cal smiled. “First time a guy’s been in trouble for coming home sober.”

  Celeste allowed herself a short laugh, and sniffed. “Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m imagining it. But he’s so tense. Not just about not working, but he just seems more secretive. I get this feeling that he’s hiding something from me. What’s he going to hide if not an affair?”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions. Unless there’s someone you actually suspect.”

  “No, there’s no one I’m aware of. I mean, Dwayne had a girl working for him at the office, where he keeps the trucks and the paving equipment and everything, but he had to let her go, and honestly, if he’d want her instead of me—she’s got a face like a train crash—I wouldn’t know what the hell to make of it. But if he’s not fooling around on me, then where the hell is he going?”

  “Have you talked to him? Have you sat him down and hashed it out?”

  “I’ve tried, but he just brushes me off. Says he’s working through some stuff.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  Celeste forced a laugh. “I don’t suppose I could hire you?”

  “What?”

  “You know, to follow him around, see what he’s up to.”

  “That’s a joke, right?” Cal said.

  She nodded. “Of course it’s a joke.”

  “Because that’s just wrong on so many levels.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “I’m sorry I even said it. As a joke.”

  “It’s okay. You’re just under—”

  Cal’s cell phone started to ring. He dug into his jacket, pulled it out. “It’s him,” he said.

  “Who?”

  Bringing his voice down to a whisper, he said, “Crystal’s dad. I’ll take it outside.”

  He tapped the phone, held it to his ear, and, while heading out the back door, said, “Hello?”

  “This Mr. Weaver?”

  “Is this Gerald Brighton?”

  “Yeah.
Who are you?”

  “I did some work for Lucy and in the course of things got to know her and Crystal,” Cal said, standing in the driveway along the side of the house.

  “This about Lucy’s dad getting killed in that drive-in thing? That was terrible, and I meant to get up there, but I just wasn’t able to get away. You a lawyer or something sorting all that stuff out? Because if there was something left to Lucy, I think I may be entitled to some of that.”

  Cal said, “I have some bad news for you, Mr. Brighton. Have you been watching the news today?”

  A pause. “Not really.”

  “We’ve been dealing with something of a catastrophe here in Promise Falls. The water supply’s been contaminated.” Cal took a breath. “I’m afraid Lucy is dead.”

  A beat, then, “What?”

  “Lucy died this morning,” Cal told him. “I’m sorry.”

  “What about Crystal? Is Crystal okay?”

  “Crystal didn’t consume any water and did not require medical treatment. She’s not sick. But she was in the house with her mother when she died. I think she’s pretty traumatized by what’s happened.”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “When can you get out here?” Cal asked.

  “Uh, well, let me see. . . .”

  “Crystal needs you.”

  “Sure, I know. I’m just trying to get my head around this news, you know? Are you totally sure about this? The police haven’t called me or anything.”

  “I’m sure, Mr. Brighton.”

  “Where’s Crystal now?”

  “She’s in my care.”

  “And who are you again?”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator, Mr. Brighton. If you need some references or reassurances about me, I can provide—”

  “No, no, that’s okay. So she’s with you.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And she’s okay.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thing is, I might have a little trouble coming up with the airfare. I’m kind of maxed out on my cards. I mean, I want to be there. I do. I want to look after Crystal. I just don’t know how fast I can get there. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Find a way,” Cal said.

  “I’ll have to ask around, see if I can scrape up the cash. But Crystal’s okay, right? I mean, she’s not in any immediate danger.”

  Cal used his free hand to make some space between his collar and neck. It was feeling hot.

  “Mr. Brighton, forgive me for sticking my nose in where it might not belong, but your daughter just lost her mom, and she’s a very special little girl who needs all the support she can get right now, and if you don’t get your ass on a fucking plane and get out here and take some responsibility for this situation, I will personally fly out there and dangle you off the Golden Gate Bridge. Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes,” Gerald Brighton said. “I hear you. Let me, uh, let me see what I can do and I’ll get back to you.”

  “I look forward to your call,” Cal said, and slipped the phone back into his jacket.

  He heard a noise to his right. Dwayne was coming out the side door of the freestanding double garage that sat on the back corner of the property. He took a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one into a lock, turned it, then put the keys back where he’d gotten them.

  He turned and saw Cal standing there.

  “You been watching me?” he asked.

  “I just got off the phone,” Cal said.

  “Let me guess,” Dwayne said. “You’re inviting some more people to stay over at my house. Well, why the hell not?”

  He started walking Cal’s way.

  “I’m not the enemy,” Cal said.

  “Who said you were?”

  “I care about Celeste and you. If there’s anything going on I can help you guys out with, just tell me.”

  Dwayne kept on walking, past Cal and toward his truck.

  “Thanks very much, but I got everything under control,” he said. Then Dwayne opened the door, hauled himself up into the driver’s seat, backed the vehicle onto the street, and drove off.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Duckworth

  “I haven’t touched him,” Garvey Ottman said. “I mean, other than to drag him out and put him there. Which I guess, technically, is touching him.”

  We were standing at the edge of the reservoir behind the treatment plant in the shadow of the water tower. It was a large man-made pond with a concrete bottom, a kind of gigantic kids’ wading pool. It was fed by streams and nearby rivers; then from here water moved through the treatment plant and, finally, was pumped up into the tower, where simple gravity delivered it to all the homes and businesses of Promise Falls.

  Tate Whitehead’s body was resting, faceup, dead eyes open, on the concrete walkway that encircled the reservoir. His clothes were still drenched. According to Ottman, he had only pulled him out of the water about half an hour ago.

  “I didn’t try to do nothing like mouth-to-mouth,” Ottman said. “I mean, it was pretty obvious he was dead. If I thought he’d had any life in him, I’d have done something, or at least called an ambulance. Maybe it’s just as well he was dead, ’cause no ambulance was likely to get here anytime soon anyway. But I woulda done it if I had to.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re right. He’s very dead, and likely has been for several hours. Tell me about finding him.”

  “Okay, so, I came out here to take some samples. I’ve been taking samples at each step of the process to see where the trouble might be, you follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because if the water in the reservoir is okay, then the contamination, whatever it is, must be further along.”

  “I get that.”

  “But if it was from farm runoff or that kind of thing, and got into the river upstream of here, I’d find traces in the reservoir.”

  “Tate,” I said, nodding my head in the direction of the body.

  “Right. So I’m out here, and I see something dark just under the surface, right about there, where the bottom slopes up some, and I get close and I can see it’s a person, and I’m thinking, holy shit. So I run and grab a pole to pull him in a bit, then step in and haul him out.” He pointed to his rubber boots. “I had these on.”

  It was good to know Ottman hadn’t ruined a pair of shoes.

  “You know what I think?” Ottman asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he must have come out here to hoist a few, lost his balance, hit his head on the edge when he was falling in, and went unconscious and drowned.”

  “Maybe,” I said, kneeling down next to the body. “Help me turn him to the side some.”

  He knelt down next to me and we gently rolled Tate Whitehead over a quarter turn, far enough that I could get a look at the back of his head. It was a pulpy, bloody mess. The skull had been cracked open.

  “I don’t think it played out the way you just said,” I told Ottman.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You see that? How the hell would he hurt his head that bad falling in? You’d have to fall out of a tree headfirst to bust your noggin like that.”

  I stood. “Stay here,” I told him.

  I began a slow clockwise walk around the edge of the reservoir. Beyond the concrete walkway was a strip of well-maintained lawn, and then trees were beyond that. This was not the forested area we had searched earlier. That had been on the other side of the building, by the parking lot. At the time, I’d been thinking Whitehead would have been close to the booze supply in his Pinto.

  I kept my eyes down, scanning the reservoir’s edge as well as the walkway. It took nearly five minutes, and I was about three-quarters of the way around—I should have gone counterclockwise—when I saw what I was expecting I might find.

  A few drops of blood.

  I got down on my knees for a closer look.

  “What is it?” Ottman shouted over to me.

  Half a dozen drops within a few inches of t
he edge. Whitehead’s attacker had probably been hiding in the nearby trees. When Whitehead passed, probably somewhat under the influence and an easy target, his assailant came at him from behind, bashed him in the head, and pushed him into the water in one swift motion. Otherwise, there would have been more blood on the walkway.

  I stepped off the concrete walkway and into the nearby grass, scanning the ground. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

  A large rock, half again as large as a closed fist. There was what looked to be blood and hair on it.

  I did not touch it.

  “What’d ya find?” Ottman shouted.

  I walked back to where he had remained standing over the body.

  “D’ja find something?” he asked.

  “So let’s say Tate here went into the reservoir early in his shift. There would have been no one else here throughout the night?”

  “That’s right. The place kind of runs itself, with minimal supervision.”

  Once Whitehead was dead, his killer, or killers, had hours to do whatever they wanted in the treatment plant.

  “What have your samples shown so far?”

  Ottman, glancing at the body, said, “Can we talk someplace else? I can’t keep looking at this. I’m feeling queasy.”

  I motioned him a few feet away, by the trees.

  “The sample,” I said.

  “Okay, well, it takes time, but the water here is looking pretty good. Since you’ve been gone, we’ve had the state health authorities here collecting samples of their own. They’re testing the reservoir, they’re testing the water once it’s been treated before it pumps up to the tower, and they’re testing all over town.”

  “What have they found?”

  “Don’t know yet,” he said. “You can’t do an instant test on E. coli.”

  I was starting to think this had nothing to do with E. coli. I was starting to think it had a lot more to do with dead squirrels and painted mannequins and a flaming bus and a Thackeray student in a hoodie, and, worst of all, at least until today, the bombing of the drive-in theater.

  Not to mention the murders of Olivia Fisher, Rosemary Gaynor, and now Lorraine Plummer.

  While I believed the three women had been murdered by the same person, I didn’t know that they were connected to the other incidents. I didn’t even know, with any certainty, that all those other incidents were connected to one another.