The Twenty-Three

by Linwood Barclay

  He pulled into the graveled lot and parked among a dozen other vehicles. He did not see Sam’s among them, and figured if she was staying here, she was parked by her tent. Once out of the car, he marveled at how quiet it was. The odd chirping of birds, muffled voices of some early risers drifting out from the woods.

  The smell of smoke and bacon.

  He and Sam had talked about taking their boys, together, on such a trip, and it had sounded like such a good idea. But being here now neither relaxed David nor gave him an appreciation of the great outdoors.

  He was wired. He’d had no coffee but felt as though he’d overdosed on caffeine. Aside from those troubles a few years ago involving his late wife, and his recent entanglement in his cousin Marla’s tragedy, David had little experience with dangerous people. Okay, years ago, there was that hired killer, but that hadn’t exactly ended well.

  But he’d never come up against an escaped convict before. And he was hoping he wouldn’t now.

  His only goal at the moment was to find Sam, and be reassured she was okay. He hadn’t thought about what the next step might be.

  Would he stay with her, either at the campsite or back in Promise Falls, until Brandon Worthington had been caught and returned to prison? Be her protector? Her bodyguard? And was he kidding himself that he could play that role? Did he think he was Liam Neeson or something?

  He would be happy to put her and Carl up at his house, where they might feel less vulnerable. It’d be crowded, what with his parents there, but their own home was supposed to be ready for them to move back into any day now.

  He also knew Sam might tell him to mind his own business. He could hear her saying, “I can look after myself, thank you very much.” After all, she’d left without telling him where she was going.

  Next to the sign for the parking lot, there was a map of Call of the Loon Acres, which showed a tangle of roads, the location of the bathrooms, the lake, a store where you could buy ice and other provisions.

  David started walking.

  He trekked up a road that was little more than two ruts with a strip of grass in the center. About every fifty feet on either side, nestled back in between the trees, he saw a tent or a trailer, plus a car.

  David didn’t know the shape or color of Sam’s tent, so he was looking for her car.

  It turned out he didn’t need to know that either.

  He saw Sam. And a man he’d never seen before, but was pretty sure he recognized from the Boston TV news report he’d found online.

  He heard voices first, about fifty yards up the road. That was when he stopped.

  The man was standing just off the road, about thirty feet from a picnic table where a woman was working at a camp stove. They were having a conversation.

  Brandon had found her.

  David underwent a brief paralysis, a weakness in the knees. How should he respond? Stride right up? Find the camp office and get someone to call the police? But if he did the latter, and Brandon did something in the meantime—like attacking Sam, or making a grab for Carl—David wouldn’t be there to help.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He needed to get closer, hear what was going on without Brandon knowing he was there.

  David ducked left, off the road and into the woods. He was three or four campsites away from where Sam had pitched her tent. He tiptoed past someone else’s tent trailer and went into thicker forest, twigs snapping and leaves rustling under his feet. Using the trees as cover, he worked his way as quietly as he could until he was behind Sam’s tent. Parked behind it was her car.

  He crouched as he emerged from the woods, blocked by not only the tent but by the car, too. He could see neither Sam nor Brandon, but he could still hear them talking. He wasn’t able to make out anything they were saying.

  He poked his head above the sill of the back window of Sam’s car, but all he could see was the tent.

  Something in the backseat caught his eye. Something extending out from under a blanket.

  Four inches of a shotgun barrel.

  The same shotgun Sam had pointed at him the first time he had knocked on her door.

  David reached up for the door handle, lifted, and pulled, testing to see whether it was locked. It wasn’t.

  Slowly, he opened the door, worried that it would creak or squeak. He needed to get it open only a few inches. He got it as far as he needed to without making any noise. He slid the blanket off the shotgun, took hold of the barrel near the end, and slowly pulled it toward him.

  He realized he had the barrel pointing straight at his chest, so he shifted a few inches to the left so that he wouldn’t kill himself if the damn thing went off.

  He didn’t even know if it was loaded. But then, maybe it wouldn’t have to be.

  Just having it would be enough to defuse the situation, if it came to that.

  He got the weapon all the way out, held it in his arms, got a sense of its heft.

  David didn’t know a lot about guns. But didn’t you have to—what did they call it—rack it? To put a shell in the chamber, if there were any shells in it to begin with?

  But he didn’t see anything to rack. There was something under the barrel that looked like you had to slide it back and forth.

  He decided not to touch it. Just waving the gun around would be threatening enough, wouldn’t it?

  Sweat was beaded on his forehead, running into his eyes and stinging. His heart was pounding. It was a drum beating in his ears.

  Take a breath, take a breath, take a breath.

  He could do this. He could save Sam.

  All he had to do now was get into a position where he could see what was going on.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE meeting was set up on a lightly traveled road that ran behind the Five Mountains theme park.

  Cal had picked the spot because he could see the better part of a mile in each direction. If Harry was followed to the location, they’d know.

  He was in the passenger seat of Dwayne’s pickup, Dwayne behind the wheel. His leg was swollen where Cal had hit it, but the bone wasn’t broken and he was able to drive.

  “I really appreciate this,” Dwayne said. “Considering.”

  Cal’s eyes kept moving from the road ahead to the oversized mirror bolted to the passenger door. He was looking for the rusted blue Aerostar van he’d seen Harry driving the day before.

  “Like I was saying,” Dwayne said, “I’m really grateful that—”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Cal said. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for Celeste.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think Harry is going to like this.”

  Cal, looking in the mirror, said, “This might be him.”

  Dwayne glanced in his own mirror. “Yeah, I think—he’s pulling over onto the shoulder.”

  “Let’s do this,” Cal said, and opened his door. They were both out of the truck, standing by the back bumper, as Harry’s van rolled up on the gravel. The van stopped five feet behind Dwayne’s truck.

  Harry got out, looked at Cal.

  “I know you.”

  Cal nodded. “Don’t worry about those business cards.”

  “Jesus,” he said nervously. “Are you a cop?”

  Cal shook his head slowly.

  “What’s going on?” Harry asked Dwayne. “Is this the guy? The one snooping around your place?”

  Dwayne said, “Yeah. Look, Harry, I’m really sorry, but the thing is, I really can’t be—”

  Cal cut in. “He’s not going to hold on to your shit any longer.” He patted the vinyl cover over the pickup bed. “It’s all here. You’re taking it back.”

  Harry said, “No fucking way. They might be watching me.” Cal looked up and down the road. “Doesn’t look like it to me. Open up your van. We’ll get this stuff moved over.”

  Harry raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Hold on.” He pointed at Dwayne. “We had a deal. I paid you for a service.”

  Cal reached into his pocket, pul
led out an envelope, and slapped it into Harry’s hand. “That should cover everything you paid him, plus some interest.”

  Harry peered into the envelope. “I don’t know about this.”

  Cal said to Dwayne, “Open the tailgate. The two of you move the stuff. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Harry threw the envelope back at Cal. It bounced off his chest and landed on the gravel. No one moved to pick it up.

  “No fucking way,” Harry said.

  Cal moved his tongue around inside his mouth, poking out one cheek and then the other. “Can I have a word with you privately, Harry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just for a second.”

  Without waiting for Harry to decide, Cal stepped forward, put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder, and led him down the side of the van, out of sight of any passing traffic. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dwayne pick up the envelope. In the distance, beyond a fence, stood a motionless Ferris wheel and roller coaster.

  “Him and me had a deal,” Harry said.

  “I understand that,” Cal said. “I’m gonna be honest with you. Dwayne there, he’s my brother-in-law.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned.”

  “He’s married to my sister. I love my sister very much. And while Dwayne is a bit of a dickhead, basically he’s an okay guy, and he’s been pretty good to my sister all these years, so I’d hate to see things go south for them.”

  “I’m helping him. I did him a favor.”

  “I’m sure you see it that way, and no doubt about it, these have been tough times for him. But he’s going to have to find a way out of his financial problems without you.”

  “Look, I don’t give a fuck,” Harry persisted. “And I got people to answer to, you know?”

  “You’re going to have to work it out with them.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you know about me, Harry?”

  “Huh? I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Let me tell you. I used to be a cop.” Harry’s eyes went wide. “Right here in Promise Falls. But I’m not anymore. You know why?” Harry shook his head. “I lost it one day. I smashed the head of a hit-and-run driver into the hood of his car. So they cut me loose. A few years went by, I tried to get my life back on track, but that didn’t go so well. Had a wife and a son, but they’re both gone now.”

  “What’s any of that got to do with—”

  Cal held up a finger to let him know he wasn’t done.

  “I don’t know who you’re working with. You’re not ripping this stuff off on your own. I know that much. You need two, three guys, at least. I don’t know if you’re a bunch of amateurs, or whether you’re actually good at this stuff. I don’t know whether you’re working with bikers or drug dealers or what, but I don’t care. This is what I do know. I know where you live. I know where you work. I know your wife’s name is Francine. That you’ve got two kids. Boy and a girl, both teenagers. And I can find out more if I need to. I’m telling you that you are going to take back this shit Dwayne’s been holding for you, that you’re going to take back the money, that you are never going to talk to Dwayne again, that if you see him on the street, you’re going to cross to the other side, that if anything ever happens to him or my sister, if one of you even mentions him to the cops if you ever get caught, I am going to find you and I am going to put a bullet in your head, because I don’t give a fuck about anything anymore except making sure my sister and her husband are safe.”

  Harry blinked.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Harry nodded.

  “That’s good. So can you now help Dwayne move that stuff from his truck to yours?”

  “I can do that,” he said.

  When it was done, and Dwayne and Cal were driving back to the house, Dwayne said, “I’ll find a way to pay you back the money.”

  “Shut up, Dwayne,” Cal said.

  FORTY-NINE

  Duckworth

  VICTOR Rooney was sitting on the front step, shirtless and barefoot but wearing a pair of jeans, when I pulled up in front of the house. I parked at the curb, got out.

  “Mr. Rooney,” I said.

  He was eating a piece of buttered toast, and made no attempt to get up.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “How are you today?”

  “Oh, I’m just peachy,” he said. “Got the whole house to myself as it turns out.”

  “I heard. Your landlady, Ms. Townsend, was one of the casualties.”

  He took a bite of toast. “Found her yesterday morning in the backyard. Dead as a doornail.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been quite a shock.”

  Victor nodded. “Not the sort of thing you see every day.”

  “You didn’t see her getting sick?”

  “I’d slept in. By the time I came downstairs, she was already toast.” He glanced at what was in his hand. “Maybe that’s not the best choice of words.”

  “So she’d had water from the tap, but not you.”

  His head went from side to side. “Yeah, I mean, no. I mean, she’d had coffee, and I hadn’t had anything. I mean, other than some juice from the fridge. But it was okay.”

  “Lucky,” I said.

  “I guess. Mr. Fisher was lucky, too. I mean, he got pretty sick, but at least he didn’t die.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “There might be long-term effects. They don’t know yet.”

  “Huh,” he said. “So, Walden, he might end up brain-damaged or something.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “I don’t know exactly what happens now,” he said, glancing back at the house. “I mean, she owned the place, but who gets it now? She’s probably got next of kin or whatever you call it, but that’s not my responsibility, is it?”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t, technically. “You might want to look through her address book, something like that. If she had out-of-town family, they may hear about what happened here and make inquiries. That’ll get the ball rolling. Failing that, the police will get to it eventually. They’re a little backed up right now.”

  He nodded, took another bite of toast.

  “I think I might just move, anyway,” he said. “I think I’m done here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He looked at me as though I was slow-witted, and there were times when I thought I was. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “I can understand why you might want to put this town behind you,” I said, “but I’d have thought you’d have done it three years ago.”

  “Sometimes it takes a while to get your act together.” He finished the toast, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, balled it up, and tossed it onto the porch. He leaned back, arms outstretched, palms on the porch boards. “You just come by to shoot the shit?”

  “I heard from Joyce Pilgrim,” I said.

  His face screwed up. “Who?”

  “The security chief at Thackeray.”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” He nodded. “I talked to her last night. Why’d she call you?”

  “Why?” I’d have thought it was obvious.

  “Yeah. I mean, what’s the big deal if some guy parked illegally or something?”

  “So she didn’t say why she was asking.”

  He shook his head.

  “Can you tell me again what you told her? About the car and the man you saw?”

  He repeated what Joyce had said to me on the phone. The man he’d seen was white, over six feet tall, maybe two hundred pounds, tops. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap, a dark blue jacket or Windbreaker, and running shoes.

  “Was the car parked under a streetlight?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And the car itself?”

  “I think it might have been a Taurus. An older one, with the big bulbous fenders.”

  “Color?”

  He shrugged. “Black, blue? Don’t know.”

  “Ms. Pilgrim said you thought the plate was gre
en.”

  “I’m not as sure about that, but maybe,” he said. “That’d make it Vermont, right?”

  “Could,” I said.

  “Why the big deal about this?”

  I pressed on. “You have pretty good observational skills.”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “I mean, late at night, that car not being under a streetlight, and you managed to get a pretty good look at that guy, right down to the ball cap.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

  “Not at all. What you saw could be really helpful.”

  “Helpful for what?”

  The murder of Lorraine Plummer had probably made the news, but it had been overshadowed by the deaths from poisoned water. It was possible Victor didn’t know about her death. Or was pretending to be uninformed.

  “Around the time you were jogging through the campus grounds,” I said evenly, “a young woman was murdered. A summer student.”

  I watched his reaction closely.

  “Jesus,” he said. “That woman—Pilgrim?—she never said anything about that. So then, this guy she was asking about, he could have been the guy who killed her?”

  I waited a second. “Possibly.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that. Wish I’d taken an even closer look.” “Don’t feel bad about that. You saw and remembered more than most people would. Quite a bit more.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed. “There it is again.”

  “What?”

  “That sounds more like an accusation than praise. I’m trying to help out and you’re making me feel like I did something wrong.”

  “Sorry if that’s how I came across,” I said. “Do you jog around there every night?”

  “I kind of went back to running just recently, in the last week or so. I thought it’d be a way to get myself back together.”

  “You mean back in shape?”

  “Partly, but mentally, too, you know.”

  “I guess,” I said. “I’m not much of a health nut.”

  “No kidding,” he said.