The Twenty-Three

by Linwood Barclay

  “So tell me about the mentally part.”

  “I’ve kind of—I don’t know—let myself go. Been hitting the drinking too hard. Haven’t been able to find a job. It’s taken me a long time to get over things.”

  “Olivia.”

  “Yeah. But you can only go on like that so long. You have to move on, you know?”

  “And taking up running was part of that?”

  “Yeah. I thought, if I felt better physically, maybe I’d start feeling better mentally.”

  “How’s it going?”

  He grinned. “It may be too early to tell.”

  “Part of that plan includes moving away?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe this is just when the town needs you,” I said. “After what happened yesterday.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Maybe the town had it coming,” I said.

  Victor Rooney studied me. “Say again?”

  “I said maybe the town had it coming. For how it failed Olivia.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Have you ever felt that way? That those twenty-two people who heard Olivia’s screams and did nothing, that they were representative of the entire town? That they were a kind of a cross section? That if they’d do nothing, nobody here would?”

  “Twenty-two?” he asked. “Was that how many people it was?”

  “I think you already know that. Don’t you think sometimes there’re actually twenty-three people to blame?”

  He stood. “I got stuff to do.”

  “Don’t you blame yourself, too? For not meeting Olivia when you were supposed to?”

  Victor stepped up onto the porch, grabbed a T-shirt that had been tossed onto a wicker chair. He slipped it on, and as his head popped out the top, he said, “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

  “If you blame yourself and the whole town, you didn’t end up paying quite as high a price for your failure as more than a hundred others did.”

  There was a pair of low-rise sneakers under the chair. He slipped his feet into them, not bothering to do the laces.

  “You know any place in this town where I can get an actual cup of coffee?” he asked. “If I have to, I’ll drive to fucking Albany.”

  “Why do you think someone would do it?” I asked. “Why would someone poison the water?”

  “Who says someone even did it?” Victor said. “Maybe there was some kind of contamination. Sewage, nuclear waste. Something like that.”

  “You know a little bit about it, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You worked there one summer. At the water treatment plant.” “That was a long time ago. Just for a couple of months.”

  “Long enough to know how the place runs, though.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “What’d you take in school, Victor? Engineering? Chemistry?

  Wasn’t that it? That’s pretty helpful stuff to know. You’d have thought you could find a job with that kind of background. But you ended up at the fire department for a while, right?”

  “I didn’t get my degree,” he said.

  “But even so, you’d have learned a few things. Like, how to start up a Ferris wheel, say. Get a bus from the town compound going.”

  “Bus?” he said. “You talking about that bus that was on fire?”

  I kept on. “Or how to acquire sodium azide. A pretty large quantity.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He dug into his pocket for some keys. “I’m going out.”

  He came down the steps and started walking toward the garage. I followed.

  “If we review more security footage from Thackeray,” I said, “will we find you running through the campus other nights, or just that one?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Because if it was just the once, that’s quite a coincidence. That you’d happen to be running there the night that girl got killed.”

  “You already know I was there at least twice. That woman found me there last night. I went through there a lot. Christ, is there anything you don’t think I’ve done? You think I’ve got something to do with the poisoned water, and that bus, and now you think I killed that girl?”

  In my mind, jigsaw puzzle pieces floated about. Victor Rooney jogging around Thackeray at the time of Lorraine Plummer’s death. Lorraine Plummer, one of the women assaulted by a man wearing a hoodie with “23” on it. Mason Helt, wearing said hoodie, killed while attacking Joyce Pilgrim.

  Connections. Degrees of separation.

  But all I really knew was that Helt had attacked Pilgrim. I didn’t know, for certain, that he’d attacked the others. Was it possible he’d had a partner? Rooney’s admission that Thackeray was part of his jogging route had me wondering.

  I didn’t know that Rooney was linked to the man Clive Duncomb had fatally shot, but it didn’t stop me from asking, “How did you know Mason Helt?”

  If the question in any way unnerved him, he hid it well.

  “Who?” Rooney said.

  “Mason Helt. A Thackeray student.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  He turned the handle on the double-wide garage door and swung it upward. Inside was an old, rusted van that had been squeezed in between shelves and assorted piles of junk.

  He unlocked the van door, got in, slammed it as I stood there by the back bumper, off to the side. As he turned the ignition, black exhaust belched from the tailpipe. I took a step back, waved the fumes away from my face.

  The van backed up until it was fully on the driveway, at which point Victor got out, left the driver’s door open and the engine running, and walked back to draw the garage door back down.

  But before he did, something on one of the shelves caught my eye.

  “Hang on,” I said, raising a hand.

  “What?”

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

  The garage was cluttered, so it was possible Victor’s puzzlement was genuine.

  Already my mind was wondering about the legality of a search. This was not Victor Rooney’s garage. It belonged to his landlady, who was deceased. But would a court see the garage, where Victor had parked his van, as his property?

  It would be better if I had his permission.

  “Do you mind if I go in here?” I asked.

  “I guess not,” he said cautiously.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wished I had a witness, but there you go.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I led him over to a set of metal shelves that were littered with paint cans, winter car brushes, garden supplies, coiled hoses, even a box filled with old long-playing records. The back wall of the garage was a mess of stacked wood scraps. Partial sheets of plywood, posts, some scraps of Styrofoam board used for insulation. But right now, I was focused on the shelves.

  One shelf in particular.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  It looked like a wire cage, dimensions similar to those of a loaf of bread. About a foot long, five inches tall and wide. At one end there was a funneled opening. It would be easy enough to stick your hand in—if it was small enough—but when you pulled it out, you’d get caught on the pointed wire ends of the funnel.

  I was pretty sure I knew what it was. I wondered whether Victor knew. And if he did know, whether he’d admit it.

  He shook his head. “Emily kept a lot of shit out here.”

  “So you don’t know what that is?”

  Victor shrugged.

  “Beats me.”

  I said, “I think it’s a trap.”

  “A trap?”

  I nodded. “For squirrels.”

  “No shit.”

  And then something else caught my eye. Something poking out from behind one of the scrap plywood sheets leaning up against the back wall.

  FIFTY

  “JESUS, Brandon,
what the hell are you doing here?” Samantha asked when she turned around and saw her ex-husband.

  He smiled. “I bet you thought I couldn’t find you.”

  Sam said, “Are you out of your mind? Breaking out of jail?”

  Brandon shook his head. “I didn’t break out. I was on a trip to see my mother in the—”

  “I know,” she said. “Same difference.”

  “She had a heart attack,” he said. “She’s in intensive care.”

  “Shit, I never sent a card.”

  Brandon sighed, took a step toward her.

  “Don’t come near me,” she said. “Stay right there. If you get any closer, I’ll start screaming. I swear to God.”

  He raised his hands defensively and took a step back. “Okay, okay. Don’t have a hissy.”

  “A hissy? Really? After what your parents did? And your dumbass friend Ed?” She had reached for the empty pot that was sitting on the Coleman. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do. The one she really wanted was in the car, behind the tent.

  What a smart idea that turned out to be.

  “Do you have any idea the shit they pulled?” she asked him, her voice starting to rise.

  Brandon glanced left and right. “You’re going to wake up all the other campers.”

  “You think I care?”

  “Look,” he said, “I know what they did. I heard all about it. The police came to interview me, in jail. They wanted to know what I’d had to do with it.”

  Sam cocked her head to one side, waiting for an answer.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I had no idea what was going on.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He nodded understandingly. “I don’t blame you for saying that.”

  The tent flap opened. Carl stuck his head out, saw his mother first, and said, “I thought I heard—”

  His eyes landed on his father and he said, “Dad!”

  “You stay in there!” Sam said to her son.

  “I just wanted to see—”

  “Hey, sport,” Brandon said, not moving. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” Carl said warily. “You’re supposed to be in jail.”

  Brandon grinned. “Yeah, I know. I’m sort of playing hooky.”

  That made Carl laugh. But the laughter was cut short when his mother said, “I told you to get in there and you pull that zipper down.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, drawing his head back in like a frightened turtle.

  “Wait,” Brandon said. “There’s something I want to say, and I want Carl to hear it, too.”

  All that was sticking out beyond the edge of the tent now was Carl’s nose, but his face remained visible.

  “He can hear anything you have to stay with the tent zipped up,” Sam said.

  Brandon looked at his ex-wife imploringly. “Please. Five minutes. It’s all I ask.”

  Sam was weighing the request. Her eyes moved between Brandon and Carl. She was afraid for herself, and afraid for him, but Carl did not show any signs of fear. He looked like he wanted to hear what his father had to say.

  “Five minutes,” Sam said.

  Brandon nodded slowly, took a breath, as though getting ready to make a speech. “So, you need to know why I came here, why I tracked you down. I didn’t know I was going to get a chance like this. That kinda just happened. When they let me out to visit my mom—”

  “I hope she dies,” Sam said.

  Brandon wasn’t flustered. “I get that. Anyway, when they let me visit her in the hospital, I had a chance to get away, and I took it. Because I wanted to see you, and Carl. To talk to you. I mean, I figured any letters I wrote, you’d just throw them out. Anything I wanted to tell you, you’d never know. I figured it would be better if I could talk to you face-to-face.”

  “You nearly killed that guy in the hospital.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just choked him enough to make him pass out, is all. He’s fine.”

  “Four minutes,” Sam said.

  “So, once I slipped away, and, well, you know, stole a car, I started heading this way. Because I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  The word hung there for a few seconds.

  “Sorry,” Sam repeated.

  He nodded. “That sounds kinda short of the mark, I know. I don’t quite know what else to say. My mom, I know she’s crazy. She’s a nasty, vindictive . . . well, she’s a piece of work, no doubt about it. That’s what she is. And she’s mean enough and scary enough that she makes others go along with what she says. It’s not that big a surprise that she got Ed to do what she wanted. He’s just dumb. He was my friend, I admit it, but he hasn’t got the smarts of a beanbag. What’s scary is that she gets my dad to go along with so much of her crazy shit.”

  He looked down, scraped his foot across the dirt. Carl’s entire head was out of the tent now.

  “They told me all the stuff they did. Trying to grab Carl at school, then Ed coming to where you work and, well—”

  “Trying to kill me,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, that. I didn’t know, and if I did, I’d have done everything I could to stop it. And even if you believe me, even if you accept what I’m telling you, I’ll understand if you don’t forgive me. Not asking for anything like that. Fact is, if you’d never gotten mixed up with me, you’d never have gotten mixed up with my fucked-up family and friends. I’m the cause of all your troubles, when you get right down to it.”

  He looked at his son.

  “I’ve been just about the worst father in the world for you, for all the same reasons.” He chuckled weakly. “You didn’t pick so good when it came to dads.”

  “You can’t really pick your dad,” Carl said.

  “He’s trying to be funny,” his mother said.

  “Oh,” Carl said. “I get it.”

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking while I’ve been in jail,” Brandon said. “Sorting out the mistakes I made while I was still outside. How I expected everything to come to me without working hard for it. I get that now. When I get out—’cause, let’s face it, I’ll be going back in, and for probably a lot longer—I hope I’m gonna be a different kind of man. Someone who takes responsibility for things. Who doesn’t blame others.”

  “One minute,” Sam said, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Okeydoke,” Brandon said. “I’m going to leave now. I’m going to find the office and have them call the cops and I’ll sit and wait for them to come. I’ll never bother either of you again. If you ever want to get in touch”—and here he looked straight at Carl—”I’ll be most grateful to hear from you. I would like that a lot, to be honest. If you ever want me in your life, I’ll be there, but you gotta be the one that takes the first step. I’m not gonna push it.”

  Brandon took a long breath.

  “I’m sorry. I truly am. I did what I set out to do. Now I can go back to Boston.” He grinned. “I’m sure there’re plenty of cops happy to give me a lift.”

  He bowed his head, turned, and started to walk away.

  “Wait!” Carl shouted, and Brandon spun around.

  Carl shot out of the tent, arms outstretched. His intention was clear. He wanted to give his father a hug good-bye. But in his rush to come out, his foot caught on a stretch of upturned canvas that ran across the bottom of the open tent flap.

  He went flying. His arms went out to break his fall. He hit the ground hard and yelped in pain.

  Brandon, instinctively, suddenly charged toward his son.

  Sam, still standing there, wielding the pot by its handle, also started running toward Carl.

  David brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and aimed.

  FIFTY-ONE

  “YOU didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Gale asked her husband in the morning.

  Angus Carlson was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said. “They�
��re going to decide you did the right thing.”

  “Probably,” he said, getting up and walking naked into the bathroom. “But it could still go all to shit. A cop does a righteous shoot—then they turn the facts all around later.”

  “We should do something today,” she said, propping herself up in bed, rearranging the pillow at her back. “Something fun. We should just get in the car and get out of this town. Try to forget everything that’s happened.”

  She could hear a familiar trickle. Once she had heard the flush, she continued. “I know it’s hard to do, but we need to try to put all these things out of our heads, even if it’s just for a few hours.”

  “I don’t know,” he said from the other room.

  “Why don’t we . . . I’ve got it. Why don’t we drive to Montreal? It’s not that far. I could throw some things into a bag, have us ready to go in an hour. We could be there by the afternoon. I could find us a hotel online. I’m already off today and tomorrow, and I could call in sick Tuesday and Wednesday, or maybe they’ll just give me the time off anyway. What do you say?”

  Nothing from Angus.

  “Or do you have to be available?” she asked. “Like, even if you’re on leave, do you have to go in and answer questions about what happened? Haven’t they kind of got enough to deal with right now? In fact, I can’t believe they’re making you take a leave of absence when there’s so much going on.”

  She could hear the sound of teeth being brushed.

  “Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Gale asked. Angus Carlson reappeared. He walked naked across the room, opened a dresser drawer, grabbed a pair of boxers, and stepped into them.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Angus said.

  “About going to Montreal?”

  “No. What you said last night.”

  She looked blank. “Which thing? What?”

  “About when you went to the bookstore,” Angus said. “To Naman’s.”

  “Yes?”

  “The book about poison that you saw there.”

  Gale threw back the covers, crawled forward, and perched herself on the bed in a kneeling position. She was excited. “Yes? You think it means something?”

  He was buttoning up a shirt. “I don’t know if it does or not. But I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing that can be ignored. I mean, it might really be nothing. But if it turns out Naman did have something to do with all this, we’ll be kicking ourselves later if we didn’t bother to check it out.”