Linwood Barclay - The Twenty-Three

The first two calls were job applications. Joyce made a note of their names and numbers. Clive’s death, and her promotion, had left a vacancy in the ranks, and she wanted to start interviewing the following week. She might have more than one spot to fill, given that some of the existing staff made Inspector Clouseau look like Sherlock Holmes.

The third, which had come in the night before, shortly after ten, went like this:

“Oh, hello. My name is Lester Plummer, in Cleveland. Our daughter, Lorraine, is attending Thackeray and has opted to stay to take a couple of summer courses, and…”

His voice faltered. He cleared his throat and continued. “Lorraine is taking two courses, and staying in residence, and the thing is… I’d like you to call me the moment you receive this. Please.” He provided a number and hung up.

Lorraine Plummer. Joyce recognized the name immediately. She was one of the three students who’d been attacked by Mason Helt. Joyce had spoken to her after the incident, before Clive had come up with his plan to catch the guy. While the young woman was shaken up by the incident, it hadn’t traumatized her to the point that she wanted to go home.

Maybe that had changed.

Joyce entered the student’s name into the computer. She was, as her father had said, still at school. She’d kept her room in Albany House, one of several residential buildings scattered across the campus and, like all the others, close to empty. Joyce was betting Lorraine didn’t have to worry about late-night parties keeping her up, or having to wait to use any of the shared showering facilities.

Maybe the fallout from being attacked was only hitting Lorraine now. Maybe living in a nearly deserted dorm was freaking her out. Maybe her parents were calling to see if she could be moved. Or maybe they were looking to sue the college, and this was an exploratory call to pry incriminating details from Joyce.

She wondered whether the Plummer family was looking to blame her for things that were clearly, to her mind, her dead predecessor’s fault.

Only one way to find out.

Joyce returned the call. Someone picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” A woman.

“It’s Joyce Pilgrim, Thackeray College security. A Lester Plummer left a message last night?”

“My husband. Lester! It’s the college!” A few seconds later, Joyce could detect an extension being picked up.

“I’m on,” he said. “Who’m I talking to?”

Joyce told him. “What can I help you with?”

“We haven’t heard from Lorraine,” the man said. “She-”

His wife cut in. “This is Alma. I’m Lorraine’s mother. We usually talk to her once a week or so. We called her Thursday night and didn’t get her, and left a message on her cell, but she didn’t call us back yesterday so-”

The husband: “It’s not like her not to call. But we thought, maybe she just didn’t get around to it, or maybe-”

Maybe there was a boyfriend, Joyce thought.

“But we tried again last night,” Alma said, “and we still couldn’t get her, and there are hardly any of her friends around to get to check in on her and-”

“Why don’t I pop by and tell her you’re worried about her?” Joyce offered.

“No!” the mother said. “I mean, yes, check in on her, but don’t tell her we asked you to.”

“She’d be so embarrassed,” Lester Plummer said.

“But could you call us back after you see her? Would you be able to do that?”

“Of course,” Joyce said. “I’ll be in touch.”

She hung up and decided she might as well stroll over to Albany House now. As she came out of the admin building, she could hear sirens off in the distance, somewhere downtown.

It was a funny thing about Thackeray. It butted right up against Promise Falls, but was its own community. A small town of its own, with its own president and governing body, its own set of rules and bylaws.

Even its own water supply, as it turned out. Which, today, from what Joyce had gathered during her short chat with Angela Ferraza, was a good thing.

She didn’t bother taking a car to get to Albany House. It was only a five-minute walk. She entered the residence, headed for the stairs. Joyce was still thinking the reason Lorraine’s family might not have heard from her was a boyfriend. When they said students went off to university for an education, well, that was definitely understating it. This was the time most young people lived on their own for the first time, when they didn’t have their parents snooping on them.

No one waited up for you when you went to college.

When she came out of the stairwell at the second floor, it hit her right away.

The smell.

“Jesus,” she said aloud.

It got much stronger as she headed down the hall, and by the time she reached the door of Lorraine Plummer’s room, she had pulled her jacket over the lower half of her face.

She banged on the door. “Lorraine? Lorraine Plummer? It’s security! Joyce Pilgrim. We spoke a couple of weeks ago.”

No reply.

“No no no no,” Joyce whispered to herself, and reached into her pocket for the collection of keys designed to get her into any room on the entire campus.

As she looked down to insert the key into the lock, she saw, peeking out from under the bottom of the door, the edge of a puddle of something dark, almost oil-like.

Joyce turned the key and pushed the door open.

It took everything she had not to scream. Screaming, she told herself, was not becoming of a security chief.

Shouldn’t have come back. Shouldn’t have come back.

DAVIDhit the brakes hard out front of the Pickens home, leaving a short strip of rubber on the street. He got out of the car and ran to the front door, not bothering to knock or ring the bell.

“Marla!” he shouted.

“David!” she called back. He followed her voice to the kitchen, but he didn’t immediately see her. Matthew was strapped into his high chair over by the table, twisting himself around to try to see what was going on.

David came around the island, which had blocked his view of Gill Pickens, as well as Marla, who was kneeling over him. Gill lay on his side, eyes closed, a small puddle of vomit on the floor next to his head.

“Let me see him,” David said, edging Marla out of the way. He kept Gill on his side to avoid any risks of choking, and placed his head sideways on the man’s back.

“What are you doing?” Marla asked.

“Shh!”

He held his own breath while he listened.

He sat up. “He’s not dead. There’s a faint heartbeat. We have to get him to the hospital.”

“I called three times for an ambulance,” Marla said.

“Gill!” David said. “Can you hear me at all? We need to get you out of here!”

A barely perceptible moan. David wasn’t sure, even with Marla’s help, that he could get his uncle all the way down to the street to his car. He took in the sliding glass doors that led from the kitchen to the stone patio. He was pretty sure he could drag Gill as far as that.

“Is it a heart attack? He’s in good shape! He works out.”

“It may be the water,” David said.

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said on the phone? The water may be poisoned.”

Her eyes, already red from crying, went wide with fear. She looked over to Matthew in his chair. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I gave him his bottle. The formula, it’s mixed with water from the tap.”

But Matthew, at least so far, was showing no ill effects. He wasn’t crying, wasn’t throwing up.

To be on the safe side, though, David thought the baby should go to the hospital, too.

“I’ll be back in a second,” he told Marla. “Unlock those doors.”