Linwood Barclay - The Twenty-Three

“Well, sure,” he said defensively. “Like, if Tate was having a problem overnight, he’d leave me a note, ask me to check it out, that kind of thing.”

“You saying Tate would have to e-mail you to say he was too drunk to chlorinate the water or whatever the hell you do with it, and maybe you’d like to look into that?”

“No, of course not, he wouldn’t say that. But if there was a technical problem, he’d let me know.”

“How would you know if Tate was performing his duties while under the influence? He worked the plant alone overnight. How would you know?”

“The guy he relieved would see him, and then whoever relieved him in the morning, like Trish this morning.”

“If I asked Trish if he was ever drunk when she came in for her shift, what would she tell me?”

A hesitation. “She might say it’s happened once or twice.”

“And you know this because she passed that along to you?”

Another damning hesitation. “She might have mentioned something at some point.”

“And when she did, what did you do about it?”

“Look, Detective-Duckworth, is it?”

I nodded. I was grateful to have stopped for this discussion. It gave me a chance to catch my breath after stepping over all the brush and debris.

“Tate Whitehead drinks. A lot of people drink. I think the odd time, the dumb bastard came out and had a beer in his car when he was supposed to be doing his job. But I’ve never-and I swear to God I’m telling you the truth here-I’ve never known him to not do what he was supposed to do. You think Tate’s the only guy on the town’s payroll who drinks on the job? What about the cops? You want to tell me you never worked with a cop who had a drink during his shift, or got smashed when it was over, and maybe showed up the next day pretty hungover?”

I said nothing. He was right about that, of course.

“If the town fired everyone who drank too much, there wouldn’t be enough people left to get things done,” he said.

“Be sure to tell that to the lawyers,” I said.

“Lawyers?”

I scanned the woods. “I don’t think he’s out here. And yet, his car’s still here.”

“Maybe he got a taxi.”

“Hmm?”

“If he finished his shift drunk, maybe he had just enough smarts not to try and drive himself home.”

I supposed that was possible, although it had been my experience that good judgment did not typically follow heavy drinking. But Ottman had given me Tate’s home address, so it wasn’t going to be long before I found out for myself.

“I want to ask you about Finley,” I said.

“Randy? What about him?”

“You seem to be friends.”

Garvey Ottman shrugged. “I know him.”

“He also seemed to know about Tate Whitehead. That he’s got a problem.”

“Let me tell you something about Randall Finley,” Ottman said. “Lot of people, they think he’s a big asshole. And maybe he is. But when he was mayor, he never acted like he was too good for regular people. He used to come by here all the time. And not just here. You ask them at the fire department, or even the guys who pick up the trash. He’d go visit those people, shoot the shit with them. He came by here lots, into the plant, talking to people, asking what they did, how everything worked. Like he really cared, you know? So when people say Randall Finley is a jerk, I say you don’t know the guy.”

“He came by here a lot?” I asked.

“When he was mayor.” The man nodded. “And even after, the odd time, if he was driving by, he’d just pop in. I hear he’s running again.”

I nodded.

“Well, he’s got my vote. I mean, he’s not even the mayor right now, but he’s up here, trying to help out. Where’s Amanda Croydon? You see her here?”

“I hear she’s out of town,” I said, although I didn’t feel much like defending her. She needed to get her ass back, and fast. “I’m going to swing by Tate’s house, see if he’s there. In the meantime, if you see him, if he shows up, I want you to call me immediately.”

I gave Ottman one of my cards. He looked at it, tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Okay,” he said.

As I worked my way back through the trees to the parking lot, my cell phone started to ring. It was the station.

“Duckworth.”

“Yeah, Barry, Chief here.”

Rhonda. She usually identified herself to me by her first name. Was the more formal tone related to her being pissed off with me, or was the gravity of the town’s situation prompting a more official approach?

“Hey,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“Water plant. The overnight guy who monitors the place is apparently a drunk and nowhere to be found.”

“Terrific.”

“I’m going to see if I can find him at home.”

“Something else has come up.”

Jesus. What the hell else could happen? Half the town had been poisoned, and I was still working the drive-in bombing from a few days ago. Had a truck carrying radioactive waste rolled over on the bypass?

“What is it, Chief?”

“We’ve got a homicide.”

“They might all end up being ruled homicides,” I said. “We could have hundreds of them.”

“I’m not talking about the poisonings. This is out at Thackeray. They’re not hooked up to the town water supply.”

“Thackeray? Hasn’t everyone gone home?”

“Summer student.”

“Christ. Send Carlson.”

“I tried. I can’t reach him.”

He was probably still in the hospital ER, unable to get calls on his cell.

I sighed. “I’ll try to get out there ASAP. What do we know so far?”

“Not much,” Rhonda Finderman said. “Just that it’s a young woman, and it’s bad.”

DAVIDfigured Gill was dead.

Every time he glanced in the mirror to see how his uncle was doing, there was no movement from the man. Not so much as an eye blink. The man was sprawled across the seat, and Marla was up front next to David, Matthew in her arms. She was turned sideways, her back to the door, maintaining a constant chatter with her father.

“Hang in, Dad. Just hang in. I love you. Matthew loves you. We need you. You need to be strong. You need to be there for us. We need you so much.”

David was almost as worried for Marla as he was for Gill. She’d been through so much in the last month. Implicated, and ultimately exonerated, in a murder. Found out her baby was alive, but lost her mother.

Perhaps most devastating of all was learning her mother had conspired to let her believe her baby had died. At first, Marla’d been unwilling to comprehend it. The betrayal was more than she could handle. But in the weeks since, reality had slowly set in. The credit for that, David felt, rested in large part with Gill, who had patiently and delicately led Marla toward the truth.

Marla needed him. David was wondering how she’d cope if she lost her father now. He feared a complete mental collapse. Which would be horrible enough for Marla, but what about Matthew? Who’d look after him if his mother became incapacitated? And for how long?

David was pretty sure he knew the answer to that question. He and his parents would do it, for as long as they had to.

When he got to the hospital, he nosed the Mazda right up to the ER doors, navigating around several ambulances like a fish working its way upstream. He told Marla to wait with her father while he ran in to find a doctor or a nurse or even a goddamn orderly who could take a look at his uncle.

He spotted a woman with the proverbial stethoscope hanging around her neck and a mask across her mouth and nose heading across the crowded waiting room.

“My uncle!” he said, positioning himself right in front of her. David knew there was no way he was going to get any help for Gill without being in someone’s face.