Linwood Barclay - The Twenty-Three

Finley snuck another look at David. Phone out.

Thank God.

Finley continued. “We’re going to drive over in a convoy and set up along the street next to the park downtown, by the falls. I think word’ll spread quickly of what we’re offering. And remember, you’re not just there handing out free water. You’re there to offer hope, a comforting word, a shoulder to cry on.”

Someone muttered, “Fucking hell.”

“Okay, so, off we go!” Finley said.

As the workers of Finley Springs Water piled into the trucks and began to drive off, Finley walked over to David, whose eyes were red and bloodshot, and said, “You get that?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like shit. What the hell happened to you?”

“I’m fine.”

“What about whoever it was you were taking to the hospital?”

“My uncle. He was alive last I saw him.”

Finley gave David a friendly punch to the shoulder. “That’s good, then, right?”

“Sure.”

“We need to head downtown, and we need to let the media know what I’m doing.”

“I’ll start making some calls.”

“Well, make them on the way. Time’s a-wastin’. We’ll go in my car.”

“You need to be careful,” David said.

Finley cocked his head. “Careful?”

“Of how you play this.”

“Not sure I’m following you, David,” Finley said.

“You don’t want to look like you’re taking advantage. Like that night the drive-in screen came down. Acting like you wanted to help people, but not until the camera was on.”

“You misjudge me. You’re as bad as Duckworth.”

“Duckworth?”

“Never mind. What would you have me do, David? I have an opportunity here to genuinely help people in a crisis. You saying I should do nothing? For fear it would make me look opportunistic? Wouldn’t that be just as cravenly political?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Well, what the fuck are you saying, David?”

David shook his head. “Fine, do what you want. Go save Promise Falls.”

Finley grinned and gave David a pat on the shoulder. “Why don’t we?”

Duckworth

AScritical as it was for me to get out to Thackeray College, I was determined to make a stop along the way at Tate Whitehead’s house. I was in the early stages of this poisoned-water investigation-we still didn’t know what was actually wrong with the water supply-but Whitehead was a so-called person of interest in what might end up being a mass murder.

In my mind, that trumped one dead student right now.

Garvey Ottman’s note had led me to an address in the downtown. There’s a block of two-story houses in Promise Falls that were built nearly a hundred years ago that most developers in town want to get their hands on so they can tear them down and build condos and retail shops, although in this real estate market it was hard to believe that was smart business sense. Off the top of my head, I knew Frank Mancini, who had bought the Constellation Drive-in property, wanted this block.

The homes were linked together in groups of six, with sagging porches, rotting handrails, missing shingles. No one wanted to put any money into fixing these places, figuring they’d all be sold and razed.

I parked in front of 76 Prince Street-not even a hundred years ago would these addresses have been deemed suitable residences for visiting royalty-and went to the front door. Finding no doorbell, I banged on the door with the side of my fist.

I heard movement in the house, and fifteen seconds later a thin, silvery-haired woman opened the door a crack.

“Yeah?” she said, showing some brown teeth.

I showed her my ID. “I’m looking for Tate Whitehead.”

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Probably at work,” she said. “At the water treatment plant. They’re having some problem up there, case you haven’t heard. Fire truck was driving around telling everybody not to drink the water. Check at the plant.”

She started to close the door, but I put a hand up to stop it. “Are you Mrs. Whitehead?”

“I am.”

“When did you last talk to your husband?”

“Last night ’fore he went to work.”

“What time would that’ve been?”

“Around nine, I guess. My husband works the overnight shift there. Sometimes I fall asleep before he goes, but I heard him leave last night.”

“And when does he usually get home?”

“Around six thirty, most nights. Well, mornings, actually.”

“Most?” I asked.

“Mostly, yeah.”

“If he’s late getting home, why would that be?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “What’s all this about? If you want to talk to him, just go up there.”

“Has your husband called you since he left for work last night?”

Mrs. Whitehead blinked a couple of times.

“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

“Why would that be odd? He never calls me from work. That’s when I’m sleeping.”

“His shift ended several hours ago. Wouldn’t he call you if something kept him at work?”

She blinked again, as if I were out of focus.

“But I know what’s going on,” she said. “I heard about it on the radio and from that damn fire truck making all that noise.”

“The point I’m trying to make,” I said, “is if Mr. Whitehead knew there was a problem with the water, wouldn’t he have called to tell you himself, rather than waiting for you to find out from the radio or someone else?”

That gave her pause. She looked at me quizzically. “Why didn’t he call me?”

“That’s my question.”

“I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I don’t think he’d want me to drink bad water and drop dead. He needs me. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to take care of a home.”

Looking around, I wasn’t that sure Mrs. Whitehead did, either.

“Can you tell me any places where your husband might go to, you know, unwind after work? A place to get a drink?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tate stays out of the bars.”

Perhaps he didn’t need them, considering he had a fully stocked Pinto.

“What about friends? Buddies he liked to hang out with?”

“He doesn’t really have any friends,” she said. “’Cept me.”

“Could you give me his cell phone number?”

“Tate doesn’t got a cell phone. He had one a long time ago, but he was always losing it. So he stopped having one. Cost too much anyway. Have you been to the plant? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just go there and talk to him?”

“He’s not there,” I told her.

“He’s not?”

I shook my head.

She looked around me, cast her eyes up the street in both directions. “I don’t see his car. He’s got a yellow car. A Pinto. He’s kept that thing running for years. It’s never blown up or anything.”

“His car’s at the plant,” I said.

She was starting to do something funny with her mouth, working her jaw around anxiously, maybe chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothin’.”

“It’s important we find him, Mrs. Whitehead. You already know what’s going on, with the water. Something bad’s happened. I think your husband might be able to shed some light on that. I need to speak with him.”

“Sometimes… sometimes if there’s not a lot to do, and it’s pretty quiet on that shift, sometimes he’ll take a little break.”

“A break.”

She nodded.

“Where might he take this break?”

“There’s a room down in the basement of the plant. Where they keep extra pipes and tools and things for when they have to do repairs. He might be there.”