Linwood Barclay - The Twenty-Three

“This,” Finley said, waving his hand before him, “is what’s called being there for the people.”

Croydon shook her head. “No, this is called grandstanding. There are emergency systems in place. Thousands of cases of bottled water are on the way from the state as we speak. The governor’s declaring a state of emergency.”

“Well, Amanda, as we speak, these people already have water. Sometimes, the private sector does a much better job serving the people than the public, and this turns out to be one of those times. Surely you’re not opposed to a private citizen pitching in where he can.”

The mayor’s face reddened. She pointed a short, thick finger at Finley.

“It’s a cheap stunt, that’s what it is. These people are in true crisis and you turn it into a PR opportunity.”

Finley shook his head with disappointment as people began to gather and watch.

“If the good folks of Promise Falls should decide next time around to choose me to represent them in the mayor’s office, and I certainly wouldn’t presume that they will, but if they do, I can promise them one thing for certain. If and when another tragedy hits this town, I will welcome help from anyone , anyone at all, if it means the people in this town will be helped, even if that help ends up exposing my shortcomings on the job. Because these people”-and his voice began to rise-“these people you see here today, mean more to me than any job or elected position.”

Finley resisted all temptations to look at Trevor and the phone.

“That’s what I’m about,” he continued. “I’m about the people, and I’ve been doing my best for them since this nightmare began early this morning. Nice of you to finally join us.”

“I’ll have you know,” Amanda Croydon said, looking as though she might blow a fuse, “I’ve already been up to the hospital and conferred with Chief Finderman and-”

“Oh, you’ve conferred ,” Finley said. “And here I almost accused you of doing nothing.”

“- and the governor, and the Atlanta Centers for-”

“And yet,” Finley said, cutting her off, “you still have time to justify to me everything you’ve been doing. Listen, I’d love to chat longer, but I have water to distribute.” He grabbed another case, moved past the mayor to hand it to an elderly couple.

“You tell her!” the man said.

Amanda Croydon turned around and walked off into the crowd. Over his shoulder, Finley looked to make sure Trevor was still recording.

He wasn’t. He was holding the phone down near his waist, looking at the screen, hitting a button.

“Trevor!” Finley said. “This is no time to play Scrabble. Wait. Are you tweeting this? You putting it on Facebook?”

“You have a call,” he said. Trevor put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“For God’s sake,” Finley said, throwing a case of water back into the truck and extending his hand. He snapped his fingers.

Trevor handed him the phone.

Finley glanced at the screen long enough to see that it was a call from his home. “Hello?”

“Mr. Finley?”

“Yes, Lindsay, it’s me.”

“I think there’s something wrong with Bipsie.”

“Lindsay, I’ve kind of got my hands full here. What’s wrong with the dog?”

“She’s sick. She was throwing up and acting weird and… and I think… Mr. Finley, I think she might be dead.”

Finley kneaded his forehead with the fingers of his free hand. Then it hit him. “Tell me you didn’t let the dog drink out of the toilet.”

“She does that,” Lindsay said. “She might have.”

“For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you put the lids down so the dog couldn’t get into them? It’s not just water coming out of the taps that’s poison. It’s any water that comes into the house!”

“The water is poison?”

For a second, he stopped breathing. “Lindsay, what did you say?”

“You say the water is poisoned? How could that happen?”

“Are you saying you don’t know?” He started shouting. “Fucking hell, how could you not know?”

“You didn’t say anything when you left.”

“I didn’t know then! Haven’t you had the radio on? The TV? You didn’t hear them blasting warnings through the neighborhood?”

“Please don’t yell at me,” Lindsay said. “I’ve been reading, and I was in the basement doing laundry.”

“If Bipsie was thirsty, you should have given her some of the bottled! I can’t believe this! Jane’ll be devastated. Does Jane know?”

There was nothing at the other end of the line.

“Lindsay? Lindsay!”

After several seconds, she said, “Oh no.”

CALWeaver had to decide whether to follow Dwayne or the man who’d given Dwayne the cash. He went with the latter. Cal knew who Dwayne was. He needed to find out more about the other guy, because there was obviously something fishy about meeting someone in an alley for a payoff.

The two men talked for about five minutes, some of their exchange appearing heated. At one point, Dwayne angrily jabbed his finger at the man’s chest. His friend didn’t much care for that, brushing his hand away and pointing in return. But nodding followed; an agreement of some kind seemed to have been reached.

Dwayne shoved the money deep into the front pocket of his jeans.

Dwayne came out onto the sidewalk first and headed back to his pickup truck. The other man held back about ninety seconds, then emerged. He went in the other direction.

Cal sat in the car, watched.

The man crossed the street half a block up and got into an old junker of a Ford Aerostar van. A two-tone, blue and rust. The van pulled out into the street, exhaust belching out the back, at which point Cal checked his mirror and moved into traffic.

He reached over to the glove box, popped it open, and grabbed a notepad. With a pen from his pocket, he scribbled down the license plate number. He still had a friend or two with the police-if not in Promise Falls, then elsewhere-who could run a plate for him.

The man made a stop near the park by the falls. Cal, who’d kept the car radio tuned to the news all day, had heard there was free water being given out there. He wasn’t interested in facing the crowds-he’d live on beer and OJ for the next few days if he had to. But his new friend clearly wanted to take advantage of the offer. He left the van running in the middle of the street as he ran over for a case. When he returned to the van, he slid open the side door and tossed the pack of twenty-four bottles of water inside.

Once back behind the wheel, he headed north, then took a turn east that led in the direction of an industrial area, and beyond that, the now-mothballed Five Mountains amusement park.

Cal kept a couple of cars between the van and himself. The Aerostar wasn’t taking a circuitous route. If it had been, Cal would have guessed the driver suspected he was being followed.

The van’s left turn signal came on, then the brake lights. Cal and two cars ahead of him had to slow to a stop while the driver waited for oncoming traffic to clear. Once it had, he turned into an industrial park. The other cars, and Cal, moved forward. He glanced left as the van drove on between two large warehouse-sized buildings.

Oncoming traffic was thin, so Cal executed a swift U-turn, then sped back to where the van had turned off. He rolled onto the gravel shoulder and came to a stop. The van slipped into a spot between some other cars. The driver got out and went into a business directly in front of where he’d parked.

Cal turned in.

He drove down slowly between the two buildings, slowly enough that he could read the sign in the window of the place the driver had gone into without actually hitting the brakes.