Linwood Barclay: The Twenty-Three

“I just want to splash some water on my face,” she said. “But it felt good, to run off some of that tension from yesterday. I hope I never, ever see another day like that.”

Angus believed he could help her with that.

But he felt he was working against a deadline. The clock was ticking. Duckworth would be trying to find him. He was probably putting out a BOLO right now for his car. He’d have gotten the plate for his Ford, but they weren’t going to find it that way, not with that stolen green Vermont plate slapped over his own. But that would slow them down for only so long.

On top of that, Sonja Roper wanted to freshen up, maybe get changed. Which meant she was probably heading into the bathroom and, if she had any smarts at all, locking the door. He couldn’t kick the door down. That would give her time to respond, to get into a defensive position.

“Let’s hope none of us ever see another day like that,” Carlson said. “It was the worst day in the history of this town, that’s for sure.”

“It’s kind of like what I imagine a plane crash would be like, although I hate to even say that, considering what my boyfriend does for a living. All those casualties, all at once. But with a crash, it’d be all kinds of physical injuries. Missing limbs, lacerations. With a mass poisoning, there wasn’t blood, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying, but it was different, you know?”

“Yes,” he said.

Maybe he could corner her in the kitchen before she went to the bathroom.

“Who would do such a thing?” she asked. “Why would someone want to do that?”

Angus shook his head.

“I just don’t know.”

Except now he did know, or at least had a pretty good idea.

When Barry Duckworth called to ask him what he knew about George Lydecker, who’d been found in Victor Rooney’s garage, he’d disclosed what he believed Rooney’s motive had been.

Payback.

Rooney may have been taking revenge on a citizenry that did nothing to help Olivia Fisher. Which meant the deaths of more than a hundred Promise Falls residents led right back to Angus Carlson.

He was having a hard time getting his head around that.

He wasn’t sure how he felt.

Angus was selective about those who had to die. He did not kill men. Men did not bear children. Yes, of course, they had a role to play in the reproductive process. But women were the ultimate givers of life. So all those men who had died the day before-it was a terrible thing. All the elderly, of both sexes. All the children, even the girls, who should have been entitled to at least a few more years.

It was wrong. So unnecessary.

That’s a very, very sick person, Angus thought.

He rejected the notion that he was somehow liable for all that. Every individual had to be held responsible for his or her actions. Like when some nutcase says a movie made him kill. Was it the director’s fault? The studio’s? Should the screenwriter be charged? No, Angus thought. It was the fault of that nutcase, plain and simple.

Wasn’t he willing to take responsibility for what he was doing? Of course he was. His mother played a role in his motivations, but in the end, it was up to him.

And right now, it was up to him to kill Sonja Roper.

She excused herself, walked down the hall, and disappeared into a room. Carlson heard the door close and lock. Seconds later, the sound of water running in a sink.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He wasn’t taking any more calls. He wasn’t going to be tricked by Duckworth again. But it might be a text, and he was curious to see what it was.

It was, as he’d guessed it would be, Gale.

I love you. I need you. Please come home.

He shook his head sadly. That was probably Duckworth’s doing. Telling her what to write.

Angus turned his attention back to Sonja.

He could position himself on the far side of the bathroom door.

When she came out, she’d probably head back toward the living room. She’d exit the bathroom and turn left. He could wait to her right. The second she emerged, he could grab her from behind, pull her close to him, do it quickly.

Make the smile.

He got up, went down the hall. Stood against the wall just beyond the door. He could hear her moving around in there. A toilet flush. He reached down into his front pocket, where he kept the knife. It was an automatic, a blade just over three inches. One touch of the button and the blade would emerge. Short handle with a strong grip. Expensive. He’d hated throwing one away every time, but it was the prudent thing to do. In the case of Olivia Fisher, imperative.

You didn’t want to be caught with a bloody knife on your person.

He took the weapon from his pocket, extended the blade.

Inside the bathroom, no more running water. He sensed she was ready to come out.

He was ready, too.

And then it hit him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He needed to have done more than mute his phone. He should have turned it off completely. Duckworth might be trying to track his location.

Angus reached for his phone with his free hand, and as he did, it vibrated again.

Another text.

He decided to look at it before powering the phone down.

It was another one from Gale. It read:

Im pregnant.

Duckworth

“WHATdid he say?” I asked after Gale sent her most recent text message.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said.

When Gale told me she’d learned, three weeks ago, that she was expecting a child, I thought maybe the news would be enough to jolt Angus Carlson into coming back to the house.

“Wait,” she said. “He’s writing something. Here.” She turned the phone so I could see it.

I dont believe you.

Gale typed: It’s true. Please come home.

Another stretch of time without a reply. Maybe a minute, which felt like an eternity in the world of texting. Then: Dworth made you say this.

Gale replied: He wanted me to tell u. But it is true. Have known for 3wks. Afraid to tell u.

My cell phone rang. It was Chief Finderman.

“We have an approximate location on the phone,” she told me.

“Where?”

“Klondike Street. Near Rossland.”

“If they can pinpoint it any better, let me know,” I said. “Start having cars focus on that neighborhood. I’m heading there.”

“I hope you’re wrong about this,” Rhonda said.

“Me, too,” I said, but wasn’t sure I meant it. If Angus Carlson was our serial killer, I wanted him caught. If it reflected badly on the department, and Rhonda Finderman in particular, so be it.

I finished with Rhonda and looked at Gale, who was still staring at her phone. “Anything else?”

She held the device up to me. Angus had written: Should have told me.

“Tell him the two of you need to talk about it. Right now.”

She tapped. I heard the whoosh .

“You’re coming with me,” I said.

“Where are we going? Do you know where he is?”

“Roughly,” I said.

“Just tell me what it is you think he’s done,” she said, not moving. “You kept mentioning those women who’d been killed. Did Angus make some kind of mistake? Did he screw up the investigation? Is that why you’re mad at him?”

I thought maybe she’d already figured it out, but was clinging to the hope that her husband wasn’t a killer.

“I need to talk to him about those investigations, yes,” I said.

Gale swallowed hard. It looked like a marble working its way down her throat. “You think it’s him.”

“I don’t know that,” I said.

“It might be him,” she said.