Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“What’s going on?” he asked between breaths.

“Something about Sean,” Sheila said. Both sets of eyes were on me. “Has there been an accident or something?”

I shook my head. “More like an incident.”

“Good heavens, what?”

I went authoritarian. “In the execution of my duties, I was attempting to elicit some information from your son, when one of his friends assaulted me. Then the two of them fled.”

“Jesus,” said Adam. “Where the hell was this?”

“At Patchett’s.”

“You’re a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”

“I’m an investigator. Private. My name’s Cal Weaver.” I did him the courtesy of showing my license again. “It’d be my preference not to involve the police in this, but that will depend largely on your cooperation. And Sean’s.” I was hoping they wouldn’t see through me as easily as Phyllis Pearce had. I peered beyond them into the house. “Is he home? I don’t see his truck in the drive.”

“He’s— he’s out,” Sheila said. “I don’t know where he is.”

Adam Skilling, no longer winded, dug into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone. “I’ll get him. I’ll get him over here right—”

“No, not yet,” I said. “I have some questions for you first. Maybe we can iron a lot of this out before we bring your son into it.”

“Who assaulted you?”

“I don’t know. I was struck from behind.”

“But Sean, he didn’t hit you,” Sheila said.

“I think that fact may help mitigate things,” I said. “May I come in?”

They led me into the living room and motioned for me to take a seat on the couch. Sheila and her husband took chairs across from me.

“Is Hanna here?” I asked.

That one caught them both off guard. “Hanna Rodomski?” Sheila Skilling asked.

“Is there another Hanna?” I asked.

“No, of course not. And no, she’s not here. I mean, she’s probably with Sean. Is Hanna in some kind of trouble, too?”

“I told you that girl was no good,” Adam Skilling said. “Didn’t I?”

“Does she stay here?” I asked.

Sean’s mother flushed. “Well, I know maybe it’s not proper, but yes, the odd night, she does stay here with—”

“That girl sleeps here more than she does at her own house,” Adam said. “It’s not right. She’s a bad influence on the boy. Some days she parades around here in her underwear like she owns the joint.”

His wife shot him a look. “She was just going into the bathroom. And you don’t have to look.”

The man’s cheeks, which had settled down some since his run up the stairs from the basement, flushed again.

“And anyway,” his wife continued, “she wasn’t here last night. I know that for sure. I think both of them might have... slept someplace else, because I don’t even think Sean was here last night.”

“You never know where the hell they are,” Adam said, puffed up like a blowfish. “You can’t afford to take your eyes off them for a minute.”

Sheila shot him another look, which this time he seemed to take to heart. Some of the air was let out of his chest, and he shrank a size. “All I’m saying is, they take years off your life.”

I was troubled by Sheila’s comment that Hanna hadn’t stayed here last night, because I had the impression from her parents that she hadn’t slept in her own house in the last twenty-four hours.

“When’s the last time you saw Hanna?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” Sheila said. “Around dinnertime?” She looked at her husband, but he shrugged. “But I don’t understand. Are you here about Sean, or Hanna? Was Hanna the one who hit you?”

“I’m pretty sure she wasn’t,” I said. “But I am here about Sean, and Hanna. And Claire Sanders, too.”

“Oh, Claire, we know her,” Sheila said. “Don’t we?” she said to Adam.

“And her father,” he said wearily.

“I was trying to ask your son about her when I was struck,” I said. “I’m trying to find Claire, and I think Sean and Hanna know where she is.”

“Why are you looking for Claire?” Adam asked.

I ignored the question. “I think Hanna will know where she is, and I’m hoping Sean can put me in touch with her. Sean’s looking for Claire, too. He was asking around at Patchett’s. Sean may think he has something to fear from me, but he doesn’t. My interest is in finding Claire. If he helps me with that, I can let everything else slide.”

“Have you talked to Bert?” Adam asked. So he and the mayor were on a first-name basis.

“Yes,” I said. I looked at the cell phone in the man’s hand. “This’d be a good time to invite Sean to come home. Don’t mention I’m here.”

Adam hesitated, then placed the call. Sean’s phone probably rang three or four times, and then his father spoke. “Hey, where are you?... What do you mean, driving around? Driving around where?... Okay, listen, I don’t care where you are. Just get your ass home pronto... You’ll find out when you get here... If you’re not here in five minutes you can forget driving around in that Ranger. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old Civic on the lot that’ll suit you just fine... Yeah? Fine, five minutes.”

He ended the call and looked at me. “I must have done something bad in a past life to deserve all this misery.”

The kid showed up in four minutes. Headlights splayed across the living room window. A second later, a truck door slammed, and two seconds after that, Sean Skilling came barreling into the house like a runaway train. But he put the brakes on the moment he saw me sitting with his parents in the living room. He looked like he was going to turn and run, but his father jumped to his feet and shouted, “Hold it right there, mister!”

Sean froze. But you could see it in his eyes, that he was still thinking of making a break for it.

“Get the hell in here,” Adam said, pointing to the living room. “Get the hell in here and sit the hell down.” He pointed to the chair he’d just vacated.

The kid moved cautiously, like he was expecting his father to attack him before he could sit, but he got to the chair without incident. Adam stayed on his feet, moving back and forth in front of his son in short steps, like a boxer warming up before the bell rings.

“What in the hell’s going on?” he asked.

Sean shot him a look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was probably true, to a point. He must have wondered whether I was here about Hanna, or Claire, or his friend punching me in the head. No doubt we’d get to all of it before the night was over, but clearly Adam Skilling wanted to address the third issue immediately.

His father said, “Who hit him? Who hit this man? I want a name!”

“I didn’t hit him. I didn’t lay a hand on him,” he said.

“But you saw him get hit, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know, maybe—”

“That’s a yes-or-no question. You saw him get hit, or you didn’t see him get hit. Which is it?”

“Adam—” his wife said tentatively.

“I’m talking here, Sheila. Yes or no?”

“Yeah, I saw him get hit. But it was dark.”

“Oh please,” Adam Skilling said. “Was it light enough for you to see him when the two of you ran off together? What if he’d been knocked unconscious? What if he’d had some kind of brain injury or something? You want to end up with a record? Is that what you want? So I’m gonna ask again, who hit—”

“Mr. Skilling,” I said firmly.

He whirled around, looked at me as though he’d forgotten I was there, even though his questions concerned me. “What?”

“We can get to who it was later,” I said.

“I’m trying to help, for Christ’s sake.”