Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“But the lights—”

“Probably just another car driving by,” I said. “The woman next door said the police have been parked on the street lately. Like they’ve been watching your house.”

He glared at me. “You’ve been talking to my neighbors? And you’re trying to tell me you’re not in on it?”

“In on what ? Why are the police watching you? Why do you think the chief’s involved in this?”

When he wouldn’t respond, I tried a more conciliatory tone. “Mr. Sanders, I swear, I’m trying to help you here. I’m trying to help Claire. If she’s running from something, tell me what it is so we can deal with it, so she can come back.”

He studied me in the dim glow of the light filtering down from the second floor. “How long you lived here, Mr. Weaver?”

“A few years. Six.”

“Happy here?”

“I used to be,” I said.

He picked up something in my voice. “Your son,” he said. “I know about your son.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t have to ask how he knew. Everyone in Griffon knew. It was a safe bet Claire had mentioned it to her father at some point.

“But before your... your personal tragedy... were you happy in Griffon?”

It was hard to think back to what our world was like before two months ago. There had been troubled times with our son for a year or more, but even through that there had been good times as well. And before Scott found comfort in substances that clouded his judgment, I suppose we were what you’d call happy. Content, maybe.

But I didn’t feel like getting into that with Bert Sanders. “I don’t see your point.”

He said, “Have you felt safe here?”

I hesitated. “I guess.”

“The Griffon cops — they do a helluva job, right?”

I thought of the petition. “Our cops are tops.”

That actually made him smile. “Have you signed?”

I shook my head.

He nodded admiringly. “That’s a surprise.”

“I don’t know what this has to do—”

“Down in the park one night, there was a kid with one of those air horns — you know, the kind that look like an aerosol can? One of Griffon’s finest went down there, held the horn right over that kid’s ear, and let it go. Kid may not get his hearing back. His parents tried to come after us, but guess what? Your brother-in-law’s got three cops who say the kid was so drunk he put the horn up to his own ear and did it himself.” Sanders gave me a withering look. “You ask just about anyone in town here whether that kid got what was coming to him, and they’ll tell you yes.”

I said nothing. He was right.

“If it’s just cops getting a little carried away once in a while, we can all look the other way and pretend it’s not happening. That’s the prevailing view in this town. Some punk gets the shit beat out of him and finds himself dumped outside the town line, who’s going to lose sleep over that? But if Augustus Perry’s storm troopers are willing to bend the rules there, what else are they capable of? What do you think happens to drugs and illicit cash they seize? If there’s no trial, there’s no need for evidence. Why do they turn a blind eye to what goes on at Patchett’s? You think Phyllis Pearce isn’t spreading a little cash around?”

“You have proof of any of that?’

He laughed. “Proof. Yeah, sure.”

I didn’t have time for this. “Mr. Sanders, just tell me where Claire is. I’ll bring her home. It’s what I do,” I said.

He wasn’t hearing me.

He said, “You think the cops are sitting out on that street watching out for me? Is that what you think?”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“They’re not watching out for me. They’re just watching me. Intimidating me. Trying to get me to back off.”

“I still don’t understand what—”

I stopped. I heard something — or someone — upstairs.

“What was that?” I said, looking up. It had sounded to me like someone moving around. Definitely not a squirrel running across the roof.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Sanders said.

“Then you’re deaf,” I said. “It was upstairs.”

“There’s nobody upstairs,” he said. “I’m alone.”

I studied him. “Is she here? Is Claire here now?”

He shook his head quickly again. “No.”

I raised my head to the ceiling. “Claire!” I shouted.

“Shut up!” Sanders said. “Keep your voice down!”

“Why do I have to keep my voice down if there’s no one here?”

I made my way to the stairs, shaking Sanders’ hand off my arm as he attempted to stop me.

“Get out,” he said. “You’ve got no right to search my house!”

I glanced back at him. “Maybe you should call the cops.”

He stammered something unintelligible as I ascended the stairs. I was nearly halfway up when he charged after me. I felt arms locking around my knees, and I toppled forward. I reached out to brace my fall, but my right elbow connected with one of the hardwood steps, sending a charge up my arm.

“Shit!” I said.

“You son of a bitch!” Sanders said, grappling with my lower legs.

I managed to slip one free, then placed the bottom of my left shoe against his bare right shoulder and pushed. He flew back down the stairs and landed on his ass, the sash of his robe coming undone, exposing him. Nothing looks much more foolish, or more vulnerable, than a man with his junk hanging out for the world to see.

He scrambled to his feet, pulled the robe around himself, and retied the sash. I was half sitting, half standing on the steps, giving my elbow a gentle rub.

“We can make this easy or we can make this hard,” I told him.

“Please,” he said, in a voice that bordered on whimpering. “Just get out. What does any of this have to do with you, really? Can’t you just go?”

“Stay there,” I said, and climbed the rest of the flight. “Claire,” I called again, but not shouting this time. I didn’t want to sound threatening. “It’s Mr. Weaver, Scott’s dad. We met last night.”

At the top of the stairs I took a second to orient myself as Sanders, now halfway up the steps behind me, said, “I told you, she’s not here.”

I ignored him. There was a bathroom immediately to my right, and just beyond it a door to what looked like the largest of the three other rooms up here. This, I guessed, was Sanders’ room. A queen-sized bed, the covers thrown back. He’d clearly been under them when I’d arrived and had thrown on the robe to greet me at the door.

To the left, what had probably been a bedroom but was currently an office. A desk, bookshelves, a desktop iMac.

And straight ahead of me, the door closed, was Claire’s room. I didn’t need to be Poirot to figure that out. Stuck to the door was a miniature plastic license plate, the kind you can buy at novelty and souvenir shops, that bore the girl’s name.

“Claire?” I said hesitantly before pushing the door open and running my hand along the wall for the light switch. I flicked it on. The first, most obvious thing I noticed was that the bed was empty, and made, although it was littered with about a dozen magazines.

“I told you,” Sanders said behind me.

I stepped into the room.

There were several stuffed animals, a few dogs and two furry bunnies — a pink one and a blue one — that all looked worn with age, adorning the pillow. She’d probably had them since she was a child. The magazines were not what I might have expected. While there was one issue of Vogue , most were copies of the New Yorker, the Economist, Harper’s , and the Walrus , a Canadian magazine of news and commentary. On the bedside table were an iPad and the Steve Jobs biography that had come out a couple of years ago.