Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

He knew our son, and had it in for him.

I was rattled when those kids nearly pitched me into the Niagara River. I was more than a little shook up a couple of hours earlier when we were being stalked at the cottage.

But that was nothing compared to this.

All this time we’d believed Scott had killed himself. Maybe not intentionally, but he’d been the author of his own misfortune, as they say. He was under the influence of ecstasy and either jumped off that roof thinking he could fly or stumbled over the edge while he was high.

Not an easy thing to live with.

But this changed everything. What Claire had just told me suggested Scott didn’t die by misadventure. What Claire had just told me suggested Scott had been deliberately killed.

“Mr. Weaver, you okay?” Claire asked.

We were rounding Buffalo to the north on the 290 bypass, almost to the bridge to Grand Island. A mixture of rage and anxiety was clouding my vision, like someone had misted the inside of the Subaru’s windows with blood red spray paint. I had to shake my head to clear things. My hands were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, my arms were starting to ache.

That son of a bitch. That goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch.

He threw my kid off the roof.

No , I told myself. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that at all. I didn’t have any evidence of that.

But a feeling in my gut that felt like a cancer was telling me otherwise.

Haines could have seen Scott as a serious threat. Sure, the Griffon cops took a lot of liberties and the locals didn’t mind turning a blind eye to them. But this was different. A cop who took a vandal out by the water tower and busted a few of his teeth was one thing, but a cop who went around touching young girls? Feeling them up? That was something else altogether.

And Haines had to know that Scott’s uncle was the chief. What if he told Augie? How many other times, that Claire didn’t know about, had Scott crossed paths with Haines? How many times had he taunted him?

A tattletale.

That’s how Haines must have seen him. A tattletale who could derail his career, have him brought up on charges.

I imagined various scenarios.

Did Haines see Scott walking down the street, maybe get out of his car and chase after him? Did Scott, using the key he had, let himself into Ravelson Furniture and run up to the roof, thinking he could get away? Did Haines chase him all the way up there, then pitch him off the side?

Or was Scott already up there, making noise, causing a disturbance? Did Haines drive by and see something suspicious on the roof? And when he got up there, and discovered it was Scott, did he see an opportunity?

“Really, Mr. Weaver, talk to me.”

I looked over at Claire suddenly, as though she was a hypnotist who’d snapped her fingers to bring me out of a trance.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“After I mentioned Scott, you went all kind of weird.”

“It was nothing,” I said. “Just... when you mentioned him, it brought back some memories.”

“God, I’m sorry. I only wanted to say something nice.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m glad you said it. I really am.” I tried to focus. “Did Scott ever say anything to the effect that he was scared of Haines? That he thought Haines might do something to him?”

Claire shook her head. “No. I mean, everybody my age in Griffon figures the cops are going to do something to us eventually. We’re teenagers, so we must be guilty of something, right?”

I didn’t say anything. I was still fighting the red mist, determined to deliver Claire to her father without running off the road before I could get to the hospital.

As if reading my mind, Claire said, “I feel okay, you know. I mean, I feel horrible, but I don’t think I have anything wrong with me.”

“You and your father can decide what to do.”

I was worried I’d sounded as though I didn’t care anymore. That now that I’d found Claire, that I’d dealt with the burden of responsibility I’d felt since she’d hopped into my car, she was no longer my concern. That once I handed her off to her father, I could walk away from this.

That wasn’t how I felt. Not really. But a big arm had just swept everything off my very cluttered desk and thrown it to the floor.

There was nothing on it now but Scott.

We crossed Grand Island saying nothing to each other. As we were passing the discount outlet malls in Niagara Falls on our right, Claire asked, “Who’s going to tell Dennis’ dad?”

Another father about to experience unimaginable grief. I felt as though we were all being sucked into a black hole of never-ending emptiness.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably the state police. Once they figure out what’s happened at the cottage.”

“Shouldn’t you be helping them with that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be the one to go see Dennis’ dad?”

As long as I live, I’ll be sorry for what I said next.

I turned and snapped, “Haven’t I done enough? If it hadn’t been for you knocking on my goddamn window I wouldn’t have been dragged into any of this.”

Her face fell like a stone and her eyes welled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Nobody asked you to come looking for me!” she said. “We’d have figured out what to do! We didn’t need you! Dennis wouldn’t even be dead if it wasn’t for you!”

“Claire—”

“Leave me alone,” she said. “Just get me to my dad. I want to see my dad.”

I saw the blue “H” on the horizon. Four minutes later, I was wheeling into the Emergency entrance. Bert Sanders was standing there, not knowing what car to look for, but when he saw Claire in the passenger seat he started waving and ran up to meet us.

He had Claire’s door open before she could get to the handle, and he scooped her into his arms, the two of them crying.

Sanders, looking over his daughter’s shoulder at me, smiled and said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Wea—”

I reached over to pull the passenger door shut. “Later,” I said, and stomped on the accelerator.

Augie was waiting for me on the corner, a few hundred yards down the street from the Pearce house, sitting high in his white Suburban. I pulled up alongside him and powered down the passenger window. Augie, who probably remembers what everyone in Griffon drives, looked at the Subaru and said, “With all the shit that’s going on, you had time to get a new car?”

“Noticed whether anyone’s home?” I asked, pointing down the street.

“No one’s come or gone, but there’s no car there, so I’d say nobody’s at the house.” He paused. “Except, of course, Harry in the basement.” Augie looked at me skeptically, and who could blame him, really?

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” I said. “About Scott.”

“This got anything to do with what you think is going on in that house?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

Augie’s expression turned slightly sympathetic. “Nobody cares more about Scott than me, Cal, but could we tackle one thing at a time?”

I was churning inside about Ricky Haines, but I took his point. We were here to find Harry Pearce.

Instead of answering him, I drove the hundred yards up the street and parked in front of Phyllis Pearce’s house. Augie followed and pulled into the driveway, coming to a stop close to the front porch. Walking up to join him, I noticed again how long the grass was. After Dennis quit, Hooper’s hadn’t had enough staff to meet all their customers’ needs.

We mounted the porch steps together. Given that Augie was the chief of police, I let him go first and be the one to ring the bell.