Linwood Barclay: A Tap on the Window

“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Pearce?”

“Phyllis, please.” The woman smiles. “I understand your son died by misadventure. That he was under the influence of drugs when he fell off the roof.”

Donna puts a hand delicately to her chest, as though she has indigestion. “I really don’t want to talk about that.”

“I only mention it because we have something in common, in a way. I mean, your son must be a terrible disappointment to you. The things he could have done, all thrown away. Now, my Richard — you know him of course because you process his checks — is still alive, but I swear, if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to screw something up.”

“I think you should leave.”

“I need to see your husband,” Phyllis says.

“I’ll be sure to tell him you were here.”

“He’s been by a couple of times to talk to me. I think we kind of hit it off. I need you to call him now and get him over here right away.”

“I’m sorry,” Donna says. “I’m not doing that. If you want to talk to him, call him yourself. And I repeat, I think you should leave.”

Phyllis sets her purse on the floor, opens it, and takes out a handgun. She points it at Donna and says, “Call him.”

Donna struggles to remain calm, but she has never had a gun pointed at her before, and she feels as though her insides are about to melt. “What do you want with him?”

“That’s between him and me,” Phyllis says. “Is the phone in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’d best go to the kitchen.”

Donna goes to the kitchen phone, puts the receiver to her ear, hits the memory button that will connect to her husband’s cell. She talks to him briefly before Phyllis takes the phone from her.

“Mr. Weaver? Phyllis Pearce here. We have some things we need to discuss. You’re going to help me out, because if you don’t, it’s going to be your fault what happens to your wife.”

“Leave her alone.”

“And you need to know, your house is being watched. You come here by yourself. If anyone else shows up, your wife will die. And bring the book.”

“What book?”

“Please don’t do that. I’m sure you have it. The one my husband gave to that boy. I need to have that back.”

“Where’s Harry?” Weaver asks.

“Excuse me?” Phyllis’ eyes go wide.

“He’s not in his room downstairs. Where’ve you got him?”

“Just get here,” Phyllis says, and replaces the receiver.

“Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done,” Donna says, moving back into the living room, “you should just turn yourself in. Get a lawyer. He can arrange a surrender for you. He can work something out.”

“I don’t think so,” Phyllis says as Donna leans over the coffee table, shuffling her drawings. “What are you doing?”

Donna, her back to the woman, continues to collect the pictures into a neat pile, slides them into a folder.

“I said, what are you doing?” Phyllis asks.

“I don’t like you looking at pictures of my son.”

Phyllis comes around the other side of the coffee table, orders Donna to stop what she’s doing and sit down. Phyllis goes to the window, pulls back the curtain an inch to get a look at the street.

Her son’s black pickup is parked at the curb on the other side.

Phyllis sighs with relief. “Richard is here.” She appears contemplative. “I hope he understands what I’ve had to do.”

I’d waved Augie over so he could hear both sides of the conversation. He was huddled close to me, his ear close to mine, and when Phyllis ended the call we looked at each other and he said, “Did you actually talk to Donna?”

He’d missed the first few seconds of the conversation. “Yeah,” I said. “She sounds okay, but she’s scared.”

“She says the house is being watched. That’ll be Ricky. What the hell does she want?”

“Me,” I said. “And the book. Ricky must think he killed Claire, or she’d be asking for her, too.”

“What book?”

I patted my chest to reassure myself that it was still in my jacket pocket. “A kind of diary Harry kept. It proves he’s been alive all these years.”

I started moving toward the door.

“What are you doing?” Augie asked.

“Going for Donna.”

“What’s the plan?” he asked as I kept walking.

“No idea, but hanging around here isn’t part of it.”

He followed me all the way to my car, grabbing my arm as I was opening the door of the Subaru.

“Hold on,” he said. “You think if you give her that book, that’s going to be the end of it? Think about what you know. What she knows you know. You think she’s just going to get in her car and drive off? You go off half-cocked, you’ll end up getting you and Donna both killed.”

I stopped.

“Tell me how to handle it.”

“First,” Augie said, “I’ll take care of Ricky.”

“How you going to do that?”

“I’ll figure that out,” he said. “Give me a five-minute head start to see where he is, get in position.”

“Five minutes,” I said.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

We decided we’d both drive to within a couple of blocks of my house, then I’d wait while Augie found a spot he could watch Ricky from. I’d give him five minutes to call me, then drive to my house.

When we were a quarter mile away, I pulled over. Augie rolled up alongside in his Suburban, held up all five fingers of one hand, then drove off.

I kept my eyes on the dashboard clock. Two minutes. Three minutes. It seemed more like three hours.

Hang in there, Donna .

I looked at the clock again. Four minutes.

I wasn’t waiting any longer. I put the transmission into drive.

My phone rang.

“I’m ready.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a house. Looking out the living room at Ricky in his pickup. He’s on the other side of the street from your place, two houses down.”

“How did you get in a—”

“I broke in. Go.”

I went.

A Ford Crown Vic was parked in front of our place. Just up the street, facing this way, Ricky’s black pickup. Through the tinted windows, I could just make out someone behind the wheel. I turned into the driveway, got out, noticed a hand pulling back the living room curtain an inch.

Should I knock? It was my own house, and Phyllis could obviously see me coming. So when I got to the door, I turned the knob and entered.

Phyllis was waiting for me, standing ten feet away from the door, weapon drawn, held in both hands to try and keep it steady. Her face looked drawn and haggard, and she seemed to have aged ten years since I’d last seen her. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, but it didn’t feel all that warm in here.

I glanced into the living room, saw Donna sitting on the couch, her mouth a jagged line across her face.

“Take out your gun,” Phyllis said.

I reached around for my Glock, removed it from my holster.

“Put it there, right there,” she said, pointing to the table in the front hall where we set our keys and dropped the mail. I did as she asked. “In there,” she said, pointing to the living room. I moved slowly.

“You okay?” I asked Donna. I thought it odd she didn’t stand up. She sat there, holding her right wrist with her left hand.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly.

“She hurt you?” I said, looking at her wrist.