Linwood Barclay - Too Close to Home

“I can’t believe he kept all this to himself,” Ellen said.

“He’s a teenager,” Natalie said. “Scared of whoever murdered the Langleys, maybe even more scared of you two, and the trouble he’d get into by admitting he was in the house, how he came to be there. He said you’d told him”-she was looking at me now-“that after the incident at the school, when he was jumping from roof to roof, that the next time he did something dumb, you’d throw him out on his ass.”

I remembered that.

“Still,” said Ellen, “for something like this, he should have known he could come to us.”

Natalie paused, then said, “There’s something else that might be a problem.” Neither Ellen nor I said anything. We weren’t up for even more bad news. “The police are looking at links between the Langley killings and two others in the Promise Falls area in recent weeks.”

“How?” Ellen asked. “What do you mean?”

“The police say the gun used to kill the Langleys is the same one that was used to kill a man named Edgar Winsome out back of the Trenton bar, nearly a month ago, and another man, Peter Knight, about a week before that.”

“I don’t know either of those people,” I said. I did have a vague recollection, however, of Barry Duckworth mentioning these cases to me on Sunday.

“But you said the police don’t have the gun,” Ellen said. “How can they know the same gun was used?”

“You’re right, they don’t have the weapon,” Natalie Bondurant said. “But they have the bullets. And the ones taken from the Langleys match these other two cases. Do you know of any connection between your son and these two men?”

“Nothing,” I said, at almost the same moment Ellen did. “They want to blame those murders on Derek, too?”

“They’re not saying that. But the cases are linked by the ballistics reports. It’s a part of the investigation and you need to be aware of it. I want to keep you informed. That’s the way I do things.” She must have judged, by the looks on our faces, that we needed a pep talk. “Look,” she said. “The whole rah-rah thing is not my specialty. I’m not going to tell you there’s nothing to worry about. There is. But the case against your son is far from perfect. It has holes, and I think Barry knows it. The motive, as it’s been laid out so far, is weak. And as far as how you’re bearing up, you have to know that this is the worst time. You’re still in shock. Your world feels as though it’s falling apart. But hold it together. Your son needs you. And believe it or not, there’s actually some good news.”

Ellen and I both blinked. “What?” I asked.

“Well, if we accept Derek’s story as gospel, that he was in the house at the time of the murders, that he actually heard these executions take place, and that he slipped out of the house without being seen by the perpetrator or perpetrators, the good news is, your son is alive.”

Ellen and I exchanged looks and held each other. I’m sure neither of us had looked at it that way yet, that Derek was fortunate not to have ended up like the Langleys. I said, “And do you accept Derek’s story?”

Natalie Bondurant waited a moment, looked me in the eye, and said, “I was going to say it doesn’t matter. My clients don’t have to be innocent for me to defend them. But I think Derek’s giving it to me straight.”

“Shouldn’t Derek be telling all this to Barry?” I said. “What he heard? I mean, maybe Derek heard something, anything, that might help Barry find out who really did this. Because there’s still someone out there, someone who killed the Langleys.”

“Barry’s aware of all of this,” Natalie said. “But right now he figures he’s nailed this one.” She paused. “Derek did say he heard one thing.”

“What?” Ellen asked.

“ ‘Shame,’” Natalie said. “He heard a man say ‘shame.’”

Ellen and I looked at each other, not knowing what to make of that.

I reached into my pocket for something I’d brought along with me from home. I handed the disc, the one Derek had used to make a copy of A Missing Part, or as Brett Stockwell had called it, Nicholas Dickless, to Natalie Bondurant.

“What’s this?” she asked, Ellen watching as I placed the disc in her hand.

“Just hang on to it for me,” I said. “For safekeeping.”

I asked Natalie Bondurant whether she could join us for a coffee to talk about things, but she had another pressing court appearance. So I suggested to Ellen we hit a diner a block down from the courthouse for something to eat. We’d not had breakfast. It was nearly noon, and as bad as I felt, emotionally and physically, I was hungry.

“I can’t eat,” Ellen said.

“I feel the same,” I said. “But we need to keep our strength up if we’re going to help Derek.”

But I abandoned the plan when we came out of the building and found half a dozen photographers and three camera crews waiting for us. They shouted their questions all at once, so they became a jumble of “Did we believe our son was innocent why would he do this was a guilty plea forthcoming.” I held on to Ellen’s arm and kept us moving forward, looking straight ahead, not responding to anything anyone asked us.

Not even “How does it feel to have a son who’s a murderer?”

I felt Ellen stiffen, and thought maybe she was going to stop and answer that, but I whispered to her, “Come on.”

We got to her Mazda, and once we were closeted inside, the photographers swarmed the car. They had the good sense to step out of the way as I eased it forward. Try not to run anyone down, I told myself. We had enough on our plate without adding a vehicular manslaughter charge. And engaging the services of a lawyer for just one case was likely to bankrupt us, not that financial worries were our primary concern at the moment.

Once we were away from the courthouse and back on the road out of town to our place, I thought we’d escaped them. But as our lane came into view, we could also see a couple of TV news vans and some other cars parked along the shoulder.

“Motherfuckers,” I said.

I hit the blinker and turned, slowly, into our lane, edging past more people shouting out questions to us. There was still yellow tape around the Langley property, and once we passed the cop who was babysitting the house, he got out of his cruiser and stood in the path of the reporters, preventing them from getting any closer to our home.

We’d bring him some lemonade later.

Once home, Ellen put on some coffee and took out some bread slices and peanut butter. As she began to spread the peanut butter onto the bread, she stopped and began to sob. Loud, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

I took her in my arms, held on to her, thought if I held her tighter the shaking and the sobbing would stop. And I was right. Except it took half an hour.

Ellen stepped off the deck, where we’d both sat down for a few minutes, and walked out onto our gravel drive, near the shed. From there, you could see past the Langley home and get a pretty good view of the highway.

“It looks like they finally gave up,” she said, coming back onto the deck. “They’re gone. The reporters are gone.”

I was still in my chair, wondering if I had the energy to get up. We’d been home a couple of hours. Although the coast looked clear, I suspected a few hangers-on might be camped just down the road a ways, waiting to see if we’d show ourselves.

“We don’t have anywhere to go right now,” I said. “Let’s not reward any who might still be hiding.”

Ellen sat down, took a long breath, and looked at me. “I want to tell you something,” she said.