Linwood Barclay - Too Close to Home

What if the Langleys’ killer, or killers, had gone to the wrong door? Was it possible our house had been the target? And if so, why?

That computer. I always kept coming back to that computer. It had been given to Derek, and now it was missing. Maybe, whoever killed the Langleys assumed they’d found the right house, because what they were looking for was there.

And maybe it was all bullshit. I wished I were confident that if I went to Barry and laid this all out for him, he’d at least consider it. But the chances of that happening now were somewhere between nil and zilch.

After we turned out the lights, Ellen put her head on her pillow, and moments later, I could hear her taking tissues out of the box on her bedside table. She cried herself to sleep, and I held her until she stopped. I rolled over and pushed my face into the pillow. I figured if I could muffle my own crying, I would not wake her.

The priority, as we both saw it the next morning, was seeing Derek and his lawyer and finding out what the hell was going on. But setting that as a goal, and actually being able to do anything about it, were two entirely different things. We divvied up duties in the morning. Ellen was on the phone first thing, trying to set up a visit to the jail, checking in with Natalie Bondurant.

She couldn’t reach anyone at the jail with the authority to set up a visit, and Natalie wasn’t available to take her call.

So we could spin our wheels all day, or try to get some other things done.

I decided to go to work. Ellen could reach me on my cell if something happened. She’d make a trip to the bank and start going through the process of cashing in some, or possibly all, of our retirement savings. It wasn’t as though we had hundreds of thousands of dollars set aside. Like most people, we often found ourselves struggling with our week-to-week obligations, and figured we’d deal with the financial needs of our golden years by purchasing a winning lottery ticket.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said to her as I prepared to go outside.

Before I got in my truck, I checked that I had everything I needed. The gas cans were full, the mowers and weed trimmers were in the back, my cell was turned on. I had my cooler with a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and several bottles of water. Not fancy, store-bought, bottled water, but tap water in bottles that once held the fancy stuff. Finally, I threw a metal watering can into the pickup bed, not something I usually brought along with me, but I thought it might come in handy today.

I’d promised my new employee to pick him up by eight, so one other stop I wanted to make that morning, one I hadn’t mentioned to Ellen, would have to come after. But I wanted to make it before I got sweaty and had tiny bits of grass stuck to my neck.

Drew Lockus was right where I expected him to be, standing on the corner out front of his mother’s house, paper bag in hand. Had he been a hitchhiker, I might not have been inclined to pick him up. Short and solid, those thick arms straining at his shirtsleeves, eyes set deep under a heavy brow, he had a bit of a Cro-Magnon thing going on.

I hoped I wasn’t making a mistake here. It was an impulsive decision, asking him whether he wanted some work. But what were the odds he’d turn out to be a worse employee than Stuart Yost, Heat Rash Boy?

Drew had been in the right place at the right time, as far as I was concerned. I don’t subscribe much to the belief that things happen for a reason, that there’s some higher power at the controls, directing all of us like we’re in some cosmic summer-stock production. Shit just happens is more or less my philosophy. I’m more a cause-and-effect guy. I believe one thing leads to another.

I didn’t believe in destiny, but I was grateful that the gods, who’d been so angry with me lately, had decided to cut me some slack and place Drew in my vicinity when the tractor had landed on my leg. I certainly wouldn’t have been rescued by that dipshit idiot of a reporter, or his driver.

Ellen, when I told her the night before how I’d met Drew, suggested fate had played a hand. Maybe we’d been drawn together so that he could save me from losing a leg when the tractor came down on me. Or maybe, she speculated, our paths had crossed so he could save us from a greater peril.

This time, I told her, you’re the one talking out of your ass.

I was feeling pretty sore this morning. My leg had throbbed all night, and my face and gut were still sore from Lance’s pounding. But there wasn’t much I could do about that. I couldn’t phone in to myself and say I was sick. I had to make a living. I had to help my son.

Drew opened the passenger door and got in. “Hey,” he said.

“Morning,” I said. “I see you brought a lunch. If you want, you can tuck it in my cooler, behind the seat there.” Drew, who didn’t yet have his seatbelt on, looked around, found the cooler, opened it up, and dropped his lunch in. “You’re welcome to share my water, too,” I said.

“Thanks,” Drew said. “I guess I should have thought of that.”

“Not a problem. Most houses have a hose hooked up to the side anyway, if we need a drink. And some people, at least the ones who aren’t miserable pricks, if they’re home, they offer you a drink, especially on a hot day like this.”

“That’s good,” Drew said. He studied me. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh,” I said, reaching up to it without actually touching it. “I had a little run-in with a former associate.” I hung a right, aimed the truck toward the downtown.

“That’s some shiner you got there,” he said.

“I kind of wasn’t ready.”

I thought Drew might ask for details, but instead he said, “Where’s our first place?”

“Up on Culver. But I’ve got one stop before that. Down at city hall.”

“Forget to pay your property taxes?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I said.

Promise Falls is too large to be called quaint, but it’s a pretty city, lots of historic architecture, a river running down from the falls it’s named for through the center of town, and the closer you get to that center, the better it looks, with old-fashioned-looking streetlamps and signs, brick sidewalks, most of the shops having a colonial look about them. City hall is a bit of a mixed bag. It’s fronted by several sets of doors and three-story columns that have a Faneuil Hall kind of look, but with modern additions flanking them.

I parked out front and said to Drew, “I’ll only be a couple of minutes. If someone wants the truck moved, just circle the block.”

“Got it,” he said.

I went around to the back of the truck, grabbed the watering can, and walked briskly to the front doors and through the rotunda and up the long flight of marble stairs to the second floor. I knew where I was going.

The mayor’s office is actually several rooms. There’s the reception area, with the main desk, and the deputy mayor’s office to the left, several smaller offices for administrative aides to the right. But the door to Mayor Finley’s office was straight ahead, and when the woman behind the main desk saw me heading for it, a smile broke out across her face and she said, “Christ on a cracker as I live and breathe, Jim Cutter.”

“Hey, Delia,” I said, flashing back a smile, but not breaking my stride.

“What’s with the can?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re working for Building Services, keeping the office plants from getting thirsty?” She winked. “It’s still a better gig than driving His Worship around, I’ll bet.” I just smiled. “Jesus, Jim, what happened to you? You walk into a mountain?”

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“If you want to see the mayor, he’s in his office, but he’s kind of busy right now with this lady he’s got helping him map out his campaign for Congress. You’ve heard about that, I guess.”