Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“Is that fair?” he asked.

“What do you mean, is it fair? Sure, it’s fair.”

“But you didn’t make dinner. I thought, if you make dinner, I clean up. Or if I make dinner, you clean up. But Marie made dinner.” He shoveled some more in.

“So if I follow your logic,” I said, “if someone other than us does some of the duties, whatever’s left is my job.”

He chewed slowly, like he was formulating an argument. “Well,” he said, “that was just how it struck me at the time.”

“So maybe we should both clean up,” I said. “What about that? You clear the table and load the dishwasher, and I’ll scrub out that casserole dish. Judging by how you’re going there’s not going to be any left over.”

“Okay,” he said.

Ten minutes later, we were standing side by side at the kitchen counter. I was filling the sink with soapy water as Thomas put our glasses and cutlery into the KitchenAid. Our shoulders were brushing up against each other, and we actually had a kind of rhythm going. We weren’t talking, but it was the closest I’d felt to him since coming back here.

But later, as he was wiping down the kitchen table, Thomas said, “You ever feel like someone who was your friend really isn’t your friend anymore?”

He wasn’t looking at me when he asked. He was focused on making the table as clean as possible.

“Yeah, that’s happened to me a few times. Who are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

“It’s okay. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

He caught my eye. “The president.”

“Clinton?”

Thomas nodded, walked over to the sink to rinse out the cloth, and draped it over the faucet. “He’s always been nice to me, except the last couple of times we’ve talked, it’s kind of different.”

“What do you mean, different?”

“I don’t know. He’s been putting a lot of pressure on me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to him anymore.”

“When the president calls, you kind of have to talk to him,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s true.”

“But he’s telling me I can’t talk about certain things. Things that don’t have anything to do with my mission.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder. “You want to go in and talk to Dr. Grigorin tomorrow? I could see if I can set something up.”

“That might be good,” he said. “I don’t like it when the president says I’m going to look weak.”

“Weak?”

“Like, if I say certain things, I’ll be in trouble. He doesn’t even want me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“About when I was in the window. When I waved to you, and you didn’t see me. Because you didn’t look up.”

I stood there with him, the two of us leaned up against the kitchen counter. “When was this, Thomas?”

“The day you tried to find me. When you found my bike in the alley. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I rode all over downtown trying to find you. I even shouted out your name.”

“I heard you,” Thomas said quietly. “That was when I got away, and ran to the window. I wanted to call out but I knew he’d get mad. But if you’d seen me, then Dad would have believed my story.”

“Got away? Thomas, what happened?”

“He hurt me,” he said. He briefly tucked his hand under himself. “He hurt me back here.”

I put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezed. “Tell me what happened. Someone did something to you? Who? Who did something to you?”

“Dad got so mad,” he said. “He got so mad when I told him. He said I had to stop making things up. He said if I ever talked about it again, he didn’t know what he’d do. But I knew it would be something awful. Maybe he and Mom would send me away. To a place. So I never talked about it.”

I hugged him. “Thomas, I’m so sorry.”

“And I think…I think I’m ready to talk about it. But the president says I can’t. He says if I tell anyone, bad things will happen.”

“Thomas, who hurt you?”

He looked down into his lap. “I need to think about this. I don’t want to go against the president’s wishes.”

“Would you tell Dr. Grigorin?”

“I’ve wanted to, but haven’t. You know who I would be okay telling?”

“Who?”

“Julie.”

“You’d tell Julie?”

He nodded. “She’s nice to me. She talks to me like I’m a regular person.”

“Okay, well, she’s coming back tonight, kind of late, but I’m sure she’d talk to you.”

“Is she coming back to have sex with you?” he asked.

“Probably not now,” I said, and smiled. “I think it would be great if you talked to her. I do. Can I be there, or would you like to talk to her by yourself?”

He thought about that. “She’ll tell you later, won’t she?”

“If you asked her not to, no, I don’t think she would.”

He looked down, pondering. “It would be okay if you want to be there.”

“Okay. But she’s not going to be here for a while, so do you want to watch some TV or something?”

“No. I have to go back to work. Even if I don’t like the president’s attitude lately, I still have my work to do.”

“Sure,” I said.

“But before Julie comes, I want to get some pictures to show her.”

“What pictures?”

“Our photo albums. So she’ll know what I looked like then. And what you looked like. They’re in the basement.”

“Whatever you want. You know where they are?”

He nodded, then left me for his room. I went out to the porch and sat down for the better part of half an hour, until it was dark enough that you could see the stars. I went in, plunked myself down in front of the TV, and flipped through the channels. Nothing held my interest. It wasn’t likely that anything could. I was preoccupied. Thinking about Julie. About my father. About Len Prentice.

About a face in a window, and two dead people in Chicago, and the late Allison Fitch.

About how I wouldn’t have to be thinking about a lot of these things if Thomas had a different hobby. Stamp collectors never saw possible homicides, so far as I knew. Same for jewelry makers and gardeners.

I wondered whether Harry Peyton had had a chance yet to talk to this Duckworth guy he’d mentioned. Barry Duckworth. Was that why I hadn’t heard anything yet? Had Harry talked to him, and Duckworth was looking into things right now? Or did Duckworth listen, and say it was the biggest crock of shit he’d ever heard in his entire life?

I couldn’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t just find out myself.

I turned off the TV, grabbed the laptop, and looked up the Promise Falls Police Department. I found a nonemergency number and dialed.

“Promise Falls Police Service,” a woman said.

“I’m trying to reach Detective Duckworth,” I said.

“I think he’s gone home,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“Ray Kilbride.”

“Let me check.” She put me on hold. While I was waiting, Thomas came down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my hand over the receiver.

“I’m going downstairs to look for the photo album,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the basement.

“Hello?” the woman on the switchboard said. “Mr. Kilbride?”

“Yes?”

“I reached Detective Duckworth at home for you. Hold on and I’ll connect you.” There was a pause, and then, “Go ahead.”

“Hello?” I said. “Detective Duckworth?”

“Who is this? You told the switchboard you’re Mr. Kilbride?”

“That’s right.”

“This some sort of joke? Not Adam Kilbride.”

“No, sir. This is his son.”

“Which son?”

“I’m Ray Kilbride.”