Linwood Barclay - Never Look Away

“I know I’m a drag on you, like an anchor.”

“That’s crazy.” I immediately regretted my choice of word. “Look, if you’ve been feeling this way a week or so… what’s brought this on? Has something happened? Something you haven’t told me about?”

“No, nothing,” she said unconvincingly.

“Has something happened at work?” After seeing Leanne going at it with Lyall, I wondered whether she was dragging Jan down somehow. “Is it Leanne? Is she making your life hell, too?”

“She’s… she’s always been hard to deal with, but I’ve learned to cope,” Jan said. “I can’t really explain it. I just started feeling this way. Feeling that I’m a burden, that I have no purpose.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You know what I think? I think maybe you need to talk to-”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Jan said.

“But if you just talked-”

“What, so they could put me away? Lock me up in some loony bin?”

“For God’s sake, Jan. Now you’re just being paranoid.” And again, I managed to pick a word I really should have avoided.

“Paranoid? Is that what you think I am?”

I sensed Gina approaching.

“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” Jan said, her voice rising again. “To be rid of me for good.”

Gina stopped, and we both looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” Gina said. “I was just going to-” she pointed at the soup bowls, “take those away, if you were finished.”

I nodded, and Gina removed them.

To Jan, I said, “Maybe we should go home and-”

But Jan was already pushing back her chair.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I tried to talk to Jan on the way home, and before we went to bed, but she wasn’t interested in having any further conversations with me, particularly when I brought up the topic of her seeking some kind of professional help.

So I was pretty weary the following morning, walking with my head hanging so low on my way into the Standard building that I didn’t even notice the man blocking my path until I was nearly standing on his toes.

He was a big guy, and he seemed ready to burst out of his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Over six feet tall, he had a shaved head and there was a tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar, but not enough for me to tell what it was. I put his age at around thirty, and the way he carried himself suggested that he was not to be messed with. He wore the suit as comfortably as Obama sporting bling.

“Mr. Harwood?” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Sebastian would be honored if you would join him over coffee. He’d like a moment to have a word with you. He’s waiting down at the park. I’d be happy to drive you.”

“Elmont Sebastian?” I said. I’d been trying for weeks to get an interview with the president of Star Spangled Corrections. He didn’t return calls.

“Yes,” the man said. “By the way, my name is Welland. I’m Mr. Sebastian’s driver.”

“Sure,” I said. “What the hell.”

Welland led me around the corner and opened the door of a black Lincoln limo for me. I got into the back, settled into a gray leather seat, and waited while he got in behind the wheel. If this car had a glass partition, it wasn’t in position, so I asked Welland, “Have you worked long for Mr. Sebastian?”

“Just three months,” he said, pulling out into traffic.

“And what were you doing before that?”

“I was incarcerated,” Welland said without hesitation.

“Oh,” I said. “For very long?”

“Seven years, three months, and two days,” Welland said. “I served my time at one of Mr. Sebastian’s facilities near Atlanta.”

“Well,” I said as Welland steered the car in the direction of downtown.

“I’m a product of the excellent rehabilitation programs Star Spangled facilities offer,” he said. “When my sentence ended, Mr. Sebastian took a chance on me, gave me this job, and I think it says a lot about the stock he puts in second chances.”

“Do you mind my asking what you were serving time for?”

“I stabbed a man in the neck,” Welland said, glancing into the mirror.

I swallowed. “Did he live?” I asked.

“For a while,” Welland said, making a left.

He stopped the car by the park that sits just below the falls the town takes its name from. Welland came around, opened the door, and pointed me in the direction of a picnic table near the river’s edge. A distinguished-looking, silver-haired man in his sixties was seated on the bench with his back to the table, tossing popcorn to some ducks. When he spotted me and rose from the bench, I could see he was as tall as Welland, although more slender. He smiled broadly and extended a large sweaty hand.

I made a conscious effort not to wipe my hand on my pants.

“Mr. Harwood, thank you so much for coming. It’s a pleasure to be able to speak to you at last.”

“I’ve been available, Mr. Sebastian,” I said. “You’re the one who’s been hard to get hold of.”

He laughed. “Please, call me Elmont. May I call you David?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I love feeding the ducks,” he said. “I love watching them gobble it down.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“When I was a boy, I had a summer job working on a farm,” he said, tossing more kernels, watching the ducks lunge forward and fight over them. “I grew to love God’s creatures back then.”

He turned and pointed to the table, where a couple of take-out coffees sat in a box filled with creams, sugars, and wooden sticks. “I didn’t know what you took in yours, so it’s black. Help yourself to what you need.”

He turned himself around and tucked his legs under the table as I took a seat opposite him. I didn’t reach for a coffee, but did go into my pocket for a notepad and pen. “I’ve left several messages for you.”

Sebastian glanced across the park lawn at Welland, who was standing guard by the limo. “What do you think of him?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Model citizen.”

Another laugh. “Isn’t he, though? I’m very proud of him.”

“Why did you pay for Stan Reeves’s trip to Florence?” I asked. “Is that standard policy? To reward people in advance who’ll be voting on your plans?”

“That’s good.” He nodded. “You get right to it. I appreciate that. I like directness. I’m not one to pussyfoot around.”

“If you can find another way to say it, you can put off answering my question even longer.”

Elmont Sebastian chuckled and pried off one of the coffee lids and poured in three creams. “As it turns out, this is exactly why I was hoping to meet with you. To deal with that question. I brought you here to show you something.”

He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope that had his name written on it. The flap was tucked in, not glued. He pulled it back, withdrew a check, and handed it to me.

Was this how Elmont Sebastian operated? He cut reporters checks to back off?

I took it in my hand and saw that it was not made out to me, but to him. And it was written on the personal account of Stan Reeves, in the amount of $4,763.09. The date in the upper right corner was two days ago.

“I know you think you were onto something where Councilor Reeves is concerned,” he said. “That he accepted a free side trip to Italy from me, but nothing could be further from the truth. I had already rented a couple of rooms in Florence, expecting to entertain friends, but they had to cancel at the last minute, so I said to Mr. Reeves, while we were still in England, that he was welcome to take the extra room. And he was pleased to do so, but he made it very clear to me that he was not able to accept any gifts or gratuities. That would put him in an untenable position, and of course I understood completely. But the reservation was all paid for, so we made arrangements that he would settle up with me upon his return. And there’s the check that proves it.”