Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

Lucky.

She nodded. “The other blood belonged to Randall Tripe.”

I looked at her oddly. “Should I know that name?”

“I mentioned him the other day. He’d been involved in everything from identity theft to human trafficking. He was found dead in a Dumpster in Bridgeport a day after you reported Sydney missing. Shot in the chest.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Sydney’s car was found up in Derby. That’s quite a hike from Bridgeport.”

“Whoever dumped his body in that Dumpster might have taken him from the car in Derby,” Jennings said. “But the way I see it, there’s a couple of ways to explain two different kinds of blood on the car. One, an injured Mr. Tripe had your daughter’s blood on his hands and took off with her car, or an injured Sydney Blake had Mr. Tripe’s blood on her hands and took off in her own car.”

“But we know Tripe is dead,” I said.

“Bingo. That’s why I tend to go with number two.”

“But if Syd had Tripe’s blood on her hands…”

“Yeah,” Jennings said. “That’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

I thought about what “Eric” had said. That Sydney hadn’t gotten in touch because she was ashamed of something she’d done.

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME I GOT HOME.

After the kind of day I’d had, I was on high alert, like a mouse slipping through the forest at night wondering how many owls are overhead. I was checking my rearview mirror, looking for vans, scanning the faces of pedestrians I passed on the street, hunting for people in the bushes, looking for lights that were on that should be off, lights that were off that should be on.

I’d asked Jennings whether I was entitled to some sort of police protection, and she’d said she’d put a call in to the Secret Service. I took her sarcasm to mean the Milford police did not have a lot of extra officers to go around. So I was my own bodyguard, and I didn’t exactly feel up to the job.

As I pulled into the driveway, the house appeared in order.

I unlocked the door, went inside, flipped on the front hall light switch. The house looked almost as it had before I’d gone to Seattle. Things back in place, carpets vacuumed, floors swept.

My nose was throbbing, my head pounding. I went looking for Tylenol in its usual place in the kitchen cupboard, but after the cleanup many things were not where I expected to find them. I hunted around, finally found the bottle, and washed down a couple of pills with some cold water from the tap.

I stood there, leaning up against the counter, pondering what I would do next. I’d made a decision to devote every waking hour to finding Syd. Now all I had to do was figure out how to use them productively.

I wondered how Arnie Chilton’s parallel investigation was coming along. Perhaps, by this time, he’d tracked down a Boston cream donut.

It wasn’t until I was standing there, alone in my kitchen, that I realized how weary I was. I felt as though I had nothing left to give, at least right now.

I decided the smartest thing to do, for myself and for Syd, was to head straight to bed, get a good night’s rest, start fresh on this in the morning.

I finished drinking the water, set the glass in the sink. And then, perhaps not sure whether I really should go to bed, I sat down at the kitchen table. Put my head down for a moment onto my folded arms. Turned my head so my injured nose wouldn’t rub up against my arm.

Maybe I didn’t need to go to bed yet. Maybe, if I just rested for a few moments, it would be enough to recharge my batteries. Then I could spend the rest of the evening coming up with a plan to find Syd. Even though this Eric character didn’t know where she was, maybe if I knew more about him, that would tell me more about what Syd had been into, and then…

I’m not sure how many times the phone rang before I heard it. I jerked awake, looked up at the clock. It was after midnight. I’d been asleep at the kitchen table for nearly three hours. I pushed the chair back, stumbled over to the phone, and snatched up the receiver.

I put it to my ear and said, groggily, “Hello?”

There was some background noise. Music, people shouting. And then a voice.

A girl’s voice.

She said, “Help me.”

“SYD?” I SAID. “Syd, is that you?”

At the other end of the line, crying. “I need you to come and get me.” Her words were slightly slurred. The background music made it difficult to hear her clearly.

“Syd, where are you? Tell me where you are!” I was feeling overwhelmed, as though my entire body wanted to cry. “I’ll come and get you.”

“It’s not Syd.”

“What?” I said.

“It’s me. It’s Patty.” She sniffed. “Can you come and get me? Please?”

“Patty?”

“Can you get me?”

“What’s happened, Patty? Are you okay?”

“I hurt myself.” Her words continued to slur.

“What happened?”

“I fell down.”

“Are you drunk, Patty?”

“I might have had… maybe a few, I don’t know. I’m pretty good.”

“Patty, you should phone your mom. She’ll come get you. If you want, I’ll call her for you.”

“Mr. B., like, this time of night, she’ll be more shitfaced than I am.”

“Have you got money for a cab?” I asked. “Tell me where you are and I’ll send one to take you home. Or I’ll pay him before he heads off.”

“Please just come get me,” she said.

I heard a boy talking to her. “Shit, whaddya do to your leg? Why don’t you stop bleeding all over the place and come with us.”

“Fuck off,” Patty told him.

“And why don’t you suck this,” the boy said. That was followed by raucous male laughter.

“Patty,” I said. She wasn’t going to have to ask me again. I didn’t like the sounds of things. I’d go get her.

“Huh?”

“Tell me where you are. Right now. Where are you?”

“I’m on, like… Hey!” She was shouting at someone. “Where the fuck is this?” Someone yelled something back that sounded like “America!”

“Very funny, asshole!” Patty shouted. She called out to someone else, and then said into the phone, “Okay, you know that road that goes along the beach? Broadway? East Broadway?”

“Sure.” It was five minutes away, tops. “Where are you along there?”

“There’s, like, a bunch of houses.”

It was all houses along there. “Do you see a street sign, Patty?”

“No, wait, yeah, Gardner?”

I knew where she was. “I’ll be right there,” I told her. “Don’t move.” I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, locked the house on the way out, and got into the CR-V.

It had turned into a muggy night, but instead of flipping the air on I put down the windows. Fresh air blowing through the car would help wake me up. The drive down to East Broadway took only a few minutes. I trolled slowly down the street. Quite a few young people were walking along the sidewalk, a few wandering down the center of the street, a few holding bottles in their hands. Clearly, a big party had taken place somewhere, no doubt in one of the beach houses where the parents were away.

I drove slowly, not just because I was trying to spot Patty. I didn’t want to run anyone over.

I slowed to a crawl as I reached Gardner, then came to a full stop. There were twenty kids or more milling about behind one of the houses on the south side of the street, which was right on the beach. All the lights were on and loud music blared from inside. Up at the far end of the street, a police car was making its way.

I spotted Patty standing on the curb, a tall boy towering over her, bending down, talking into her ear. She had her head turned, like she didn’t want anything to do with him. I wondered why she didn’t just walk away, then noticed the boy had a grip on her arm.