Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

“The fuck are you?” the second one said.

“Is there some kind of problem?”

“Just a private business matter,” said the lead guy. He and his friend both crossed their arms menacingly.

“Evan?” I said.

For maybe the first time ever, he seemed pleased to see me. “Hey, Mr. Blake,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked him.

“It’s no big deal,” he said.

To the lead guy, I said, “How much does he owe you?”

He cocked his head to one side, seemingly impressed that I had caught the essence of the situation.

“Five hundred,” he said.

I got out my wallet. “I’ve got a hundred and sixty dollars I can give you right now. You come here tomorrow at the same time, he’ll have the rest.” I looked past them to Evan. “Right?”

“That’s right,” he nodded.

I fished out the bills and the young man snatched them from me. “He better fucking have the rest tomorrow.”

He and his buddy brushed past me and went back to their car as Bob ran up, breathless.

I said to Evan, “Gambling?”

Sheepishly, he shook his head. “I’ve owed them for some weed for about three weeks now.”

Bob said, “What? Who were those guys?”

I said to him, “Let me know when the Beetle’s ready.”

I SPUN MY WHEELS, literally and figuratively, for the rest of the afternoon.

I drove around Milford. I drove around Bridgeport. I drove up to Derby. I went into youth shelters, fast-food joints, corner stores, showing Syd’s picture to anyone who’d look at it.

Struck out everywhere.

Heading home, I popped into a ShopRite for an already-roasted chicken and a small tub of potato salad and took it home. I stood at the kitchen counter, broke off parts of the chicken with my hand and put them into my mouth, ate the potato salad right out of the container. At least for that I used a fork. It occurred to me, once I’d nearly finished off the entire chicken, that my cavemanlike behavior was related to skipping lunch.

There’d been no calls waiting for me when I got home, and there were no emails of note coming in from Syd’s website.

I went to the phone and dialed Patty’s cell. I hadn’t spoken to her since rescuing her from that street party and bringing her back here to bandage her knee.

Was that only last night?

Patty’s cell rang until it went to message. I was about to leave one, then decided against it.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I dropped onto the couch and turned on the news. I didn’t even last until the weather teaser. I passed out.

It was dark when I woke. I turned off the TV and went up the stairs to my bedroom. My bag, the one that had been to Seattle and the Just Inn Time and finally back home again, was resting on a chair. I’d never completely unpacked it.

Something was niggling at me, and I looked into the bag.

“Where the…”

I dumped everything left in the bag-a couple of pairs of socks, some underwear, a pullover shirt-onto the bed.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

I left my room and went into Syd’s, thinking maybe I’d already found what I was now looking for, had put it back in its place, but forgotten.

I gave Syd’s room a quick look, came up empty.

“Where the hell are you, Milt?” I said aloud.

I grabbed my keys, went outside, and unlocked my car. I looked in the trunk, the back seat, under the seats, but Sydney’s favorite stuffed moose was nowhere to be found.

“The hotel,” I said to myself.

I had placed it on the bed when I’d spent my night at the Just Inn Time. Then, when I’d grabbed a pillow to rest my head on the window, Milt had taken a tumble.

I didn’t have the energy to go over there now, but made a mental note to pop in the next time I was driving by.

I went back inside and up to my room. It made sense to go to bed, but I felt so overwhelmingly frustrated. Sure it was late, but I should be doing something. Making calls, going to more shelters, driving to-

A noise.

I heard something outside. A thump, a bump, something.

Maybe it was just a car door opening and closing.

But if I could hear it, it probably wasn’t one of the neighbors. It had to be someone in my driveway, or out front of my house.

I went down the stairs, trying not to make any sounds of my own, and was getting ready to peek out the front window when the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped.

I went to the door, peered through the window at the side. A man was standing there, holding something boxy-about the size of a car battery-in his right hand. I threw the deadbolt, opened the door.

“Mr. Blake,” the man said.

“Mr. Fletcher,” I said.

“You remembered,” he said.

“I never forget someone who uses a test drive to deliver manure.”

“Yeah,” Richard Fletcher said, and extended the arm that was holding the package. I could see now that it was a six-pack of Coors, in cans.

I accepted the package. The cans were warm to the touch, and he said, “First time I came by, I’d just come from the store, and they were cold. But they’ve warmed up since then.”

“You’ve been by before?” I said.

“A couple of times, earlier in the day,” he said. “I figured out your address from the card you gave me. Matched the home number to an address in the phone book.”

“You might as well come in,” I said, and opened the door wider.

I led him into the kitchen, motioned for him to take a seat, and took out two cans. I tossed him one, cracked the tab on mine, and sat down opposite him.

We both took a sip of beer.

“It would have been better cold,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” I said.

He nodded. Finally, he said, “I’m not really in the market for a new truck.”

“I figured.”

“I promised a guy I’d deliver him some manure, but then my truck wouldn’t work. He was promising me forty dollars.”

“Sure,” I said, taking another sip of the Coors.

“I didn’t have money to rent a truck,” Fletcher said. “And there wasn’t anybody I could borrow one off of.”

“Sure,” I said.

“So,” Fletcher said, “that’s why I did it.”

I nodded.

“Next time,” he said, “I could try the Toyota dealer.”

I smiled. “I’d be grateful.”

He returned the smile. “So, that’s what I came by to say.” He struggled a moment. “Sorry,” he said. “I never meant any harm.”

I took another sip of the warm beer. “What’s your daughter’s name?” I asked.

“Sofia,” he said.

“That’s a pretty name,” I said.

We each took another sip of our beers.

“I should be going,” he said. He looked down at the can. “I don’t think I can finish this. I used to be able to sit down and drink half a dozen of these, but now it’s all I can do to finish one.”

I got up and walked with him to the door, followed him outside to the driveway. We stopped briefly behind the CR-V. I stuck out my hand, and he took it. We shook.

“When I win the lottery, I’ll buy a car off ya,” he said.

“Sounds fair,” I said.

As I turned to go back into the house, there was a distant squeal of tires, the gunning of a car engine.

The sound got louder. Someone was coming up the street very, very fast.

Just as I turned to look, there was a popping noise. Before Fletcher came at me, I caught a glimpse of a van barreling up the street.

As Fletcher took hold of me around the waist and pulled me down onto the cool grass, I heard more pops, then glass shattering.

“Head down!” Fletcher barked into my ear.

I managed to turn my head toward the street, caught another glimpse of the van as it sped off.

Once the van was gone, Fletcher got off me. I stood up, saw that the back window of my car had been shot out.