Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

When the sun came up, and Craig Pierce was spotted, staked out in the middle of the park by Promise Falls, he was nearly dead.

Considering what had happened to him, Duckworth thought, he’d have been better off that way. He’d conducted interviews with Pierce in the hospital in the days following the attack.

Now he decided, three months later, that it was time for another chat with the man. He was not looking forward to it.

I put the phone back to my ear and said to Bob, “Too late. We’re here.”

I brought my Honda to a stop behind the red Porsche. Jeremy threw open the passenger door and ran up the driveway toward the house, careful not to look at the other car or even get near it, as though the vehicle were radioactive.

Slowly, I started toward the house. There were no police cars in the driveway, so I guessed Madeline Plimpton had decided against reporting the broken window. As Jeremy reached the front door, Gloria emerged with open arms.

“There you are,” she said. “You’re okay.”

He avoided her welcoming hug, blasted past her and walked into the house, but not before shouting, “Not with that asshole around!”

Bob appeared, cell phone in hand. He saw me and glowered. “I told you to stall. You got here too soon!”

I stopped and waited for him to come to me.

“This is not helpful,” he said, stopping six feet short of me, waving the phone in his hand.

“Like I said, we were already here.”

“Where the hell was he, anyway?”

“Arranged a date with a girlfriend from Albany.”

“Son of a bitch. Who?”

“Charlene Wilson.”

He shook his head. “Jesus. Her.”

I nodded in the direction of the sports car. “What’s this? Is this really the car Jeremy was driving when he killed that girl?”

“I didn’t know he was going to bring it. I swear, I don’t know what the hell he was thinking.”

“Galen Broadhurst?”

Bob nodded. “Yes. He needed to see me.”

“And he decided to drive this ? What did he want to do? Rub the kid’s nose in it?”

Bob shook his head with frustration. “I know, I know. It was stupid. It’s the first time he’s even driven it since—”

“Bob!”

A man was charging out of the house. Late fifties, gray hair, about two hundred pounds, leather jacket, jeans, black lace-up boots.

“That’s him,” Bob said. “God, I hope he didn’t run into Jeremy. This never should have happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the boy was here?” Galen Broadhurst said angrily.

“I tried,” Bob said as Galen closed the distance. When the man reached us, he looked at me and said to Bob, “Who’s this?”

Manners. I liked that.

“This is Cal Weaver,” Bob explained. “We’ve brought him in to assess the risks Jeremy faces.”

He eyed me up and down. “You don’t look like a bodyguard to me.”

I said, “Nice move, parking that car where Jeremy couldn’t miss it.”

“Damn it, I already explained, I didn’t know the kid was here,” he said. “First, the cops had the car for months, then I finally get it back and have to send it out to get it fixed. The front end was — well, hell, how do you think it was? You run someone down and that leaves some damage.”

“To the car, you mean,” I said. “Yeah, that’s a shame.”

Broadhurst pointed to the Porsche. “That’s a classic vehicle that I’ve sunk a fortune into over the years. It’s a terrible thing what happened, no doubt about it. But now that justice has been served and the trial has run its course, surely I’m entitled to get it fixed up again and move on.”

“Of course,” I said. “You want to get on with your life.”

Galen Broadhurst gave me a long look. “You’re kind of a wise guy, aren’t you?”

Bob Butler made a tamping-down gesture with both hands. “Enough! Enough, for crying out loud! We’re all getting off on the wrong foot here. Jesus, Galen, Mr. Weaver’s already proved his value to us. Jeremy took off and Mr. Weaver here tracked him down and brought him home. Put yourself in Jeremy’s shoes. Coming up the street and seeing this goddamn car. He hasn’t seen it since the night everything happened.”

“Fine,” Galen said. “But I’m telling you, I didn’t know. I got the car out of the shop this morning, wanted to give it a good run. I had papers for you to sign and your office said you were up here. So shoot me.”

I was tempted. But I hadn’t brought my gun with me today.

“And Mr. Weaver is not a bodyguard,” Bob said. “He’s a private investigator.”

“Oh, are you now?” Broadhurst said. “What are you investigating? You gonna find out who’s making all these threats against Jeremy?”

“No,” I said. “You’d need every police department in the country to deal with those.”

“Mr. Weaver’s going to keep an eye on Jeremy till things settle down,” Bob said. “Just an hour ago someone went by and threw a rock through the window.”

Instead of looking back at the house — Broadhurst had probably already seen the broken glass — he glanced at the Porsche, then up and down the street, probably worried about whether his recently repaired car would get caught in the crossfire of the next act of vandalism.

“That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s terrible, and my heart goes out to you.” His tone softened. “God, all the things that get triggered from one incident.”

“Hardly a minor event,” I said.

“True, true,” Broadhurst said. “A great many lives impacted, especially the family of that poor young girl.”

“If it was me,” I said, “I don’t know that I could ever drive that car again, knowing what happened.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Galen Broadhurst said. “To be honest, now that it’s out of the shop and good as new, I’m thinking of selling it. It’s got a tragic history, and I suspect I’ll be reminded of that fact every time I get behind the wheel.” He gave me a smile for the first time. “Interested?”

I shook my head, tipped my head at my aging Honda. “In my line of work, I’m better off with something that blends into the scenery.”

He laughed. “Yeah, like, remember Magnum, driving around in that red Ferrari? Great car for detective work, that.”

“What’s a vehicle like this worth?” I asked.

“You’re looking at a 1978 911 Targa, excellent condition. It’d probably run around fifty, sixty grand, maybe a little less. All depends on the market. A car’s really only worth what someone will pay for it, regardless of what the book says. Am I right, Bob?”

“That’s for sure, Galen,” Bob said.

“I would have thought it’d be even more than sixty,” I said.

“Plenty of classic Porsches out there that could run you a quarter-mill.” He smiled “And I’ve got a couple. But I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for this one.”

“It was Galen’s wife’s car,” Bob said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Amanda. She passed away six years ago. Big C. This was her pride and joy, and it’d be hard for me to get rid of it. I’m a sentimentalist, but sometimes you have to accept that things are the way they are and move on. Am I right, Bob?”

“You’re right, Galen.”

Bob seemed to have the starring role here as Galen’s yes-man.

“Anyway,” Broadhurst looked at me, “if you should change your mind and think you might want to buy it, or know anyone who might, here’s my card.”

He handed it to me. I slipped it into my front pocket.

“Well,” he said, “in spite of things going a bit sour here, the documents I needed to have signed are signed, we’ve done our business, and I can be on my way.”