Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

I didn’t want to leave Jeremy alone, so I had him come back to the room with me. We quickly packed — we hardly had anything anyway — and headed back down to the lobby, where I paid our bill.

The man at the front desk said, “That sure was something.”

“Huh?”

“Out front this morning,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. Do you know what the cops did with those two?”

He shook his head. “Took some statements then let them go on their way, far as I could tell.”

I grunted. Then I thought of something.

“Did you have anyone staying here last night with a black van?”

The man grinned. “Is that a serious question?”

“I saw one driving out of the lot about the time of the accident. I thought it might be someone I know.”

“Sir, we take down car makes and license plate info, but I couldn’t tell you if we had a guest with a black van.”

“Sure, of course,” I said. “Dumb question.”

I thought about asking if they had video surveillance, and if they did, whether they would let me have a look at it. But, assuming they even allowed it, what was the point? So maybe someone else, someone with a black van, wanted to catch a picture of Jeremy out in the wild. What of it? Whoever it was, he was one of many. I couldn’t be chasing them all down.

Walking to my Honda, Jeremy said, “What black van?’

“Probably nothing,” I said.

We tossed our bags in the trunk and got settled in up front. “I think I saw a diner a couple of blocks from here. Sound good?”

Another whisper. “Sure.”

We’d passed a Bette’s Grill on the way to the hospital. I found it again and pulled into the lot. The place wasn’t slammed. The breakfast crowd was done, and the lunch hour was still thirty minutes away. We were about to be shown to a table when Jeremy stopped dead in his tracks. Head down, arms hanging straight at his sides.

“Jeremy?”

His eyes were sealed shut, his lips pressed together.

“Jeremy, talk to me.”

His shoulders were trembling. The kid, I believed, was on the verge of some kind of meltdown.

“Never mind,” I said to the waitress.

I put an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders and directed him back out of the restaurant to the parking lot. I got him as far as the car before his legs began to weaken. It was like the boy was melting. He went down to his knees, almost in slow motion. I knelt down with him, turned him so that I could rest his back against the car.

A woman walking by said, “You okay?”

I smiled and raised my hand. “We’re good.”

I settled down beside him. I still had my arm around his shoulders and pulled him in to me. I don’t know whether that caused what happened next, or just allowed it to happen sooner.

He sobbed. He sobbed so hard his body shook.

I didn’t know what else to do but hold onto him. I could have told him everything was going to be okay, but he probably wouldn’t have believed it any more than I did. His life was a mess. Where to begin? He was responsible for a young woman’s death, his home life was chaotic, and the entire world hated him. Even his father didn’t want to spend any real time with him. The boy had been reduced online to a caricature. A whining, pampered infant.

But he was more than that.

All I could think to say was “Let it out.”

He let it out.

A few more people walked by, giving us curious glances, but I waved them away with my eyes before any of them asked questions or offered help.

Jeremy mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“What was that?” I asked.

This time, I heard it, although only barely. He said, “I want to die.”

I squeezed his shoulder a little harder. “No. I mean, yeah, I believe you. But no.”

He cried for another couple of minutes. The front of my shirt was wet with tears and snot. He slipped from my grasp, dug into his pocket, and brought out some ragged tissues.

“I got more in the car,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

He dabbed his eyes and blew his nose. Then he just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying to regain his composure.

“Feel good to let it out?” I asked.

“Maybe a little.”

There was a muffled rumbling sound. Jeremy looked at me and said, “What was that?”

“That was my stomach,” I said. “I am, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking starving.”

He actually laughed, briefly. “Yeah, I guess I could eat something too. But I can’t go back in there.” He was looking at Bette’s. “Everybody in there has seen me losing it. They’ll all be staring at me. Can we go someplace else?”

“Sure.”

He got up first. I extended a hand and he helped me up. He might have been the one with the emotional breakdown, but I was the one with old knees.

I unlocked the car and we got back in.

“I don’t care about going to New York,” he said as I keyed the ignition.

“Yeah, well, there may be a change of plan anyway,” I told him.

“What?”

“I’m waiting on a call from your great-aunt. I’ll let you know after she gets back to me.”

He nodded complacently.

“Jeremy,” I said gently, as we left the diner parking lot, “during the trial, and since — ever since all this first happened — have they gotten any help for you?”

“Help?”

“You know. A counselor? Someone you could talk to about all the shit that’s happened?”

He shook his head. “Like a shrink?”

“Yeah, like a shrink, but not necessarily.”

“My mom said what I needed more than anything was love.”

“Yeah, well, that’s nice, no doubt about it. But when you say something like what you said a few minutes ago, that tells me maybe you need somebody to talk to about those, you know, kinds of feelings.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I like talking to you.”

“I’m not a professional,” I told him.

“Maybe I don’t need a professional,” he said. “I just need someone who gives a shit.”

Did I give a shit? I guessed I did, to a point.

My eyes were looking about half a mile ahead. “I think that’s another diner.”

“Okay. Do I have to get breakfast stuff?”

“You can get whatever you want.”

My cell phone rang. I fumbled for it in my jacket, put it to my ear.

“Weaver,” I said.

“It’s Madeline Plimpton.”

“Hi.”

“The beach house is available.”

“Okay.”

“Let me give you the name of the real-estate agent who manages it for me.”

“I’m driving. But can you tell me where the house is, roughly?” She told me, and to be sure I had it right, I repeated the house number. “And you said North Shore Boulevard in East Sandwich?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you send me all the other details in an email?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Does anyone else know that we’re going there?”

“Just the real-estate person,” she replied.

“Let’s keep it that way,” I said, glancing occasionally in my rear-view mirror. I kept wondering if I’d see that black van again.

“Fine,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How are things there?” I asked.

“What a joy to spend time with family,” she said. “Keep us posted of any developments, please, Mr. Weaver.”

“Sure.”

She ended the call.

“What’s going on?” Jeremy said.

“I don’t suppose you packed a bathing suit,” I said. “I know I didn’t. Although, this time of year, water’s probably still too cold to swim in.”

“Huh?”

“We’re going to Cape Cod.”

“Oh,” he said.

I turned in to the second restaurant, switched off the engine, and pulled up on the emergency brake, as was my habit.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. I whipped my head to the side, looked at Jeremy and snapped, “What was that you said before?”