Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“Yeah, of course. That’s just smart.”

“Can you tell me a little more about the car again?”

“Well, it’s a 1978. It’s got just over forty thousand original miles on it. I’ve got all the receipts for the work that’s been done on it over the years. It’s a Targa, so it’s got the removable roof panels. All Porsche parts on any of the work that’s been done. Tires have almost no wear on them.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It’s immaculate. I guess I’m surprised you’d be in the market for it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well,” and now it was Broadhurst’s turn to laugh, “that shitbox you were driving didn’t exactly suggest to me that you’re a car nut.”

“Pretty hard to do surveillance work in a Porsche,” I said. “I know a sports car isn’t meant to be luxurious, but does it have air?”

“No A/C,” he said. “When it’s hot out, you take the roof off, turn it more or less into a convertible.”

“And it’s automatic transmission?” I asked.

A sharp intake of breath. “Are you kidding me? It’s a stick. You don’t want a car like that with an automatic.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Just asking. Wouldn’t want it any other way. Look, let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay. You want to take it for a spin, have some guy check it out, let me know.”

“Got it. Take care.”

“So long.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. Stood there leaning up against the Honda, staring at the grocery store.

Thinking.

Finally, I went inside, where I found Jeremy pushing a nearly empty cart. When he saw me, he reached in, showed me the only thing he’d found so far.

“I got the Oreos,” he said.

Albert Gaffney lay awake most of the night wondering what he should do.

Should he call the police about Ron Frommer? It was possible Frommer was the one who’d kidnapped Brian and tattooed his back, but then again, was it likely? There was no strong evidence that he’d done it. Not that he didn’t have a motive for being angry with Brian. If Frommer knew Brian had been fooling around with his wife, Jessica, well, just about anyone might lose their cool in a situation like that.

But what he’d actually done to Brian — knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs — sounded more like what a guy would do to another guy who’d slept with his wife. Pure, straightforward violence. And in a way, you could almost excuse someone for that. Albert was certainly not going to forgive the man for beating up his son, but given the circumstances, well, you could kind of understand where he was coming from.

Really, though, would Frommer abduct Brian and drug him and tattoo something that made no apparent sense onto his back? But then again, someone had done it. And regardless of who it turned out to be, it still wasn’t likely to make any sense, Albert figured.

He considered his options. He could, in the morning, call that Duckworth guy and tell him what had happened to Brian when he went to visit Jessica Frommer. At least that way, Frommer would be on Duckworth’s radar. Let the police figure out whether he’d had anything to do with what happened to Brian during those two lost days.

The only problem was, Brian did not want his father to do that. He was worried that Ron Frommer, who gave every indication of having a short fuse, would hurt Jessica if the police were called. Not because he’d suspect her of calling them — although he might — but because he was the kind of guy who, when upset, lashed out at whoever was close at hand.

What to do what to do what to do?

The other option, the one that had been keeping Albert awake and staring at the ceiling, was to talk to Ron Frommer himself.

Confront the man. But not, you know, is a really confrontational way. Approach him in a semi-public place, ask him flat out whether he was the one who’d done that horrible thing to his son. Of course, he’d deny it either way, but if Albert got the sense he was lying, at that point, he’d go straight to Duckworth with his suspicions.

No matter how Brian felt.

The thing was, Monica was right. Albert did not like confrontations. Wasn’t that why he’d had so much trouble standing up to his own wife all these years? But this — this was different.

This was about his son.

This was about Brian.

By the time he got up the next morning, he had decided what he would do. He would, first of all, tell them he was not coming into the bank today. Albert Gaffney was the assistant manager of the Glens Falls branch of the Syracuse Savings and Loan, north of Promise Falls. An excruciatingly boring job in a mind-numbing office, it suited Albert Gaffney just fine. He went in every day, added up numbers, made sure things balanced, checked to make sure the pens at the tellers’ windows had ink in them.

In the twenty-two years he had worked there, they had had not one single holdup. They had discussed firing their security guard, an elderly man who slept through most of his shift, to save some money, but when the guard got wind of it, he offered to do the job for fifty per cent less.

“It’s better than sitting at home,” he said.

Albert believed that his time at the bank had taught him how to read people. So if this Frommer character lied to him, Albert figured he would know.

When Constance heard her husband booking off work, she assumed it was so that he could spend the day at the hospital with Brian, who had been readmitted to finish the tests he’d walked out on the day before, and to be treated for his bruises. That was, in fact, the reason Albert had given for not coming to work. But when Constance asked what time they were going to go over, Albert said he had some errands to run first.

“What errands?” she wanted to know.

“Just errands,” he said, and fled the house before a full-fledged interrogation was under way.

He drove to the address Brian had given him the day before for the Frommers. By seven thirty in the morning, he was parked on their street, a few houses down. Fifteen minutes later, a man Albert assumed was Ron Frommer came out of the house, got into a pickup truck, and backed it out of the driveway. Albert was able to make out the words “Frommer Renovations” on the door.

When the pickup moved up the street, Albert put his beige four-door sedan into drive and followed. Maybe, he thought, Frommer would stop someplace for coffee. That would be a good place to approach him, where there were lots of other people around. Frommer wasn’t going to try anything violent when there were plenty of witnesses.

Or so Albert hoped.

Albert was not what one would call skilled in self-defence. He had never taken karate or judo classes. In school, he did not go for organized sports. In college, he was not on the football team.

Sometimes he played golf.

Frommer drove past several places where he could have bought coffee. A Dunkin Donuts, a McDonald’s, a couple of local diners.

So much for that idea.

His route was taking him out of town. Albert was thinking maybe he should have googled Ron Frommer before heading out this morning. Maybe he could have found out where he worked. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t thought this through as well as he could have.

About five miles out of Promise Falls, along a wooded stretch of highway, Frommer put on his blinker and turned into a driveway. As far as Albert could tell, there was nothing to turn into there.

Just woods.

The truck disappeared down a gravel road.

Albert slowed the car and pulled over to the shoulder. Where had Frommer gone? Should he follow?

He sat there, listening to the engine idle. Gripped the steering wheel tightly. Felt sweat soaking his shirt under his arms.