Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“All I want to do is talk to him,” he said to himself. “That’s all. Just a conversation.”

Slowly, he turned off the road and inched his way down the driveway, tires crunching gravel along the way. A few yards and the driveway turned into a clearing in the woods. In front of him stood an A-frame chalet-style house. Set up out front of it were a couple of sawhorses and a work table.

Albert stopped the car a few feet behind the pickup. The tailgate was already down, revealing various tools and lengths of lumber. Frommer, wearing a ball cap with a long visor, was already out of the truck, strapping on a work belt. When he saw Albert’s car approach, he stopped what he was doing and took off the hat.

Albert stopped the car, turned off the engine, and slowly got out.

“Hello,” Frommer said.

“Um, hello, how are you?” Albert said, taking a few steps forward, near the back of the pickup.

“Can I help ya?” Frommer said, smiling.

“You... you’re Ron? Ron Frommer?”

“I am indeed,” he said.

“You do renovations?”

He nodded agreeably. “Doing some work here on the Cunninghams’ place while they’re in Europe. Were you looking for them, or for me?’

“I was... I guess I was looking for you?”

“What’s the name?”

“Albert. My name is Albert.”

“Pleased to meet you, Albert.” Frommer extended a hand and Albert shook it. The man had a firm grip. Albert was betting his own hand felt soft in Ron’s callused one. “So again, what can I do for you?”

“I’m, uh, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“You know... well, you’ve met my son.”

Ron nodded. “Okay. What’s your son’s name?”

“Brian.” Albert watched the man’s face.

“Brian?” Ron said. “Brian who?”

“Brian Gaffney.”

Ron’s smile began to fade. “You say Brian Gaffney is your son?”

Albert nodded nervously. “I believe you met him yesterday.”

Ron put the hat back on his head. “Mister, you should turn your car around and go.”

“You... you hurt him pretty bad. He’s back in the hospital.”

“Like I said, you should go.”

Albert was tempted to take a step back, but he held his ground. “I know... I mean, I can sort of understand why you did that. Finding out your wife, finding out that she had been seeing my son, I can see why a man might lose his temper over something like that.”

Ron Frommer moved his tongue around in his mouth, poking out his left cheek, then his right.

“I’m not saying that was the right thing to do. I think you should be charged for that, I do, but all I’m saying is I understand. But that’s not what I want to ask you about.”

“Really. And what would you like to ask me about?”

“I want to know about the other thing you did to him. I want to know why you did that. ”

This was how Albert had practiced saying it, in his head, as he lay in bed. Act like he already knew Frommer had done it.

See if that shook him up.

He searched the man’s face, looking for any clue.

Ron Frommer said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Albert swallowed. “I think you know.”

Frommer studied him for another three seconds, then grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Yes?” Albert said hopefully.

“I know that only a pussy sends his daddy to settle scores.”

Albert blinked. “That’s... that’s not the issue at all. My son is not... he’s not that. He’s a good boy.”

“A boy? A good boy ?” Ron chuckled. “What is he, twelve years old?”

“Don’t say that. That’s uncalled for.”

“So little Brian sends his daddy to have a word with me. I mean, if that doesn’t prove he’s a pussy, what would? Why didn’t his mommy come too? Did she stay home to read him a story?”

“I’m going to tell the police about you,” Albert said, his voice starting to shake.

“Make sure you call the pussy police,” Frommer said. “I think they could help you. You seem pretty much like a pussy, too. Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

He turned his back and started walking toward the house.

Albert stood there, feeling the shame and humiliation wash over him like hot tar.

He’d gone face to face with this man, hoping for some sort of insight, a clue that would lead him to decide, one way or another, whether this man had anything to do with what happened to Brian.

He didn’t know any more now than he had before he got out of the car. At least, not about Ron Frommer. But he believed he had gained some insight into himself.

He was a little man.

He was a small man.

He was a pussy.

Frommer reached the sawhorses, stopped. “Fuck, where’s my saw?”

Albert glanced into the back of the pickup. There were two different power saws, a ladder, a crowbar, about twenty lengths of two-by-four.

Frommer was striding back toward the truck.

“You still here, Pussy Man?”

When Albert played this moment over and over in his mind later, he would recall that everything seemed to go red. It was as though blood had washed over his eyes.

But it wasn’t blood. It was some rage-induced optical illusion.

He had no memory of forming intent. He didn’t think to himself, “Hey, I should pick up that crowbar and swing it into that son of a bitch’s head and beat the living shit out of him with it.”

He didn’t think that.

He just did it.

He grabbed hold of the iron bar, and as Frommer rounded the end of the pickup, Albert swung with everything he had.

Frommer only had enough time to say “What the—” before the bar connected with his temple.

There was the sound of skull cracking.

Frommer dropped instantly, but before he hit the ground, his head bounced off the edge of the tailgate.

He lay there on the gravel driveway, not moving, blood streaming from his head.

Albert began to giggle uncontrollably.

Barry Duckworth called the forensics team still scouring Carol Beakman’s car for clues to tell them that when they were finished there, they’d have to come out to Dolores Guntner’s property. You’d think, a town the size of Promise Falls, one forensics team would be enough.

In the meantime, he decided to do some more scouring of his own.

Slowly, he explored every inch of the barn out back of Dolores Guntner’s house. A step-by-step search. As he began, he got out his phone and made a call.

“Dad?” said Trevor.

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“Still hanging around Carol’s apartment. She hasn’t shown up. Every time a taxi comes down the street, I look to see if it’s her. Where are you?”

“At the home of the woman who was in the trunk of Carol’s car. I found out her last name is Guntner. Heard it?”

“No, but you know when you said her name was Dolly?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m wondering if maybe I did hear that name when Carol saw the woman outside Knight’s. I thought I heard her say ‘Golly.’ You know, like golly, there’s my friend. I wonder now if she was actually saying her name.”

“Huh,” Duckworth said.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m just thinking.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you come out here?”

“Where’s here?”

Duckworth gave him directions to the Guntner house.

“I thought you didn’t want me hanging around while you were doing your investigating?” Trevor said.

“There’s something I want to ask you.”

“So ask.”

“In person.”

Trevor was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Duckworth continued with his search, slowly walking through both levels of the barn, looking for anything that might catch his eye. Although the structure did look as though it was once used for the care of livestock, not much evidence of that remained beyond a few strands of hay scattered across the floor.