Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“I guess you heard what happened to that person,” Duckworth said.

“Oh yeah, terrible. Even considering everything.”

“What about that kid who ran down the girl?” Duckworth asked. “His defense that his mother’s pampering sabotaged his ability to understand the consequences of his actions.”

“The Big Baby,” Calder said.

“That’s the one. So you know the case. Did Cory ever mention it?”

The man’s face grew concerned. “Why are you asking?”

“Did he?”

“Just the other day. How could you have guessed that?”

“Have you ever heard of a website called Just Deserts?”

“What is that? Some cooking site or something?”

“No,” Duckworth said. “It’s a site that encourages vigilantism. People become heroes on that site when they’ve taken action against a person deemed to have gotten away with something. Like the man who sexually molested that girl.”

“What kind of vigilantism?” Alastair asked.

“I guess that’s up to whoever is carrying it out.” Duckworth frowned.

“So what the hell are you suggesting? That Cory is striving for recognition on this site?”

Duckworth shrugged. “Maybe it’s the shortcut to achieving a social good like his brother and sister.” He paused. “Or his mother and father.”

“This is... no, this is ridiculous. And what does that have to do with this Dolly girlfriend of his? She never did anything wrong like that.”

“Certainly not that I know of,” Duckworth said. “But that’s why it would be helpful to speak with your son.”

“Let me try him again.” Alastair snatched up the receiver and pressed that one button again. “It’s still going to message.”

“Maybe he’s expecting you to call,” Duckworth said. “And he knows it’s not going to be good news.”

Alastair cradled the receiver. “Jesus Christ,” he said. He ran his hand over his mouth nervously. “None of this makes any sense. I know what happened to that man you referenced. Craig Pierce. He was attacked by a dog. He was disfigured.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think Cory had anything to do with that?”

“Mr Calder, I’d like to have a look at Cory’s room. I can do it now, with your permission. Or I could see about getting a warrant.”

Alastair Calder sat, Buddha-like, for several seconds, not blinking, not moving. Finally he said, “You’re not going to find anything.”

“Maybe not,” Duckworth conceded. “But I’m guessing that right now, you’re as anxious as I am to find out whether I will.”

Albert Gaffney did not giggle for long.

After a very brief, giddy celebration of Ron Frommer’s demise, he began to appreciate what he had actually done.

“Oh God,” he said aloud. “Oh God oh God oh God.”

He dropped the bloodied crowbar he’d used to crack Ron Frommer’s skull. Blood continued to leak from Ron’s temple as he lay there on the ground by the back of his pickup truck.

Albert looked around, on the off chance that someone might have seen what he’d done. But the house Frommer had been working on, in his role as a renovator, was tucked into the woods off the main road. So long as squirrels could not be called to testify, Albert was probably going to be okay.

But no, he thought. I have to call the police. I have to tell them what I did.

That would be the moral thing to do, right? He’d tell the police what he’d done. Okay, he might shade things slightly. Tell them that Ron Frommer was threatening him when he grabbed the crowbar. It was self-defense.

And even if Frommer hadn’t actually been threatening him at the moment Albert struck him, he was probably going to. The man had attacked his son. He had a history.

“Yes,” Albert said under his breath. “I had to do this. I had no choice. He was attacking me. He’d attacked my son, and now he was attacking me.”

The good thing was, Ron was not going to be able to contradict his story.

They’d have to take Albert’s word for it. And let’s face it, he was the assistant manager of the Glens Falls Syracuse Savings and Loan. He was a respected member of the community. Ron Frommer, on the other hand, was—

“ Ohhhhh. ”

Albert’s head snapped around to look at Ron Frommer. The man’s eyelids were fluttering. He was trying to open his eyes.

He was alive.

“No no no no no,” Albert said.

No, wait, he thought. This was good news, wasn’t it? He hadn’t killed the man. Frommer was alive. If Albert called 911 right now and got an ambulance out here, if they got Frommer to PFG fast enough, they might be able to save him.

Yes. That was very true.

It seemed clear what the right thing to do was.

Except if Ron Frommer lived, he’d be able to tell the police that he hadn’t been threatening Albert Gaffney.

“ I was just standing there when he swung that pry bar into my fuckin’ head. Who’d have thunk it, a pussy like that? ”

But maybe, Albert thought, he’d hit Frommer hard enough that he wouldn’t remember what had actually happened. It was still going to be one man’s word against another’s.

“Fuckin’ hell, what happened?” Ron Frommer said. He reached a hand up to the side of his head, felt blood, murmured something.

A voice in Albert’s head said, Finish him off .

It would be easy enough. Ron Frommer might be alive, but he was dazed and seriously injured. All Albert had to do was pick up the crowbar and take another whack at him. One should do it. The man wouldn’t be able to offer any resistance.

He took a step over to where he’d dropped the iron bar, picked it up. He stood over Ron Frommer.

When he’d struck the man the first time, he’d been in a blind rage. He hadn’t thought about what he was doing. It was an impulse. He had acted instinctively.

But this was different. He had to make a conscious decision to end this man’s life.

He moved the crowbar from one hand to the other. When he’d hit him before, he had held it with one hand. The next time, he thought, if he used two, swung it almost like a golf club, he’d have more power behind it. He’d knock the bastard’s head clean off.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to vomit.

He turned, ran several feet to the edge of the woods, leaned over, and threw up. Three times.

I can’t do it.

He stood, took a few deep breaths, then went back to his car. He opened the trunk and dropped the crowbar in, slammed the lid. Then he went back to Frommer, got down on his knees and put his mouth up close to the man’s ear.

“Just hang in there,” he said. “I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

Frommer said, “Rmmrr.”

“Do you think you can get up?”

Frommer didn’t move.

“I’m going to get you to the car,” Albert said. “Okay? I’m going to get you to the car.”

He moved to behind Frommer’s head and got his hands under the man’s arms. Frommer was a slim build, but as a dead weight — well, almost dead — he was still a lot to carry. Albert did not have to do a lot of heavy lifting in his day job, but he managed to get a good, solid grip on the man. As he hoisted him higher, Frommer’s head almost level with his own, blood smeared his shirt and jacket and neck.

He resisted the urge to vomit again.

He dragged the man toward his car. Once he had him there, he managed to free one hand to open the back door on the driver’s side. Somehow he got Frommer inside, then had to push him onto his side and shove him across the seat so that he could get his legs in.

He slammed the door shut, leaned his back against the car and took a moment to catch his breath.