Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

Gloria moved the two men aside so I could view the young man slouching in the wicker chair at the end of the porch. Extending her arm in a kind of ta da! gesture, she said, “And last but not least, my son, Jeremy.”

The young man had slid so far down the chair I was worried he might hit the floor. He had the rigidity of boneless chicken. His head was inches from where the cushions met, his eyes focused on the phone he held firmly in his lap in both hands. His thumbs were moving rapidly.

His great-aunt, Ms. Plimpton, had said he was eighteen, but he could have passed for twenty or twenty-one. Short black hair, pasty complexion, as though he’d spent more time looking at video screens than running bases. It was hard to tell how tall he was, given his slithered state, but under six feet.

Without looking away from his phone, he said, “Hey.”

“Jeremy, for God’s sake, shake the man’s hand,” his mother said, like I was a puppy she wanted him to pet.

“It’s okay,” I said, raising a palm. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

Gloria smiled awkwardly at me. “Please excuse him. He’s tired, and he’s been under a great deal of stress.”

“We all have,” Bob Butler said.

Gloria had referred to Bob as her friend and partner. He wasn’t the boy’s father. That much seemed clear.

“Of course,” I said.

“Jeremy,” Gloria said, her voice struggling to stay upbeat, “can I get you anything?”

He grunted.

She turned to me for another chance at hospitality. “How about you, Mr. Weaver? A drink?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Your aunt served tea.”

She sighed and said quietly, “I could use something stronger. Why don’t we move this conversation to the kitchen.”

Grant Finch put a friendly hand atop my shoulder as we — all of us except Jeremy — left the sunroom. “We’ve all been through a lot, but at least we’re coming out the other side of the nightmare,” he said.

Seconds later we were standing around the kitchen island while Gloria opened the oversized stainless-steel refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine.

“Anyone?” she asked.

There were no takers.

I said, “Maybe you could tell me about the harassment you’ve been getting.”

“It hasn’t just been Jeremy,” Gloria said over the pop of the cork. The bottle was already half empty. “I’ve been getting my fair share too. People are saying unbelievable things about me on the Internet. That I’m the worst mother in the world.” Another sigh. “Maybe it’s true.”

“It certainly isn’t,” said Bob. “Gloria loves Jeremy more than anything in the world. She’s a wonderful mother. I’ve seen that first hand.”

Ms. Plimpton was stone-faced. She turned away and went to the dining room to bring in the teapot and cups.

I looked at Bob. “You and Ms. Pilford...” I let the sentence dangle.

Gloria moved in close to Bob and slipped her arm into his, then displayed her hand so I wouldn’t miss the rock on her finger. “Bob and I are engaged. The one bright spot in my life these days.” She grimaced. “No, I take that back. Jeremy not going to jail, that was a wonderful thing.”

Bob smiled uncomfortably. “Gloria just needs to sort some things out before we can get married. But we’ve been together a few years now.”

Gloria nodded. “Once I’m finally free of Jack, we can move forward. That’s my ex.” She rolled her eyes. “Just waiting for the divorce to go through. Bob’s been so patient. He’s been so good to me.”

And then she dug her teeth into her lower lip.

“Well,” I said. “That’s great.”

“And my other hero is this man right here,” she said, indicating Grant Finch. “If it weren’t for him, my boy’d be in jail right now.” She gave Bob’s arm a squeeze. “I can thank you for Grant.”

Bob said, “Well, me and Galen.”

At the mention of that name, Gloria slipped her arm out of Bob’s and went back to find a glass for her wine.

Bob continued, “It was Galen who put me on to Grant. When Jeremy had his troubles, Galen immediately thought of Grant and it was a terrific recommendation.”

“Galen?” I said.

Bob nodded at my puzzlement. “Sorry. Galen Broadhurst. My business associate. I’m in real estate, land development, that kind of thing.”

“Is he here?” I asked.

“He actually said he might be coming up later today.”

“We just couldn’t have done it without you, Grant,” Gloria said to Finch, pouring wine into a long-stemmed glass. Her eyes narrowed. “Even if you did make me look like a fool in the process.”

It was the first thing she’d said that sounded like it was straight from the heart.

“Well,” Grant said, “we all wanted the same thing. To keep Jeremy out of jail. He didn’t deserve that fate.”

“He certainly didn’t,” Gloria said evenly.

“What about Jeremy’s father?” I asked. “Jack, you said?”

Gloria sipped — maybe gulped would be a better word — her first mouthful from the glass. “We split up three years ago.” She shook her head. “He’s not a tenth the businessman Bob is.” A pause. “Not that that had anything to do with our breaking up.”

“It’s all very complicated,” Bob said. He forced a grin. “Isn’t everything?”

“No kidding,” Gloria said.

“What about during the trial?” I asked. “Was Jack involved?”

“Involved how?” Gloria asked.

I shrugged. “Financially? Moral support?”

“Yeah, right,” Gloria said with another eye roll.

“Maybe if you hadn’t shut him out, he’d have tried harder to be there for Jeremy,” Bob Butler said. He looked at me. “I paid most of Jeremy’s legal costs. Grant Finch doesn’t come cheap.”

Finch tried to look embarrassed, but he couldn’t pull it off.

Bob continued. “Galen helped with Grant’s bill too. He felt something of an obligation. I mean, no offense, Gloria, but there was no way you could have afforded it.”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” It was hard to hear the gratitude in the comment.

Bob threw up his hands. “Well, anyway, I’m sure you’re not interested in all this background, Mr. Weaver. I’m guessing you’d like to know more about the matter at hand.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Gloria,” he said, “show him your phone.”

She went for her purse, which was hanging on one of the chairs. She rooted around, brought out an iPhone, and started tapping away.

“Okay,” she said, handing the phone to me. “That’s my Facebook page. Look at some of the things people have posted on my timeline. There were a whole bunch more but I deleted them. These have come in since breakfast.”

I looked at the screen. A sampling:

You’re the big baby not your son.

Worst mother in the United States of Amerika.

Kids have to know there is consequences. I feel sorry for your stupid kid having a mother like you. Your own mother must have screwed up big time to make you such an asshole.

And a simple, straightforward expression of opinion: Eat shit.

Gloria, who was standing close enough that she was reading them along with me, pointed to that last one and said quietly, “Let me delete that right now. I don’t want Madeline to see it.”

“Don’t want me to see what?” Ms. Plimpton said, returning from the dining room with a tray of cups and milk and sugar.

“Nothing,” Gloria said. She deleted the comment. “Okay, keep going.”

I read a few more.

You’re kid should dye and so should you.

How do you sleep at night when your son is free but the girl he killed will be dead forever?