Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“Hmph?” He had a mouthful of something.

I went to the top of the circular metal staircase. Evenly and calmly, I said, “We’re leaving.”

“Hmm?”

“Pack. And turn off any lights downstairs. Now. Work the best you can in the dark. Get your stuff. Quick as you can.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, his mouth now clear of food.

“Do it.”

Three seconds later, the lights downstairs died. The staircase was only wide enough for one, so Jeremy waited at the bottom while I came down. His bedroom was up, mine below. We went into our respective rooms to throw our things together. I had my suitcase on the bed and my stuff dumped into it in under a minute. One thing I held onto was my gun.

I became aware that a light had come back on. Softly, I called upstairs to Jeremy. “I told you, lights out.”

“I didn’t do it,” he said. “I thought that was you.”

It was then I realized that the light wasn’t inside the house. It was coming in through the windows. I turned my head quickly to look through the pane of glass in the back door, thinking maybe someone was shining their headlights up against the house.

It wasn’t headlights. It was fire. And it wasn’t coming from just that side of the house, either. Within seconds I could see flames leaping up past the windows on all four sides.

Someone was torching the beach house.

Maureen Duckworth, dressed in a robe that she had cinched at the waist, found her husband sitting at the kitchen table, still in his suit, tie askew, a few minutes before midnight. A half-full bottle of beer sat in front of him, as well as his phone and a bottle of Tylenol.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I need a minute, that’s all.”

She sat down across from him. “Trevor and I were in touch all day.”

Duckworth nodded solemnly. “Me too. I didn’t see his car out front.”

“He’s still sitting in the parking lot at Carol’s apartment.”

“My God, it’s been like seventeen hours.”

“He’s still hoping she’ll come home.”

Duckworth’s head went slowly up and down. “Yeah,” he said.

“ Is she coming home?” his wife asked.

“I don’t honestly know. Maybe I should go see him. Wait with him.”

She placed a hand over his. “You can’t go out again. You look like you can barely keep your eyes open.”

He put the bottle to his lips, tipped it back. “He showed me his tattoo.”

“He told me.”

Duckworth’s eyes started to mist. He had to look away from Maureen. He stared at the window and the darkness that lay beyond. “I had no idea.”

“He loves you. He respects you.”

Duckworth shrugged.

“Stop it,” Maureen said. “You two may butt heads now and then, but you’re his hero.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know.” He paused. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. Like where Carol is. She’s out there somewhere. She may be with this Calder character. But is she alive?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I’d say the odds aren’t good.”

“You haven’t told Trevor that.”

“No, I haven’t.”

They were both quiet for several moments. Finally Maureen said, “What’s with the Tylenol?”

“I hurt.”

He told her about what had happened at Eleanor Beecham’s house. Getting shoved about by Norma and Harvey. Punched in the chest.

“They were both arrested and charged with assaulting an officer,” he said. “Social services swooped in to deal with Mrs. Beecham. That guy whose back got tattooed? His father showed up just in time. Saved my ass.”

”Well. Lucky he was there.”

“Yeah.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Kind of all over.”

“Point.”

Duckworth thought a moment, then raised his hand into the air, pointed down toward his head, and twirled his finger around. “That general area.”

She smiled. “You look exhausted.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“I mean, all the time. Ever since what happened a year ago.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think about it a lot. Randy phoned me, begged me to come to the memorial. Wants to give me a stupid plaque.”

Maureen nodded. “I think you should go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you should. People are grateful for what you did. Let them show you.” She hesitated. “He called me, too.”

“Finley called you?”

“He asked me to talk you into it.”

Duckworth grinned. “The bastard. He told me a memorial without me present would be like a massage without a happy ending.”

“He phrased it a little differently with me,” Maureen said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was up to you. It’s all up to you.”

He studied her face. “What if I wanted to quit? Take early retirement. Do something else.”

“That’d be up to you too.”

“You’d like me to, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve never said that. You’re doing what you love. I couldn’t ask you to give that up.”

He flipped his hand over and squeezed hers. “I think about it once in a while.”

“About quitting?”

He nodded very slowly. “It’s a young man’s game.” He gave a wry smile. “It’s a thinner man’s game, too.”

She got out of her chair, came around the table, sat on the one next to him. She leaned her body into his, rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ll go along with whatever you decide, but it has to be what you want. I don’t want you doing it for me.”

“Why would that be so bad?”

Maureen shifted in her chair, her knees touching his thigh. She leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Someone needs to shave,” she said.

“I’m going for the Miami Vice look.”

“My God, how long ago was that?”

She gave him another kiss, then cupped his chin with her hand and turned his head to her. She touched her lips to his and held them there for several seconds. Duckworth raised a hand and rested it on her cheek.

“I love you, you know,” she said.

“For the life of me I don’t know why,” he said.

“Oh shut up.”

“You’d been out with some hot guys but settled on me.”

“I never settle.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. But you could have done better.”

“And you could have done a lot worse,” she said, and gave him another quick kiss. “I picked you.” She grinned. “No one else came close.”

He held his wife in his arms as he said, “I had to call Cal Weaver today. You remember him?”

“Of course.”

“Left him a message.” He reached for his phone, flipped it over, brought it to life for a second. “I wish he’d call me back. Anyway, I was thinking about what he does.”

“Working privately, you mean?” She linked her fingers at the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Getting to pick and choose what you do, instead of having to deal with everything that drops into your lap.”

“You want to be peeping into people’s bedrooms, gathering evidence for divorce cases? That’s beneath you. I can’t see you being happy doing that.”

“I don’t think Cal does a lot of that kind of work.”

“If he gets hungry enough, I bet he does.”

Duckworth shrugged. “Maybe. But you know, if I quit, I’d qualify for a pension already. Not a huge one. But I could supplement it with private work. I’d still get to do what I’m good at, but with less risk.”

“Cal doesn’t face risks?”

“Maybe sometimes. But nothing all that serious.”

Albert Gaffney was slumped on the couch watching NCIS on the TV when his wife came in and sat down on the recliner.