Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

Yeah, that could work.

Cory Calder realized he was very nervous. Far more nervous than he’d been when they’d grabbed Pierce or Gaffney. Those two weren’t armed, and once they were knocked out, they didn’t present any physical threat.

This time, it was different.

But he’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to pack it in. He was going to do this, he was going to shoot those two bastards and maybe even stay long enough to get a picture of a dead Big Baby that he could upload to the Just Deserts site, and then everyone in the world would know—

What the hell?

A bright flickering appeared at the perimeter of the beach house. It had started in one spot, then quickly spread around the building.

It was a fire.

Cory squinted. He made out a shadowy figure, carrying something long, running from the corner of the building to the boardwalk. The man — Cory was pretty sure it was a man — went up the boardwalk steps two at a time, then took a position at the midpoint.

What was happening? What was going on?

He very quickly figured that out. Someone else was out to steal the glory from him.

Someone else was going to get Pilford.

“It’s not fair!” he whispered to himself. “It’s not fair!”

He stepped out from behind the hedge at the end of the gravel driveway that led up to the beach house. Frustration coursed through him like an electric charge. What should he do?

With the house on fire, Pilford and the old man were likely to come charging out at any moment. But from which door? There was already fire trailing across the one they’d used to go inside. The glass doors that led to the deck were on the bay side, and it looked as though this other guy, who appeared to be carrying a rifle, was waiting for Pilford to come out that way.

So he could shoot him.

“No!” Cory said aloud. “It’s not right.”

But what was he to do? If he wanted to shoot Pilford himself, he was going to have to shoot this — this interloper — first. Which meant that now he would have to shoot three people instead of two.

He began to hyperventilate.

How dare this person steal his thunder? How dare he go after the glory that Cory had worked so hard to achieve?

The fire was spreading quickly. Lights that had been on in the beach house now were off. Cory could see the man on the boardwalk aiming the rifle at the building. Pilford and the old dude were probably making their escape onto the deck now.

But the man did not shoot.

Suddenly, the back door opened. Cory could make out the man and the kid. The man had something in his hand — a fire extinguisher! — and he put out enough of the flames to allow them to exit the house.

Maybe this was his chance.

But then Pilford disappeared from view, and his babysitter was seeking cover behind the Honda. The man on the boardwalk was heading this way, and—

Shots!

What the hell was going on?

Cory moved deeper into the bushes on the other side of North Shore Boulevard. He could not believe what he was seeing. The man who’d been on the boardwalk going down, the older guy getting the drop on him.

Where was Jeremy? Where had he gone?

He hadn’t come this way. He must have run to one of the neighboring beach houses to hide.

Should he go look for him? Cory wondered. Or was he taking a risk even being here? What with that fire starting to consume the beach house, and now gunfire, it was only a matter of time before emergency vehicles started descending on this scene like flies on shit.

Cory didn’t just have to get away from this beach house, he had to get out of here completely. And that meant hightailing it back to his cabin, getting in his van and getting the fuck out of here.

Just one small problem there.

Dolly’s friend.

He couldn’t leave her in the cabin. He might still need her for leverage. Even if he got away from Cape Cod without attracting attention, they were still going to be looking for him in connection with everything else.

So he was going to have to move her from the bed to the car without anyone seeing him. Luckily, his cabin was far enough down the road that he thought he could manage that without being seen.

Yeah, except everything else had gone to shit so far. Why not that?

As he ran back to the cabin, he felt his eyes misting up with tears.

“Everything is against me,” he muttered to himself. “God hates me! Everyone hates me!”

As he ran, he wiped tears from his eyes. The cool night wind coming off Cape Cod Bay chilled his dampened cheeks.

“Not fair,” he said again. “Not fair!”

While he still wanted to kill the Big Baby, he wanted to do something even worse, if that were possible, to that asshole with the rifle who had ruined everything.

He stopped to dig a tissue from his pocket and dab the tears that continued to puddle from his eyes.

All he’d ever wanted was to be somebody.

No, not just somebody. He wanted to be somebody better . Somebody better than his brother and his sister. Somebody better than his judgmental father. Somebody who made a difference, somebody who would be talked about for years to come.

He’d come so close to that.

He felt an aching sadness wash over him. What he wished, right now, was that he was home. That he was curled up on the couch in the basement under a blanket, knees pulled up to his chest, in front of the TV.

He could cry all he wanted then.

But he couldn’t do that now. He had to keep moving.

A thought occurred to him.

Maybe they wouldn’t catch him for the things he’d already done. He’d harbored a sense of inevitability up to now, figuring that sooner or later the police would close in on him. It was the whole reason he’d brought Carol Beakman with him. A hostage had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But if he got in that van right now and drove through the night, he could be hundreds of miles from here by tomorrow. He could ditch the van, steal a car, and keep on going. Two or three days from now, he could be on the other side of the country. He could find a place to hide out while he figured out his next step. Figure out a way to change his identity. Alter his looks. Get some kind of job where you got paid in cash. It would be tough at first, but it sure beat the alternative of spending the rest of his life in prison.

Yeah, that was a plan.

But it raised another question.

What was he to do with the Beakman woman? Let her go? Leave her tied up in the cabin to be found by someone in a few days?

Suppose the police did eventually catch him? Charged him with various offences? They’d need witnesses to convict.

Craig Pierce hadn’t seen him. Pierce had been masked.

Brian Gaffney hadn’t seen him. Gaffney had been drugged and blindfolded.

Dolly Guntner certainly wasn’t in a position to say anything bad about him.

Which left Carol Beakman. Carol had seen him. And while she didn’t actually see him kill Dolly, if the police ever spoke with her, she’d be able to tell them it couldn’t have been anyone else but him.

As far as Cory could figure, the only living witness to his crimes was Carol Beakman.

He was nearly back to the cabin.

It seemed clear what he had to do.

And he’d have to do it fast.

“Where’s the other one?” I asked the man I’d shot. “Where’s Calder?”

“Jesus!” the man said, putting his hand to his right cheek, where my foot had connected. There was blood seeping through the shoulder of his jacket.

“Where is he?” I yelled, again, wanting to be sure I was heard over the roar of the fire. The heat was getting intense — it felt like a hot pan pressed up against my right cheek — and if I was going to continue asking this son of a bitch questions, I was going to have to drag him away from the blaze.