Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

He opened his eyes, reached for the phone and knocked it to the floor. “Shit,” he said. He leaned down, his hand hunting in the dark for the device as it continued to buzz. He found it, hit the button to accept the call and put the phone to his ear without seeing who it was.

“Duckworth,” he said as Maureen switched on the lamp on her side of the bed.

“Barry, it’s Cal Weaver.”

“Jesus, Cal.” Duckworth threw back the covers and planted his feet on the floor. “What’s happening?”

“A lot. Your guy Calder was here. We met him on the beach today.”

“Tell me everything.”

Weaver brought him up to speed, ending with the fire at Madeline Plimpton’s beach house, how it was designed to force them out of the house so they could be shot.

“I knew you were there,” Duckworth said. “I knew Jeremy Pilford had been staying with her. Went there today, met her and the boy’s mother and her boyfriend. Warned them about Calder. He torched the beach house?”

Weaver said no, that he’d caught a man named Gregor Kiln.

“I’ll check into him,” Duckworth said.

“I don’t think this is related to the social-media outrage surrounding Jeremy,” Weaver said. “This Kiln has the ring of a professional about him.”

“I’m on it.”

“And I need another favor. A number I want you to check. It’s probably a burner, not traceable.”

Duckworth reached for the pad and pen he always kept by the bed, tucked the phone between head and shoulder, and said, “Fire away.”

Cal gave him the number.

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“And assuming it is a burner, and we can’t attach a name to the phone, I’ve got something I want to try.”

Cal told Duckworth what he wanted to do, and what he thought he might need from Duckworth to make it happen.

“And I need you to talk to the locals here,” he added, “and have them keep a lid on things. At least for twelve hours.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Nothing gets out about what happened here beyond the fire.”

“I said I’d do my best,” Duckworth said. “And I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“We’ve got a missing-woman case. Carol Beakman. I think her disappearance is linked to this Calder character.”

Maureen suddenly sat up in bed.

“What do you think’s happened to her?” Weaver asked.

“I’m fearing the worst.”

“Shoot me a picture. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Will do.”

“Local cops are here,” Weaver said. “Gotta go. I’ll get the name of whoever’s in charge and text it to you.”

“Good. How’s the kid?”

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s okay,” Weaver said. “Can’t get into it now, but there’s something not right there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Later.”

“Okay. And when the dust settles, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“Later,” Duckworth said. He ended the call, set the phone down and stood up out of bed.

“Carol?” Maureen said.

“Nothing,” he said. “But Cal encountered Calder in Cape Cod. We know he’s been there, and still might be. I need to get on to the Mass state police.”

Duckworth reached for his pants, pulled them on, then went to the closet for a fresh shirt.

“What’s the thing you want to talk to him about?” Maureen asked.

Duckworth found a white shirt that still had a cleaning tag attached and removed it from the hanger. “Career advice,” he said.

As Cory inserted the key into the cabin door, he considered ways to get rid of the body.

He hadn’t thought things through very well when it came to his girlfriend. Carol’s car with Dolly’s body had to have been found by now. He should have taken more care, thought of a way that neither of those things would have been discovered for some time, if ever. He had to admit it. He’d panicked. Had he had more time to think things through, he could have run them off a bridge, for example. Left them at the bottom of a river.

He needed to do something like that with Carol’s body.

Once she was dead, he’d put her in the van and look for a suitable spot to dispose of her. Deep in a forest, say. Maybe he’d get lucky and find a shovel in the cabin somewhere that he could take with him. He’d dig a deep hole, toss her in, cover her up. Someone might find her some day, but it could be weeks, even years.

At least now he had more time to do things properly. When he was getting rid of Dolly and Carol’s car, he was working to a deadline. He was on the trail of Jeremy Pilford and didn’t want to lose him.

Well, so much for that project now.

Cory’s priority was saving his own ass.

He got the door open but did not run his hand along the wall searching for the light switch. He couldn’t have anyone looking in, certainly not as the road began to fill up with gawkers and emergency equipment. Even with the flimsy curtains pulled across the windows, the silhouette of a man moving a woman’s body was very likely to attract attention.

He would kill Beakman — smothering her seemed the best way to go — then move her body out and wipe down the cabin. Doorknobs, toilet handle, anything he could think of he might have touched. Leave no personal traces behind. Get behind the wheel and slowly drive away.

Cory knew he could never go home again, that he had seen his father for the last time. He was simultaneously depressed and delighted. He loved the man, at some level, but despised him, too.

The relentless belittling with a dollop of tenderness. “ You should try harder to make something of yourself, but maybe you are what you are. ” Followed by a look of resignation and disappointment.

He slipped into the cabin and closed the door silently behind him. Even though it had been dark outside, his eyes needed to adjust further to the gloom of the cabin. But he was able to make out the basic shapes of its contents. The wooden table and four mismatched antique chairs in the center of the room. The sink and counter along one wall. The wood-burning heater on the opposite side of the room, the chimney pipe leading straight up and through the ceiling.

And, finally, the two beds along the left wall. One empty, one not.

Yes, suffocation seemed the simplest way to go. Clamp a hand over her mouth, squeeze her nostrils shut, and wait until the life was snuffed out of her.

You did what you had to do.

He worked his way carefully across the darkened room and stood beside the bed.

“Everything’s gone wrong,” he said. “It’s all gone to shit. Someone else tried to do it, and he fucked it up. I’ve lost my chance. I have to leave.” He paused. “I can’t take you with me. At least, not... Well, I can’t. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand out to rest it on her back. He felt a strange need to comfort her before he did what he had to do.

But his hand found nothing. It went all the way down to the surface of the bed. Frantically, he patted the bed from head to foot.

“Where are you?” he shouted, turning sharply to look into the dark room.

His first thought was that if she’d managed to get loose, she wouldn’t have stayed around to await his return. She must be gone.

But then he thought he heard breathing.

Someone else was in the room.

“Where are you?” he said again, rising off the bed and whirling around, just in time to see a shadowy figure swinging something his way.

The steel poker from the wood-burning stove caught him across the side of the head and he staggered across the room. Feebly he raised his arm to ward off a second blow, but the poker hit him so hard he was sure he felt the bone in his forearm snap.