Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“She didn’t come in today.”

“No. They tried her at home, and on her cell. No answer. So I tried her cell, too, and I haven’t been able to get her.” His chin quivered. “I’m starting to get a little worried.”

“Has Georgina ever gone missing before?”

Blackmore glanced away. “Not exactly.”

“That’s a yes-or-no question, Professor.”

“No. She hasn’t gone missing before. She’s gone off by herself for a while, to collect her thoughts.”

Carlson said, “Why don’t you come with me down to the station and I can take down all your wife’s information? A full description, what kind of car she drives, people she might be in touch with, and if you have a picture of her, that would be—”

“No,” the professor said abruptly. “It’s okay. I’m sure everything’s okay. It’s probably what I just said. She just needs some alone time. That’s all.”

“You were discussing this with Clive Duncomb? When I walked in?”

Blackmore nodded. “Yes. Clive’s a good friend. And a good adviser.”

“But he didn’t suggest you call the police.”

“Not... just yet,” Blackmore admitted.

“That seems to be his style.”

Blackmore took a step back, his eyes filled with apprehension since the mention of Duncomb.

“You know what? Forget I even talked to you. I’m sure Georgina’s fine — she might even be home now. I’m just overreacting. And please, don’t mention to Clive that I approached you. He can get quite territorial about these things.”

“And how about the other thing?” Carlson asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“When you were leaving Duncomb’s office. You asked if you were okay on the other thing, and he said it was in hand, not to worry. Did that have to do with your wife, Professor Blackmore? Or was that something else altogether?”

The man paled. “I still have some tweaks to do on my lecture, and I deliver it in an hour, so I better go.”

Blackmore turned and ran off, like a dog that had been yanked away with an invisible leash.

Detective Duckworth found Lionel Grayson in the Constellation Drive-in office, pacing the floor, cell phone to his ear, talking with someone from his insurance company.

“What do you mean, I might not be covered?” Grayson shouted. “What are you talking about? Yes, yes, I was going to bring down the screen anyway, but I’m not talking about that. I don’t care about that! I’m talking about the people who died! On my property! Four people! And all the other people who were injured, and the cars that were damaged! Those people, there’s already talk that I’m going to be sued, that they’re going to take me for everything I’ve got! Yes, yes, I’m going after the demolition company, but they hadn’t even—”

“Mr. Grayson,” Duckworth said.

Grayson raised a finger. “Listen to me. They hadn’t even done anything yet. They didn’t have anything to do with this. Somebody planted some bombs and — what do you mean I may not be covered for terrorism? Who said anything about terrorism? What the hell are you talking about? You think a bunch of al-Qaeda crazies snuck into America to blow up a drive-in in fucking Promise Falls? You think—”

“Mr. Grayson, I need to speak with you,” Duckworth said.

“Hang on, hang on. Listen to me. I’m retiring. I sold this property so I could retire. I can’t lose all that money if all these people sue me! You insurance people are all the same! You’re just out to screw people over and — hello? Hello?”

He stopped pacing and looked at the detective. “The son of a bitch hung up on me.”

“I want to ask you a couple of questions,” the detective said.

“What?”

“Why don’t we sit down?”

“I can’t. I can’t stop moving.”

“Please. Have a seat.”

Reluctantly, Grayson sat down on one of two cheap folding aluminum lawn chairs. Duckworth sat opposite him, planted his elbows on his thighs, and leaned forward.

“You okay?”

“I’m going out of my mind.” He was bobbing one knee up and down like a human sewing machine.

Duckworth nodded. “I get that. It’s a horrible thing. I want to ask you a couple of things, but I need you to calm down first, so you can really think about what I’m asking.”

“Okay,” he said, taking a breath. Then another. “I can’t do it. I’m too wound up. Just ask me what you have to ask me.”

“Okay. Can you think of anyone who’d want to do you harm? To you, or to your business here?”

“Nobody. No. And who’d care about hurting our business? I’m going out of business.”

“Okay, but have you had any problems with suppliers, or maybe an angry customer, someone you had a disagreement with?”

Grayson thought. “I can’t think of anyone. Just the usual things. Nothing very serious. I mean, sometimes you have people unhappy with the movie who want their money back.”

“Do you give it to them?”

The question stunned him. “Of course not! I make no guarantees about the quality of the movie. Let them read the reviews. If they don’t like the movie, let them write a letter to Tom Hanks or Nicole Kidman and ask them for their money back.”

“Have you had an incident like that lately?”

Grayson shrugged. “A couple of weeks ago, a man, he was very upset because the movie had nudity and bad language in it, and his five-year-old daughter was in the car. But it was the last feature. They’re always for a more mature audience. If the people bring their kids, they’re usually asleep by that time. That’s why we show the kid movies first.”

“Did he want his money back?”

“He didn’t even care about that. He said he was going to report me to the authorities.”

“What authorities?”

Grayson laughed. “Who knows? I never heard from anybody. So many people, they’re just assholes. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Did the man give you his name?”

Grayson shook his head. “No.” His eyes widened. “But... hang on. I just remembered, I wrote his license plate number down. I do that sometimes. People who cause trouble, like kids who party or are drinking. I’ve got it somewhere.” He got out of the chair and began looking through papers on his desk.

“Here it is.” He handed over a scrap of paper, with a plate number and the word “Odyssey” scribbled on it.

Duckworth glanced at it, looked up. “Odyssey?”

“The van. A Honda.”

Duckworth pocketed the piece of paper. “How about outside of work, Mr. Grayson? Anyone else got a beef with you? Any kind of personal issues?”

“What? No. Nothing. You have to find out who did this. And don’t go blaming terrorists for it, or my insurance company might not help me out.”

“One last thing,” Duckworth said. “Does the number twenty-three mean anything special to you?”

Grayson screwed up his face. “What?”

“The screen came down twenty-three minutes after the twenty-third hour. Does that seem significant in any way?”

The man shook his head. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He hadn’t been.

Duckworth no longer believed that the frequency with which “23” was popping up was just happenstance. Not since learning when the drive-in screen came down.

Something was going on.

He’d already done some online searching with regard to that number. It was in the Matrix movies. It was on Michael Jordan’s shirt when he played for the Bulls. It was the atomic number for vanadium. (Wanda Therrieult had actually known what that was.) It was the ninth prime number. There was the Twenty-third Psalm.

The number might be related to any of those things, or none of those things. But Duckworth was sure it meant something very specific to someone.