Linwood Barclay: Far From True

Grayson nodded. “The sale goes through in a month. Before then, I have to clear the property. The screen, the outbuildings, the fencing, it all has to come down. It was one of the conditions.”

“What’s happening with the land?”

Grayson shrugged. “Houses, I guess. I don’t know. It never really mattered to me. I got just under three mil for the land. I was going to go to Florida. With my wife. Retire. But now... how do I... this is so horrible.”

Duckworth put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’re going to find out what happened, okay? You just hang in.”

He noticed a big car snaking its way between fire engines and ambulances, then pulling over near the fence. Duckworth wondered whether this was Clifford Marsden. But when the driver opened the door, and the interior light went on, he saw that it was someone else.

Randall Finley.

Getting out of the passenger side was another man the detective recognized. David Harwood. Former reporter, now assistant to the former mayor. Camera in hand.

Finley had already spotted something that interested him. A black SUV, covered in dust, some small chunks of the movie screen decorating the roof and the hood. The tailgate was wide open, and a woman was tending to two small girls — neither more than ten years old — sitting with their legs dangling over the bumper. One of the girls was crying and the woman was trying to console her.

Duckworth said, “Excuse me, Mr. Grayson. I’ll be right back.”

Finley walked quickly to the SUV, then slowed his approach when he was nearly there.

“How are you folks doing?” he asked.

The woman glanced around. “Hello?”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he said kindly. “Are these your daughters?”

The woman indicated the girl who was crying. “This is Kaylie. She’s my niece, and this is her friend Alicia. Are you with the police?”

“No, my name’s Randall Finley. What’s your name?”

The woman blinked. “Patricia. Patricia Henderson.”

“Hello, Patricia. And hi, Kaylie, Alicia. I need to know, are any of you hurt? Do you need any medical attention?”

“We’re... okay,” Patricia said. “Just shook-up. Some of that... stuff... fell onto the car. The girls — not just the girls, me too — were pretty scared when it happened.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Are you with the police?” Patricia asked again.

Finley shook his head. “No, like I said, my name is Randall Finley, and I’m just a concerned citizen, seeing if there’s anything I can do.”

“Didn’t you used to be mayor?” Patricia asked.

“That was some time ago,” he said, shrugging.

“Why is that man taking pictures?”

Finley glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Could be the press, or someone who has to document the accident scene. Just someone doing his job. I wouldn’t worry about him. Is there anything I can get for you? Do you need some water? I have some bottled water in the trunk of my car. From my own company. Or maybe there’s someone you’d like me to call for you?”

“I’m not married,” the woman said. “I’m waiting around, in case I have to talk to the police or anyone about insurance matters. But I really want to get the girls home. This is all so horrible.”

Finley nodded sympathetically, moved in closer, bent over to smile at the girls, making sure he positioned himself so David could get a good shot. “Maybe Kaylie’s or Alicia’s parents could come get the girls, and then only you’d have to stay here. Would you like me to call them for—”

“Randy!”

Finley whirled around. “Why, Barry, hello. What a terrible thing that’s happened here. What do you know so far?”

Duckworth approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Lending support,” he said. “Pitching in where I can.”

“And what about him?” Duckworth asked, pointing to David Harwood. “What support is he lending?”

“Him?”

“Why’s he taking pictures?”

“Perhaps he’s back working for the press. Out of Albany.”

“He’s working for you.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true, but I certainly wouldn’t stand in Mr. Harwood’s way if he wanted to sell some photos to the media.”

“What’s going on?” Patricia asked.

Finley turned around and flashed her his most sincere smile. “Just working out with the detective here how best to help you folks deal with this tragic situation. If you’ll give me just a moment.”

“I don’t really need your help anyway,” the woman said.

“Well, then, why are you wasting my valuable time?” Finley asked her, turning back to face Duckworth before he had a chance to see the woman’s jaw drop.

“Let’s go talk over here,” Finley said, attempting to lead Duckworth away. But the detective wouldn’t move.

“You’re in the way,” Duckworth said. “I’ve got dead people up there. Injured people. I want you out of here now.”

“Barry, come on,” Finley said. “I’m just doing my job, same as you.”

“If I have to ask you again, you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs.”

Finley met the man’s gaze. “I’m someone you’d rather have as a friend than an enemy.”

“I’d rather have you on the side of a milk carton,” Duckworth said, not breaking eye contact.

It was Finley who finally looked away. “David!” he called out, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear him. “The last thing we want to do is get underfoot. Detective Duckworth, thank you for your continued support. God bless you and all the wonderful emergency workers we have here in Promise Falls. I don’t know where we would be without you!”

And with that, he headed back to the Lincoln, taking David with him. Duckworth watched until they were both in the car and heading out of the lot.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!”

Duckworth turned. Lionel Grayson had tackled a man, brought him down to the ground, and was now pummeling him in the face.

Evidently the demolitions guy had arrived while Duckworth was dealing with Finley. Duckworth ran, grabbed Grayson around the shoulders, and pulled him off the other man.

“Mr. Grayson!” he shouted. “Mr. Grayson, please!”

But Grayson continued to struggle, pointing at the man on the ground. “You son of a bitch! You stupid bastard! You fucking—”

“I didn’t do it!” the man shouted back, struggling to his feet. “Listen to me! I’m telling you—”

“Over there!” Duckworth barked at Grayson. He made him stand alongside the ambulance and got himself between the two men. He asked the man who’d been taking the beating, “You Marsden?”

The man stood, brushed himself off. “I am.”

“You’re the one Mr. Grayson here hired to bring that screen down?”

Marsden nodded, caught his breath. “The screen, and everything else.”

“You think maybe you got a little ahead of yourself here?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” he said, pointing a finger at Grayson.

“What?” Duckworth asked.

“We haven’t done a damn thing here yet. Only thing we’ve done is signed the contract. My guys weren’t coming out for another few days. We haven’t planted so much as a firecracker out here.”

I saw it first on CNN the next morning. Flipped over to the Today show, found they were covering it, too. All the morning shows were focused on Promise Falls. We were famous. I’d noticed the emergency vehicles the night before, as I stood on the porch next to my brother-in-law, but figured it was probably just a multicar accident.

Turned out to be much bigger.

I’d said my good-byes to Celeste and Dwayne and, having no interest in chasing ambulances, headed home.