Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“What’d he say?”

Trevor dropped his head. “He said it was a start.”

“He’s a fucking blackmailer,” Duckworth said. “I’ll kill him.”

“He was keeping me out of trouble. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I did a stupid thing. I never meant to hit Trish. I really didn’t. I was just swinging my arm around to deflect her, you know? But my hand, it got her right on the cheek and...”

Trevor began to cry. “I really fucked up. I fucked up huge. I hate this job. I hate working for that asshole. I just. I didn’t—”

“Come here,” Duckworth said. He pulled his son into his arms, patted his back softly.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Trevor said, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder. “You’re in deep shit. You’re in trouble.”

“We’ll work it out,” Duckworth said. “We’ll work it out.”

“I thought I’d find you here,” Victor Rooney said.

Walden Fisher, on one knee before the gravestones of his wife and daughter, turned and looked at the man standing on the cemetery lawn behind him.

“Huh? Victor?” Walden said.

“You come up here most every day. I went by the house, and when I couldn’t find you there, I thought I’d take a run up here.”

Walden put both hands on his bent knee, pushed himself up. His left pant leg was damp from the grass.

“Victor,” he said. “You wanted to see me about something?”

Victor stood there in frayed jeans and a faded Buffalo Sabres T-shirt. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I came by to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

Victor shrugged. “Things aren’t working out for me here. I’ve been trying to get work, but I’m banging my head up against the wall. Can’t find anything. This town’s got nothing to offer.”

“Things are kind of tough everywhere,” Walden said. “Not just here.”

“Maybe. But I think things are just going to get worse here.”

“What do you mean?”

Victor shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“Where do you think you’ll go?”

Another shrug. “I haven’t worked that out yet. That’s what I’ll put my mind to over the next few days, while I finish up a few things.”

“What things?”

“You know, just stuff. Say good-bye to a few friends, things like that. Do some research online, see where a good place to go might be. Albany maybe. That’s close. But I might go far away, too. Maybe Seattle. I got some friends I went to school with out there. Maybe they got some leads on things.”

“Good to have options.”

“I know you blame me,” Victor said.

“Come again?”

“For what happened to Olivia. That you think it was my fault.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Victor. I’ve never accused you of killing Olivia.”

“Did you send that detective to talk to me? Duckworth? He came by my place, asking me how I was dealing with what happened to Olivia. Why would he do that?”

Walden shrugged. “I didn’t send him. I mean, he came by to see me, asking a few more questions. I guess they haven’t totally given up trying to find Olivia’s killer. I guess the conversation got around to you, but—”

“So it was you.”

“I’m sorry, Victor. I never meant to cause you any kind of trouble.”

“You blame me because I was supposed to meet her. In the park. And I was late. I know you hold me responsible.”

“I’ve never said that,” Walden told him.

“You don’t have to. I can tell. I blame myself, too. I just... I lost track of time. If I’d been there five minutes earlier, we’d have been in the bar, having a drink, getting a bite to eat.”

“Plenty of blame to go around,” Walden said.

“So, it’s not like I’ve decided to forgive myself or anything, but I’ve decided I have to move on. I have to try and get my shit together. Maybe I can do that somewhere else, by starting over.”

“Just don’t rush into anything, Victor. Think on it through the Memorial Day weekend, at least.”

Victor glanced at the headstones, then looked back at Walden Fisher. “Maybe you should, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Move on. I mean, coming up here, every day. Talking to Olivia and your wife, like they can hear you. Maybe that’s not that healthy a thing to do. Maybe it’s holding you back from getting on with your life.”

“This is my life. Paying my respects to them.”

Victor nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, then. I guess I said my piece.” He half turned, as if getting ready to leave, then stopped. “You hear about that thing last night?”

“What thing would that be?”

“The bus.”

Walden shook his head. “What bus?”

“A Promise Falls bus. Like, a regular city bus. I was jogging, and coming down the street, there’s this, like, fireball. It’s a bus, totally empty, the whole thing on fire. Someone would’ve had to steal a bus from the compound, splash some gasoline around inside, toss in a match, put it in neutral, and let it roll. It crashed right into the flower shop, caught the building on fire.”

“That’s horrible. Was anyone killed? Hurt?”

Victor shook his head. “Don’t think so. Wasn’t anybody on the bus. Had a big number twenty-three on the back. You been hearing about that?”

“I have,” Walden said.

“All the stuff that’s been happening — the drive-in and a bunch of other things — is all connected somehow.”

“That’s what they say.” Walden shook his head in bafflement. “Why would someone be doing something like that?”

Victor smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“Sam!” I said, still looking at that closed office door only a few feet away from me.

Even over the low-level rumble of the washing machines I had just started, I thought I heard a lock being turned.

Something about that seemed wrong.

Not taking my eye off the door, I set Crystal’s graphic novel on the top of the washer. But I’d set it on the edge and it fell, open to some inside page, on the floor.

I left it there and moved toward the door.

“Hey, Sam!” I said. “I think one of the washers is on the blink!”

No response.

I got up close to the door, put my ear to it. Someone was whispering on the other side. I was pretty sure it was Sam’s voice.

“Sam, everything okay in there?” I said, my mouth right up to the door.

A pause. Then, “Yes. Everything is fine.”

Her stilted reply didn’t sound fine to me.

“One of the washers seems to be broken,” I said through the door.

Another pause. “I’ll take... a look at it in a minute.”

I unholstered my gun, held it in my right hand, pointed toward the floor.

I said, “What’s the plan, Ed?”

A long pause this time. If Samantha had been in there alone, she would have said, almost immediately, “What?” Or maybe, “Ed?”

The fact that she said nothing right away told me he was in there with her. When I called out his name, it threw him. He needed a few seconds to think of something to tell Sam to say to me.

Finally, it came.

“There’s no Ed here,” Sam said, her voice sounding close to breaking.

I said, “Ed, you need to open this door and send Sam out. You hurt, Sam?”

“Not so far,” she said.

“That’s good,” I said, keeping my voice even. “That’s good, Ed. You let Sam out, and I think there’s a pretty good chance no one’s going to get hurt. Whaddya say to that?”

Two seconds. Then, “Fuck you!”

Ed’s presence confirmed.

“He’s got a gun!” Sam screamed.

“Shut up!” Ed shouted.