Linwood Barclay - Far From True

Duckworth’s foot was heavy on the accelerator. At each cross street, he glanced quickly in both directions. He hoped, now that all Promise Falls cruisers had been alerted, someone would spot the professor’s car.

Where would the man go? Duckworth wondered. Home? Back to the college? Those would be the first two places the police would look for him.

Based on the last comments the man had made, Duckworth had a feeling he was looking for Clive Duncomb. Which meant he was most likely going to the college. Duckworth grabbed his phone again, called dispatch.

“Put me through to Thackeray’s security department,” he said.

It took about fifteen seconds. A man answered.

Duckworth identified himself. “This is an emergency. I need to speak to your boss. Right now.”

“Not here,” the man said. “He went into town.”

“Where?”

“He said he was going to the bank.”

“Which bank? Where?”

The man said he thought it was on Claymore. Before he could say anything else, Duckworth hit the brakes, turned the car around, and went tearing off in the opposite direction.

Red lights flashing, siren on.

Within a minute, he got lucky.

Ahead, he saw Blackmore’s car, coming from the other direction, turning onto Claymore. Duckworth had three cars in front of him, but with the siren wailing, they started shifting over to the right, out of his path. He turned hard onto Claymore, the car’s two right tires nearly losing grip on the pavement.

About a hundred yards ahead, the professor had his right blinker on, was slowing, easing the car toward the curb.

And there was Duncomb, out front of the bank, stepping off the curb, taking three steps out into the street.

It all happened very fast.

Once Blackmore was about ten yards away from Duncomb, he cranked the wheel hard to the right and floored it. Duncomb had no time to react. The car struck him midthigh, tossing his body onto the hood.

“No!” Duckworth shouted, his hands locked on the steering wheel.

Duncomb’s head came through the windshield as Blackmore’s car jumped the curb and crashed into the stone wall of the bank.

The driver’s air bag deployed like a bomb going off.

Duckworth screeched to a halt, threw open his door, and ran toward the scene. By the time he’d reached Blackmore’s car, the air bag had deflated, putting the professor nearly face-to-face with Clive Duncomb.

At least, what was left of Duncomb’s bloodied and shredded face.

Duckworth, breathless, opened the driver’s door of Blackmore’s car.

Blackmore turned his head slowly toward the detective and smiled. “I got him,” he said. “I got him good.”

David Harwood caught up with Randall Finley at his water-bottling plant.

“What the hell was that?” Finley shouted as David entered his office. “That was the fucking 9/11 of press conferences! A disaster! You’re an idiot! That’s what you are! An idiot! Why did I ever think you could do this?”

David walked right up to the man’s desk, leaned over it, and pointed his finger angrily.

“I’ll tell you who the fucking idiot is,” he fired back. “It’s a guy who won’t listen. I tried to tell you that this needed to be better planned. It needed to be thought out. We needed to work out a strategy. But no, you wake up this morning, and you go, ‘This is the day! Today we do it! I want a press conference in three hours! Make it happen!’ Well, that’s the way a fucking idiot does it.”

Finley kicked his chair across the room. “They didn’t even care! About the stuff I had on the chief! They didn’t give a shit!”

“They might,” Harwood said. “They probably will. But come on, you really thought they weren’t going to bring up the very thing that made you leave politics? And you honestly had no idea that this underage hooker was dead?”

“I might have,” Finley said. “It slipped my mind.”

“You used to be mayor of this town. There were, I’m sure, some people who actually liked you. They voted you in. But somewhere along the line, you lost all your political smarts. Because you’ve had your head up your ass, that’s why. You think I’m an idiot? Fine. I quit. Find someone else. But here’s a tip. Do the job interviews at the zoo. Find yourself a trained monkey. That’s what you need. Someone who’ll just do what you want, who’ll never tell you when you’re making a mistake, someone who hasn’t got an original thought in his head. Someone who’ll tell you you’re doing a great job when you’re actually making a horse’s ass of yourself.”

David turned and walked out the door.

“Good-bye and good riddance!” the former mayor said, looking for something else to kick or throw. He went over, grabbed the chair he’d already tossed to one side of the room, and threw it to the other.

He stood there, steaming, breathing in and out through his nose, sweat bubbling up on his forehead. He did that for the better part of twenty seconds.

Then said, “Shit!”

Finley came around the desk, ran out of the office, heading for the parking lot. He found David getting into his Mazda.

“Hey!” Finley shouted. “Hold up!”

David, one hand on the top of the door, said, “You can’t fire me, you dumb shit. I quit. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I don’t want to fire you,” he said, catching his breath. “And I don’t want you to quit.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t want you to quit. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Forget it,” David said, dropping into the seat. He started to pull the door shut, but Finley gripped the top of it with both hands.

“No, listen,” he said. “Just listen to me for a second.”

David waited.

“Okay, you’re right.” He grinned. “I shot my wad too soon.”

David didn’t laugh.

“Jesus, what do you want from me? I’m telling you, you were right. I should have taken your advice. I should have known what was coming, that they’d bring up the stuff about the hooker. I was dumb to think they wouldn’t. I’ll listen to you from now on. I will.”

David slowly shook his head.

“I’ll give you another two hundred a week,” Finley said. “Truth is, I don’t know who the hell else I could find. I mean, who’s as smart as you? Who’d work with me.”

David turned his head away, looked at the dashboard.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

That was when Finley knew he had him. “You want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not listening to you, and I’m sorry for calling you a fucking idiot.”

David looked at him. “I should have had some supporters there.”

“Hm?”

“I should have rounded up some people, put some Finley for Mayor signs in their hands. Something for the cameras. Even if it was just friends and family. Half a dozen people. Even that would have helped. But I didn’t think of it. You didn’t give me enough time.”

“Yeah, I get that. Totally.”

“We have to sit down and figure everything out. Stake out your position on all sorts of issues. Work out your responses to the embarrassing questions. Because they’re always going to come out. You know that stuff is coming, so you have to get in front of it, turn it into a positive instead of a negative. You admit it: You’re a man with flaws — you’ve done things you’re not proud of — but that doesn’t mean you don’t care about this town, that you don’t want to do right by the people who live here.”

“I like that,” Finley said. “Will you remember this, or should you be writing this down?”

“You should be able to remember it yourself. You’re a fucking politician. You know everything there is to know about the art of persuasion. You just have to remember to use it.”