Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

Which meant that she did not hear Duncomb say, “I don’t think that guy is up to much. I’m going back to the car. Hang on, think I’ve lost you... Let me just touch base with Mike and Phil and I’ll get back to you.”

Once the man had her into the trees and beyond the view of anyone else passing along the path, he threw her down onto the ground.

His description matched that provided by the three women. His head was hooded, but even when Joyce looked up and directly into his face, she couldn’t make out anything about him. He was wearing a black ski mask.

Duncomb, unaware that he was not being heard, said, “Okay, I got them; they’re coming your way. Let me ask you this. If you’re a woman, can you take a pee in the woods?”

The man straddled her body. He had her left arm pinned down with his right hand, at the wrist, and his left hand over her mouth. Her right was trapped against her body, held in place with his thigh. But her right hand was still inside her purse.

Holding the gun.

“Okay, okay,” he said to her. She watched his lips move in the circular opening of the mask. “Don’t make any noise. It’s going to be okay. Just be cool and nothing’s going to happen.”

She had her fingers around the butt and was working to get her index finger on the trigger. If he’d relax his thighs just a bit...

“You just stay here for five seconds,” he said. “I’m going to take off.”

Duncomb said, “You there? Oh, I get it. I crossed a line with the peeing question. Okay, I’m an asshole. But tell me where you are, Joyce. I don’t know where the hell you are. Joyce?”

Joyce wondered what the hell this guy on top of her was talking about. He’d dragged her into the bushes so he could run off? Not that that was bad news, but it didn’t make sense.

Maybe he couldn’t get it up.

Whatever. She didn’t give a shit. She just wanted to get that gun out of her purse and blow this fucker’s head off in case he changed his mind.

“We good? Are we good?” he asked her. “Just nod if we’re good.”

His sweaty palm still over her mouth, she forced a nod.

“Okay,” he said.

He took his hand off her mouth, released his grip on her wrist, and started to get off her.

Joyce got her right arm free. Brought the gun up fast.

“Jesus!” the man said, bringing his left arm back, then swinging it hard against Joyce’s arm.

The gun flew from her hand, landing in the blanket of leaves covering the forest floor.

The man dived for the gun, his legs draped over Joyce’s. He got his hand on it, scrambled to his knees, and pointed the weapon at Joyce. She’d started getting to her feet, but froze.

“Goddamn it,” the man said. “I was never going to do anything.” He angled the gun away, so that if it went off, it wouldn’t hit Joyce. “It’s all for show, a gig, a kind of social experiment, he called it.”

“What?” Joyce said.

“No one actually gets hurt or anything, so—”

There was a stirring in the bushes to the left. Then a deafening bang. One side of the attacker’s head blew clean off.

Joyce screamed.

Clive Duncomb emerged from the brush, gun in hand.

“Got the son of a bitch,” he said.

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand to Dr. Jack Sturgess in Marla’s hospital room.

He took the hand, gave it a firm shake, and said, “Marla really needs her rest.”

“Sure,” I said. “I understand that.”

“You were with her this morning,” Sturgess said, keeping his voice low, drawing me toward him out of Marla’s range of hearing. “You found her with that woman’s child.”

“That’s right.”

He raised his index finger, a “give me two seconds” gesture, then stepped around me and approached Marla. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she said.

“I’m just going to see your cousin out; then I’ll come back and check on you.”

I guessed that meant I was leaving. Sturgess led me into the hall, let the oversize door to Marla’s room close, and said, “I just wanted to thank you for looking out for her this morning.”

“I didn’t really do anything. I was just trying to sort out what happened.”

“All the same, thank you. She’s in a very delicate condition.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

“What did Marla tell you about how she got hold of that baby?”

“Same as she’s told everyone else, I suppose,” I said.

“Yes, yes, the mystery woman who came to her door. A delusion, more than likely.”

“You think?”

The doctor nodded. “I’d say yes. But it might be helpful, in understanding her state of mind, to know just who she believes it was who delivered this child to her.”

“I don’t know if I’m following you.”

“Well, let’s say she saw a tall, dark stranger. That might signify something totally different than if she’d seen a six-year-old girl.”

“Dr. Sturgess, are you Marla’s psychiatrist?”

“No, I’m not.”

“If anyone should be trying to read anything into Marla’s fantasies, wouldn’t it be her psychiatrist?”

Sturgess cleared his throat. “Just because I’m not Marla’s psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’m not interested in her mental health. A person’s mental state is very much related to their physical well-being. For God’s sake, I’m treating her for a slit wrist. You think that doesn’t have something to do with her state of mind?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to help this girl.”

“So am I,” I said.

Eyebrows shot up. “How?”

“I don’t know. Any way I can.”

“Well, coming here, visiting her, letting her know you care, that’s good. That’s a very good thing to do. She needs that kind of love and support.”

“I was thinking of doing more than that,” I said.

“I don’t understand. What else could you possibly do?”

“I don’t know. Ask around, I guess.”

“What does that mean? ‘Ask around.’”

“What it sounds like,” I said. “Ask around.”

“Are you some sort of private detective, David? Because if you are, it’s never come up. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“My recollection is... didn’t I used to see your byline in the Standard ? But that was a long time ago. You were a reporter once?”

“I used to be at the Standard . Then I was at the Globe , in Boston, for a while. Came back here to write for the Standard just as it closed down.”

“So, this asking around , then, it’d just be something to do to keep busy?”

I gave myself a couple of seconds, then asked, “What’s your problem with this, exactly?”

“Problem? I didn’t say I had a problem with it. But since you’ve asked, in case you haven’t noticed, the police are very much involved in this. They are doing plenty of asking around . That’s kind of what they do. So I don’t see what purpose there would be in your going around troubling people at a time like this with a bunch of questions. And that would begin with Marla. It’s great, your stopping by to say hello, but I don’t want you subjecting her to some kind of interrogation.”

“Really.”

“Really. The last thing anyone involved in this horrible business needs is some amateur sleuth poking his nose into things.”

“Amateur sleuth,” I said.

“I mean no offense,” Sturgess said. “But Marla’s in a delicate condition. As is Mr. Gaynor. The last thing he needs—”

“Wait,” I said, raising a hand. “You know Bill Gaynor?”

Sturgess blinked. “I’m sorry?”