Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

She stopped looking at the ceiling. Fixing her eyes on his, she asked, “You think it’s a serious threat?”

“I don’t know,” Duckworth said. “But someone went to a lot of trouble to stage all that. Had to drag three dummies out here, paint them, get them into that car, start up that ride. How hard would it be for someone to do that? Get the ride going?”

“If you’ve got any experience with machinery or electronics, I mean, I guess anyone like that could figure it out.”

“Kids?”

She thought a moment. “I doubt it. Unless it was some kid we hired last summer.”

“Can you find me the names of the employees who ran that specific ride?”

“I could probably do that,” she said. “But not now. I don’t want to spend another minute here tonight.”

Duckworth smiled. “Tomorrow’s good.” He gave her one of his cards. “I can get one of the officers to escort you to your car.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Duckworth was going back down the stairs when his cell phone rang once again.

“Yeah.”

“This Detective Duckworth?”

“It is.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Clive Duncomb over at Thackeray.”

“You were supposed to send me the names of the women who’d been assaulted.”

“Yeah, well, about that,” Duncomb said. “There’s been a development.”

“It was a righteous shoot,” the Thackeray College security chief said, standing over the body of the man who had attacked Joyce Pilgrim. Their light sources were a half-moon, the stars, and five flashlights that were being wielded by Duncomb, the three male members of his team, and Duckworth.

“Well, I guess that settles it, then,” Duckworth said. He gazed down at what remained of the man’s head, then let his eye trail down the rest of the body. The man was in a fleecy dark blue or black hoodie — it wasn’t easy to tell in this light — with a large white 2 stitched onto the left of the zipper, and an equally large 3 to the right.

“I saw him with a gun in his hand, kneeling over Joyce. I was coming into the trees here, trying to find her, and that’s the situation I encountered.”

“You can make a full statement at the station,” Duckworth said.

“Come on. It’s all pretty cut-and-dried. Like I said, it was righteous.”

Duckworth shone his light directly into Duncomb’s face. “Don’t say that word again.”

“It’s justified, is all I’m saying. I saved Joyce’s life.”

“After putting her at risk. Right now this is a homicide. And I’m in charge. You’ll be coming in for a full statement. The whole lot of you.”

The only member of the security team not there was Joyce Pilgrim. She was at the athletic building, being babysat by a Promise Falls officer until Duckworth was finished here.

“Many of the students around here carry weapons?” Duckworth asked, shining the light back onto the body.

“Sure hope not, but that’s not his anyway. Joyce let this clown get her gun off her.”

“Your security people all licensed to carry?”

“Well, not technically. But seeing as how Joyce was the bait, I made a decision to give her one of my—”

“Wait, so that’s your gun this guy had?”

“Yeah. And when you’re done with it, if it’s not too much fucking trouble, I’d like to have it back.”

Duckworth felt blood rushing through his neck.

“What did I say to you this morning? About sending someone with her experience to act as a decoy?”

“If I’m supposed to report to you, it’s news to me,” Duncomb countered. “You don’t sign my paycheck.”

“No, but the college president does, and if he’s got any sense, you’ll be a nursery school crossing guard before the end of the week.”

“I closed more cases working the Boston PD than this town sees in a decade. You can’t talk to me like—”

“I just did. If you say one more thing I’ll cuff you and lock you up for the night. God, what a clusterfuck. Does anyone know who this kid is?”

A member of the security team spoke up. “I’m Phil. Phil Mercer? Uh, I’ve got his wallet here.” He held it up, shined a light on it. “He’s a student here. Well, was. His name is—”

“You’ve touched the body?” Duckworth asked.

“I couldn’t have gotten at his wallet otherwise,” he said, as if he’d just been asked the stupidest question he’d ever heard.

The detective sighed. “Who is he?”

“Hang on; let me look at this license again. Okay, Mason Helt. His student card is here and everything. Here you go.”

And he tossed the wallet in Duckworth’s direction.

The detective, stunned, managed to catch the wallet and still hang on to the flashlight.

He looked at Duncomb. “You must be so proud,” he said.

Duckworth found Joyce Pilgrim sitting on a wooden bench in an empty gymnasium. He dismissed the officer who was standing near her, then parked himself next to her on the bench.

“How are you doing?” he asked after identifying himself.

“I’m okay,” she said, her legs pressed tightly together, her fingers knitted into tight double fist. She was hunched over, her shoulders tight, as if she were trying to close in on herself.

“I’m sorry about what you went through. Have you been seen by the paramedics?”

“I’m not hurt,” Joyce said. She shook her head slowly. “I can’t work for that asshole anymore.”

Duckworth did not have to ask.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m not trained for this. I can’t do this kind of thing. I can’t.”

“Duncomb shouldn’t have put you in this position. That was wrong.”

“I have to call my husband. I don’t think I can drive home on my own.”

“Sure.”

“I still can’t believe what he said to me,” Joyce said.

“What did he say to you?”

“Clive didn’t tell you?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Duckworth said gently.

“When that kid got my gun, he pointed it away from me. Said he was sorry, that he’d never have actually, you know, that he wouldn’t have raped me.”

“Go on.”

“He said it was... what was the word? He said it was a gig. That he was, like, conducting a social experiment.”

“A gig?”

“That was the word. He said that was what ‘he’ wanted. Like another person. Like he was asked to do it, or hired. Does that make any sense?”

It didn’t. It was an entire day of things that hadn’t made sense. The hanging of twenty-three squirrels, three mannequins in a Ferris wheel carriage, a—

Wait a second.

Duckworth closed his eyes for second. Thought back to only an hour ago, as he walked around the base of the Ferris wheel.

All of the carriages were numbered.

The carriage holding those three mannequins had a number stenciled on the side of it. Duckworth closed his eyes, trying to picture it.

The number painted on the side was 23.

The hoodie worn by Mason Helt was emblazoned with the number 23.

And how many squirrels had been found hanging by their necks that morning in the park?

Twenty-three.

It probably meant nothing. But...

“That is one hell of a coincidence,” he said aloud.

“You talking to me?” Joyce Pilgrim asked.

Since the first person Jack Sturgess had cautioned me against visiting was Bill Gaynor, I decided to see him first. I didn’t know what I’d ask him, but maybe now, some twelve hours after our first encounter, we’d be able to have something approaching a civil conversation.

Maybe, given that I was the one who’d shown up with Matthew, he’d even want to talk to me. Ask questions about how it all happened.