Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

“Marshall?”

It was Sarita. Made sense that if she had to call him, she would ask to use the phone next door. He didn’t have a landline in his apartment, and Sarita had never owned a cell phone.

He could hear a television blaring in the background, and Mrs. Stemple saying, “It’s not long-distance, is it?”

“No,” Sarita told her. Then, to him: “A man was here.”

“What?”

“I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here any longer.”

“What man?”

“First he knocked on the door, asking for you. I hid behind the bed; I didn’t move. He called for you and then I heard him go next door. Where I am now. The lady who lives next to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I saw her name on the phone.”

“Then he came back, and this time he started calling out for me.”

“Jesus. Was it a cop?”

“I don’t know. He said he wasn’t.”

“That’s just what a cop might say.”

“He said his name was David Harwood, that he needed to talk to me, that he was trying to help out a friend.”

“So what happened then?”

“He gave up,” Sarita said. “I didn’t go to the door. He must have figured no one was here. I heard a car start up, and when I peeked outside, there was no one there. The man was gone, no car.”

“Okay, then. We’re good.”

“I have to get out of here. If that man could figure out I might be here, who else will figure it out? The next time it might really be the police.”

“Just... okay, okay. I get that you’re scared; I get that. But just hang in. In another hour or so, everything is going to be okay. You’ll see.”

“You got the money?”

“Not yet. But it’s going to happen.”

“Forget the money. What you’re doing is wrong. You have to—”

“Please just let me do this for you. For us. Trust me. I have to go. I won’t be long.”

Marshall ended the call. He had to get back to Gaynor, find out where he wanted to leave the money. Gaynor answered on the first ring.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marshall said. “You shouldn’t have changed the plan. I told you, I’ll go to the police. I will!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, honestly, I am. I just—”

“I’m in charge, okay? I’m the one calling the shots on this.” Marshall tried to keep his voice from shaking.

“I know, I know,” Gaynor said, sounding respectful. “I get that. But I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t think it was safe. I thought, What if someone else is watching and tries to get the money before you do? The mall’s such a public place. A lot of people could see me do that.”

“Okay, fine,” Marshall said. “Let me think of another place where—”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s already taken care of.”

“What?”

“I’ve left it somewhere. Somewhere a lot safer.”

“Whoa, whoa, hang on. You don’t decide where the money goes. I do that. That’s the way it works.”

Had this guy never seen a movie? Did the parents of the kidnapped kid choose where to drop off the money? This was not the way these things were done.

“I’ve never been involved in anything like this before,” Gaynor said. “Is there a fucking playbook I’m supposed to follow? You want the money or not?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? And Marshall knew the answer.

“Okay, fine, where is it?”

“It’s in a mailbox,” Gaynor said.

Marshall thought, Hey, maybe that’s not that bad an idea. Putting the money in a locked box in a post office. There might be video cameras, but he could wear a broad-brimmed hat or something so no one would get a good look at his face. But how did Gaynor plan to get the key to him?

So Marshall Kemp asked.

And Gaynor said, “Not that kind of mailbox. One out in the country, along the side of the road.”

“What?”

“It’s perfect,” Gaynor said. “It’s out in the middle of nowhere. No one’s going to see you pick it up. The mailman doesn’t even go by until the middle of the afternoon.”

“You saying the money is right there, now?”

“It’s there. I put it there myself. Let me give you directions.”

What was he supposed to do? Tell him to forget it? Tell Gaynor to go back and get the money and deliver it someplace else?

No, that’d take too long. If the money was in the mailbox now, Kemper could go get it, race home, grab Sarita’s stuff, throw it in the van, and take off. If he insisted on a third delivery point, he’d be looking at another hour, hour and a half.

“Okay, where’s this mailbox?” Marshall asked.

A country road about five miles out of Promise Falls, Gaynor explained. Out in the middle of farmland and woods. Not even visible, Gaynor said, from any houses. The mailbox was at the end of a small private road that led into forest.

“You know those stick-on, slanted letters you can get at Home Depot?” Gaynor asked. “It says ‘Boone’ on the side, in those letters. The little metal flag will be down. If it’s up, someone might think something was in there.”

“If that money’s not there,” Marshall warned, “I go to the police. I’m not kidding around here.” Trying to sound tough.

He tossed the phone onto the seat next to him and hit the gas.

Marshall had no problem finding the mailbox, and it was as Gaynor had described it: well isolated, no residence in sight. And hardly any cars on the road. He’d put down the front windows to let the fresh country air blow through.

The first thing Marshall did was some recon. He barely slowed when he saw the mailbox with BOONE on the side. He kept on going to the next road. He figured, if Gaynor had called the cops, there’d be a few cruisers posted nearby. But there were no cop cars within two miles, either way, of the mailbox.

No helicopters in the air, either.

Maybe he hadn’t done anything like this before, but Marshall Kemper was no fool.

He turned the van around and returned to the Boone lane, pulled in. It did indeed lead into thick forest. Someone must have had a home deep in there somewhere. A hunting cabin, maybe.

The trees came right up close to the road.

He stopped with the driver’s door about twenty feet from the mailbox, a rusted aluminum container about ten inches high, two feet deep. Shaped like a barn with a rounded roof. He walked around to the front of it, pulled down the squeaky door, and there, just like Gaynor promised, was a package.

Not an eco bag, but something the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper, with string tied around it. He worked the package out of the box, closed the door, and went back to his truck.

As he was getting in, he felt something sharp jab him in the neck.

“Jesus!” he shouted, the package falling out of his hands and hitting the gravel road.

For a split second, he wondered whether he’d been stung by a bee. But as soon as he turned his head, he saw that there was someone in the passenger seat.

A man, late fifties, nice suit.

With a syringe in his hand.

“What the— What the fuck did you do?” Marshall said. He slapped his hand on his neck where the needle had gone in.

The man pointed the business end of the syringe at Marshall, using it like a gun to keep him from attacking him.

“Listen to me,” the man said. “You don’t have much time. You’re probably already starting to feel the effects. It works fast.”

The guy was right about that. Marshall felt his arms getting heavy. His head was turning into a bowling ball.

“What did you do?”

“Listen to me,” he said again. “I have a second syringe. It’ll counteract what I just injected into you. Because it’s going to kill you.”