Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

Agnes leaned across the island, handed Gill some soup.

“This looks good,” he said. “Where’s this from?”

“Marla and I stopped at the deli on the way home and picked it up,” Agnes said, then shook her head sadly. “It never even occurred to you that I might have made it.”

“If it had, I can see I’d have been wrong.”

“Stop,” Marla said. “Even when you guys kid each other, it sounds like fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Agnes said. “Gill, have you heard from Natalie today?”

He shook his head. “No. I think maybe she’s waiting to see what the cops do next. If they think they have a case, and they file a charge, you know, if they decide to—”

“Take me away in handcuffs,” Marla said.

Gill sighed. “If they think they have a case against Marla, and arrest her, things go into overdrive. She said they’re doing a rush on those bloodstains that were found on the door at Marla’s house.”

“I’ll bet the angel left them,” Marla said. “She must have gotten blood on her hands when she took Matthew from that woman’s house after someone killed her.”

Agnes turned away, removing from the burner the pot she’d used to reheat the soup.

“Can you tell us anything more about this angel?” Gill asked.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Marla said.

“I think,” Agnes said, her back to them, “that we have to be proactive here. I’ll call Natalie and tell her we want to know what her game plan is, should we need it.” She shook her head in frustration. “I think the fact that there’ve been no charges up to now is a good sign. They just don’t have the evidence. I know things are going to be okay. They only charge someone when they think they’ve got a strong case.”

“You’re rambling, Mom,” Marla said.

“I’m just trying to make a point, that’s all. I’m calling Natalie right now.”

She spun around, swept up the phone in one quick movement, and left the kitchen. She went into the living room, sat down on the couch, and glanced at the list of recent calls. She immediately spotted a number she knew, and said, just loud enough that Gill heard her in the kitchen, “How did I miss this from Carol?”

Agnes tapped on the number to return the call.

In the kitchen, Gill dropped his spoon in his soup, splattered some tomato on his crisp white shirt, and looked at the other phone resting a couple of feet away from him.

Agnes held the phone to her ear. Her assistant answered after the third ring. “Hey,” Carol said in a whisper. “I thought we were going to take a break. Where are you, Gill? Are you at home?”

“Carol?” Agnes said.

A second of silence. Then: “Ms. Pickens?”

Again Agnes said, “Carol?” A pause, and then: “Why did—”

She cut herself off, ended the call. Tossed the phone onto the cushion. Took a moment to consider what she’d just learned.

Gill came into the room with the other phone. Smiling innocently. “I think this one is yours.” He extended his hand, but Agnes ignored it.

“It was going on right under my nose,” she said. “My own assistant.”

Gill shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Agnes, but whatever it is, you’re wrong. Carol just happened to call me; I guess she couldn’t reach you at the time, and—”

Agnes raised a hand, picked up Gill’s phone again. “She called you while I was still in my office. I was right there.” She studied the screen more intently, looking at the call history. “She called you yesterday. And three days ago. And two times on Monday.”

Agnes stood, then suddenly pitched the phone at her husband, catching him on the temple. It hit the floor hard, skidded along the marble.

“Jesus!” Gill said, putting his hand on his head. “I’m telling you, she—”

“Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Marla appeared at the edge of the room, rubbing her bandaged left wrist with her right hand. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“It’s okay,” Gill said. “Just a misunderstanding.”

The doorbell rang.

“A misunderstanding?” Agnes said. “Is that what you call fucking my assistant? A misunderstanding?”

“There’s someone at the door,” Marla said shakily.

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Gill said, raising his voice. “A few phone calls, that’s proof of nothing! For God’s sake, Agnes, you’re absolutely paranoid about this.”

“You know what she said? Just now? Before she realized it was me? She said she thought you two were going to take a break. What do you suppose she meant by that?”

The doorbell rang a second time.

“Who knows what the hell she meant?” Gill said. “I always thought she was a bit off her nut. I don’t know how she’s lasted as long as she has working for you. She’s a total incompetent, you ask me.”

“I hate you,” Agnes said. “If you’d fucked around with anyone else, I’d still hate you, but maybe not quite so much. This... this is just rubbing my nose in it.”

“Enough!” Marla screamed.

Now someone was pounding on the door. And shouting, “Ms. Pickens! Mr. Pickens!”

Agnes’s finger was in her husband’s face. “I’ll ruin you. I will. I’ll ruin you.”

“I’m glad it was her,” Gill said. “I really am.”

Marla went to the front door, threw it open. Detective Barry Duckworth was standing there with two uniformed officers.

Agnes and Gill Pickens turned and stared, dumbfounded.

Duckworth waved a piece of paper. “I have a warrant for the arrest of Marla Pickens.”

Marla’s arms hung limply at her sides. She looked numb.

Agnes glanced at her husband, took the phone he was holding, and said, “I’ll call Natalie.”

Acting Promise Falls detective Angus Carlson’s first day out of uniform wasn’t going to be anything to brag about to his wife when he took her out for dinner that evening. Barry Duckworth had left him a note of things he wanted him to follow up on.

First up, the squirrels.

Carlson figured this was Duckworth’s way of getting even. Okay, so maybe he cracked a couple of stupid jokes. Just trying to break the tension was all. Where was the harm in that? Carlson had always been looking for ways to lighten the mood. What had his mother always said? Turn up the corners of your mouth .

But Duckworth’s list of to-dos didn’t end with squirrels. He wanted Carlson to head back out to Thackeray to interview three young women who’d been attacked, presumably by some guy named Mason Helt, who’d been shot in the head by campus security chief Clive Duncomb.

Finally, Duckworth wanted Carlson to go back out to Five Mountains and learn more about those three naked mannequins — “You’ll Be Sorry” painted across their chests — that had gone for a spin on the Ferris wheel.

Duckworth had added some cryptic notes about the number 23. How that number was a common element in all three incidents. How it might mean something.

“Hmm,” Carlson had said under his breath as he read the detective’s notes. Duckworth wanted him to be on the alert for any recurrence of that number.

He began his day at the park where the squirrels had been found. Walked carefully through the adjoining wooded area. Talked to anyone who happened to pass by, asked whether they’d noticed anything odd the night before last. Knocked on the doors of nearby houses to ask the same.

Came up with a big fat zero.

At one door, an elderly man grinned and said, “This case’ll be a tough nut to crack!”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that funny.

He didn’t do much better at Thackeray. None of the women he wanted to interview was available. Two had gone home for a couple of days. The third, who apparently was going to be spending the summer at the college taking extra courses, couldn’t be found. Another student who lived across the hall from her said she could be at the library, or in town doing some shopping, or just out for a long walk.