Broken Promise (19 page)

Gloria was thinking she wouldn’t see Malcolm tonight. She hoped to get out of here around half past nine at the latest.

She was making a list of things she had to do the next day when her cell rang. She smiled. It was Jason. From the head office. Hundreds of miles away. When he called this late, it was not to talk business.

“Hey,” she said.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m still here.”

“Oh, go home. You’re working too hard.” A pause. “And speaking of hard . . .”

“Stop it,” she said, grinning, putting down her pen and running her fingers through her hair.

“Are you going to get here this weekend?”

“I’m going to try,” she said, picking up the pen again, writing,
Call denture lawyer.
“What about Memorial Day?” The May holiday weekend, a little more than two weeks away. “You coming here for that?”

“Oh, yeah. But I need to see you before then. I
really
need to see you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I had this idea of something new we could try,” Jason said.

“Go on.”

“Okay, so picture this. You’re on the bed, on your back, and—”

“What am I wearing?” she asked, scribbling,
Review offer on bumper cars.

“A pair of high heels,” he said. “The black pumps.”

“I like those,” Gloria said. “They make me feel dirty. But they’re hard to walk in.”

“You won’t be doing any walking,” Jason said.

“Okay, so I’m on my back, in heels, and then what? Tell me this. Are you there with me? Because, the way this is sounding, I just might be getting off without you.” Underlining, with a question mark at the end,
Tell head office about Finley?

“Oh, I’m there, and my cock is very, very—”

There was a flash of light outside Gloria Fenwick’s window.

“Hold that thought,” she said, and put the cell phone on her desk. She got up and walked to the window. The light remained constant, but was somehow
moving
.

“No,” she said.

The light, which was being cast on a row of gift-shop buildings across from the admin offices, was coming from behind the building Fenwick worked in, where most of the rides were.

The rides that had all been powered down, that were in the process of being decommissioned.

She went back to her desk, picked up the phone, and said, “I’ll have to call you back.”

“What’s—”

She ended the call, then contacted the security company. “Yeah, hey, it’s Gloria at Five Mountains. There’s something going on here. You need to get someone here now. Yeah, right.”

Gloria, keeping the phone in her pocket, left the office, went down a flight of stairs, and exited onto the park’s main street. To the left, the admission gates. Heading right would take her deeper into the park.

When she rounded the corner of the building, she could not believe what she was seeing.

The six-story-tall Ferris wheel was alive.

Fully lit, it was a low-hanging, revolving roulette wheel against the dark night sky. A dazzling, monstrous twirling eye that always reminded Fenwick of the pinwheels she loved to blow into as a child.

“This is not happening,” she said, starting to walk toward the base of the ride.

It was not impossible, of course. All the rides were still connected to the park’s electrical source. They had to be turned on when prospective buyers came to pick through what Five Mountains was selling.

The big wheel moved almost noiselessly. With the carriages empty, there was not the usual screaming and laughing of passengers.

Except . . .

Fenwick stopped dead, waited for the Ferris wheel to make another complete rotation. Allowed her eyes to focus on the ride. She thought she saw someone—no, more than one person—sitting in one of the carriages as it did a swing near the bottom, where there were more lights.

The wheel went around again, and this time Fenwick was sure. There looked to be three people in one carriage. All the others were empty.

Goddamn kids, she thought. Snuck onto the grounds, figured out how to start the ride, decided to have some fun.

Except there had to be someone else. Someone who could stop the ride, or those three would be stuck on there for a very long time.

As she neared the wheel, it was making another loop. She saw the numbers stenciled onto the side of each carriage: 19 . . . 20 . . . 21 . . . 22 . . .

Here it was. Carriage twenty-three. Three people sitting side by side.

“Hey!” she shouted. “What the hell do you think—”

As the carriage swept past, Fenwick noticed that none of the passengers was moving.

And it didn’t look like any of them were wearing clothes, either.

She reached the base of the Ferris wheel, located the controls. She’d never worked as a ride operator, but she’d been around them often enough to know the basics. She grabbed the lever to power back the wheel, to start slowing it gradually. She craned her neck upward, watching for carriage twenty-three, hoping she could time it right so that it stopped at the boarding platform.

Very nearly did it too. She didn’t get the wheel to fully stop until it had gone about three feet too far for the passengers to make a safe exit.

But it didn’t matter. Because they weren’t passengers.

They were mannequins. All female, all unadorned. Well, nearly.

Gloria Fenwick looked around and began to feel very afraid.

A single word was painted, in bold red, on each of the mute amusement-park-goers.

Read across, the message was:

YOU’LL BE SORRY

TWENTY-FIVE

BILL
Gaynor had to bring in one of those companies that cleaned up crime scenes. The detective—Duckworth, his name was—had given him the name of a firm. Not local. There weren’t enough crimes like this in Promise Falls to justify a service that catered to this exclusive a clientele. But there was one in Albany, and they came up in the late afternoon, once the crime-scene investigators were finished doing whatever it was they did and had cleared out.

They did a good job in the kitchen. They’d managed to mop up all the blood in there. The carpet on the stairs and in the second-floor hallway was a different matter. Gaynor had tracked blood through much of the house when he’d gone in search of Matthew. The cleaners had gotten up some of the stains, but they’d told Gaynor he’d probably want to have all that carpeting ripped up and replaced. It was a light gray, and there was only so much they could do.

Sure, he’d replace the carpet. And then he’d put this house on the market. There was no way he could live in this place, raise his son here.

It hadn’t occurred to Gaynor that he’d have to pay for the cleaning. The head of the crew handed him the bill without blinking. “We take Visa,” he said. “You might want to check with your insurance company. This might be something they’d reimburse you for.”

“I work for an insurance company,” Gaynor said.

“Well, there you go,” the man said. “Every cloud, as they say.”

There were so many things one had to do, he thought, but he didn’t know where to start. As he’d told the detective, neither he nor Rosemary had immediate family. No siblings, no living parents. Truth be told, neither of them had ever really had many friends. He had the doctor, of course. As far as he knew, his wife really had no one. She loved to talk to Sarita, and probably considered her a friend, but really, Gaynor thought, you couldn’t be friends with the help.

What they had was Matthew.

The strangest random thoughts went through his head. Questions, images. Where would he sleep tonight? In that big empty bed? What would he do with Rosemary’s toothbrush? Throw it out? Why’d she have to be killed in the kitchen? Of all the rooms in the house? Why not the garage? Or the basement? He might even have been able to hang on to the house if she’d been killed in a room he didn’t have to spend so much time in.

But how could one avoid the kitchen? How could he not, every time he had to go in there, see his wife’s body on the floor?

He was going to have to go in there.

He’d retreated to his second-floor office a couple of hours ago after putting Matthew down in his crib for a sleep. He’d informed his employers of the day’s events, and soon after took a call from the president of the company, a man named Ben Corbett. He offered his condolences and told Bill to take as much time as he needed.

“And we have a lot of investigators at our disposal,” Corbett said. “I can put one on this if you want. I’m betting the police in a town like that can’t find their asses in a snowstorm. Am I right? I know a guy I can call up there. Weaver, his name is. Cal Weaver. Used to work for the local cops but went solo. Lived out around Niagara for a while but I think he moved back.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary, Mr. Corbett, but I thank you,” Gaynor said. “The police have a pretty good idea who did it. Some crazy woman. She’s got a history.”

“Of killing people?”

“No, but from what the detective said—he called me a while ago—she tried to steal a baby out of the hospital a while back. A nutcase.”

“Well, the offer stands. You need anything, you call me.” A pause. “Oh, and Bill.”

“Yes?”

“As much as I would like to expedite matters where your wife’s life insurance policy is concerned, I have to take a hands-off approach with this and let things go through the usual channels.”

“Of course, Mr. Corbett, I understand that.”

“Especially considering that the payout in your wife’s case . . . I don’t feel very comfortable discussing this with you at this time, Bill, so I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“That’s okay,” Gaynor said.

“As I was saying, the payout in your wife’s case is a million dollars. So the firm will be doing its due diligence, but you’ve indicated that the police already have a pretty good idea what’s happened.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Okay, then. My thoughts are with you. We’ll be in touch.”

Gaynor hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and put a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding.

He needed a drink.

He went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a scotch, and then pulled himself together so that he could send out e-mails to clients he was supposed to meet with over the next week. Family emergency, he said, and offered his apologies. Gave them the name of an associate who could help them.

He was looking mindlessly at his in-box when he heard Matthew stirring in the next room. When the baby woke, he’d be hungry.

Gaynor went into the hallway and down the stairs, careful not to step on the slightly faded red footprints he’d left earlier. As he entered the kitchen he forced himself to look away from where he’d found Rosemary. Focused in on the fridge. Rosemary always prepared two days’ worth of bottles of formula, and there were still four of them in there. He warmed a bottle, wondering what he would do when these were all gone. He’d never made up bottles for Matthew. Didn’t have a clue how to do it.

He had a steep learning curve ahead of him.

God, where was Sarita when he needed her?

He had some theories in that regard. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing Sarita around here anymore. The police could look for her all they wanted. Good luck with that.

But he had to find someone to replace her, soon. Before he went back to work. Someone who could come into the house, or maybe someone he could drop the baby off with in the morning.

God, the things that had to be worked out.

And a funeral. He hadn’t even thought about a funeral.

He took the warmed bottle back upstairs, entered Matthew’s room. He’d already pulled himself up, was standing at the railing. Pretty soon he’d be walking.

“Hey, little man,” he said. He lifted Matthew out of the crib, held him in one arm, and handed him the bottle with his other hand. The baby grabbed hold and shoved the rubber nipple into his mouth.

“Yeah, you eat up,” he said.

How did you explain to a baby that his mother wasn’t coming home? What could you say?

“We’re going to be okay,” he said softly. “You and me are going to be okay.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Police, Gaynor thought. Maybe here to tell him they’d charged that insane woman. Gaynor considered putting Matthew back in the crib, but didn’t think he should leave the baby alone while he sucked on the bottle.

Gaynor carried Matthew downstairs and opened the front door. There was a man standing there, but Gaynor knew he wasn’t from the police department.

“Bill, I’m so sorry,” the man said. “My apologies for not getting here sooner. It’s been quite the day.”

“Jack,” Gaynor said.

“May I come in?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

Gaynor closed the door as Jack Sturgess came into the foyer.

“If you want a drink or something,” Gaynor said, “you can go into the kitchen and help yourself, but I just . . . I can’t go in there. I had to get this for Matthew, but . . .”

“It’s okay,” Sturgess said. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you and the baby were.”

“Matthew’s . . . okay. I’m . . . I’m just trying to figure out what I should be doing first. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, the priority is Matthew. I’ve gotta look after him, and I don’t know the first thing to do. I’ve never made up the formula before. Rose did that, and Sarita. I’ve talked to the office, and I’ve been in touch with clients, and I had these people here—there’re actually companies that do nothing but clean up after . . . God, I don’t know if I can hold it together.”

“You’ll be okay. You will be. But you’re right: The important thing is Matthew.”

Gaynor looked misty-eyed at the doctor. “You’ve always been there for us. Every step of the way. Rose, she was so grateful for everything you did.”

The doctor rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You all deserved happiness. And I really thought you’d found it. You didn’t deserve this.”

“I thought, when I heard the doorbell, it’d be the police. Telling me they’ve charged that woman.”

“Yes, well, that may very well happen,” the doctor said.

“I guess it’s been all over the news.”