Broken Promise (48 page)

Marla sat back down, said, “Grab a chair. I’m just in the middle of giving him his lunch.”

I found a chair and sat. “What is that stuff?”

“Peas,” she said. “He’s Hoovering it.” She glanced at me. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Sure.”

“Do you think I should keep calling him Matthew? I mean, that’s the name the Gaynors gave him, but I would have named him something different.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Because even though he’s little, it’s probably already a name he responds to. If I were going to call him something different—and I’m leaning toward Kyle—I’d have to start doing it right now.”

“I’m not sure I’m the one to advise you on this. I mean, it might even be a legal matter. There’ll probably be a few of those.”

Marla nodded, understanding. “You’re right. I’m going to talk it over with Mom.”

I felt a chill. I glanced over at Gill, who was by the phone, making notes. He looked my way with dead eyes.

“With your mom,” I said.

“When she’s able to come back,” she said. Marla must have seen the look in my eye, and she smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. That Mom jumped off the falls. That’s what they’re all saying.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But she had to fake her death. She needs time for things to cool off. Then she’ll come back and help me.”

I was speechless.

“They’re saying a lot of things about her,” Marla continued. “Things that can’t possibly be true. That Dr. Sturgess was a very, very bad man. He must have tricked Mom into thinking my baby had died. It was a conspiracy. The Gaynors were part of it. Mom couldn’t have been involved in anything like that.”

Another smile. Marla slipped a spoonful of peas into Matthew’s mouth. Half dribbled down his chin.

“Oh, look at you,” she said. “Are you a messy boy? You are a messy boy. Isn’t he beautiful, David?”

“He is that.”

“I think he looks a little like Dad,” she said, and then called over to her father, “Don’t you see it?”

“If you say so,” he said. Then, struggling, he added, “I can see some of Agnes in him. In his eyes.”

Marla studied her baby. “I see that. I do. I think I actually do, which is pretty amazing for me. Do you see it, David?”

I looked. “Maybe so.” I stood. “I’m going to check in on you every once in a while, if that’s okay.”

“I’d love that,” Marla said. “It’s kind of chaotic around here right now. There’s so much to get organized. I might not even go back to my house. At least, not for a few months. When Mom gets back, she’ll sort it all out.” A grin. “That’s what she does, you know. Soon as she walks through that door, she’ll take charge.”

I gave Marla a hug and said to Gill, “Thanks. See you at the service. I can find my way out.”

When I opened the front door to leave, there were two men standing there. A young man I’d met before, and an older gentleman who I’d have guessed, from a quick glance, was his father.

Derek Cutter had just been about to press the doorbell, and I’d startled him.

“Oh!” he said. “Mr. Harwood.”

“Hi, Derek.”

“Mr. Harwood, this is my dad.”

The older man extended a hand. His grip was firm. “Jim Cutter,” he said. On the street I spotted a pickup truck with the words “Cutter’
s
Lawn Service” painted on the side.

“Good to meet you. I’m David.” I looked at Derek. “You heard.”

The Thackeray student nodded. “Marla called me.” He swallowed. “I’m a dad after all.”

Jim Cutter, standing slightly behind his son, rested his palms on the young man’s shoulders. “Not exactly ideal circumstances, but we came to get acquainted, just the same.”

I called out to Marla that she had visitors, then got in my car and headed home.

SEVENTY-TWO

THE
dead doctor was looking good for it.

Motive was certainly not a problem, Detective Barry Duckworth thought. If Dr. Jack Sturgess feared that Rosemary Gaynor was going to start asking too many questions about the circumstances surrounding the adoption of Matthew, he might have seen he had no option but to kill her.

He’d certainly shown no hesitation where Marshall Kemper was concerned. Bill Gaynor, who had decided to come clean about everything he knew, had led them to the man’s body in the woods. Duckworth had also determined that Sturgess had murdered Kemper’s elderly neighbor in a bid to cover his tracks.

So the man certainly had it in him to kill when it came to saving himself.

Angus Carlson had been building a timeline of where Sturgess had been the day that Rosemary Gaynor was killed, and there were plenty of gaps in his schedule. So he’d had opportunity. And she would have had no hesitation in letting him into her home. He was her doctor, after all.

But still, there was no actual physical evidence that connected Sturgess to the crime. And the way the Gaynor woman had been killed didn’t seem to fit the doctor’s style.

He’d killed Kemper with a fatal injection. He’d attempted to kill David Harwood and his father the same way. He’d smothered Kemper’s neighbor with a pillow, but that made some sense. What happened to her might easily have been dismissed as death by natural causes.

But did it follow that a man who killed two people bloodlessly would virtually disembowel somebody? Did a man who used a needle or a pillow carve up a woman like a Halloween pumpkin?

Duckworth had discussed this matter, and others, with Bill Gaynor, who was in custody and facing a slew of charges.

“I don’t know,” Gaynor had told him. “A year ago I wouldn’t have believed Jack was capable of what he did this week. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m starting to think it’s possible.”

Gaynor did tell him that he and Sturgess had been able to persuade Rosemary months ago that the adoption of Matthew was legitimate. The doctor told her Matthew’s mother was a sixteen-year-old girl from a poor family, that raising this child she was carrying would be more than she or her parents could handle. The girl’s identity would have to remain secret, but Sturgess drew up some bogus paperwork for Rosemary to sign that went straight into the Promise Falls General paper shredder. The doctor had persuaded Gaynor that he’d find a way to funnel some of the money to Marla, even though he’d always planned to keep all of it for himself.

Chief Rhonda Finderman was eager to see the Gaynor case closed. She wanted one in the win column. And the beauty of this was, Sturgess didn’t have to be convicted in a court of law.

Duckworth asked her for more time to nail down some of the details.

“Soon,” he told her.

The Gaynor case wasn’t the only thing troubling him.

There were those damn squirrels. The three painted mannequins. That Thackeray student who’d been shot to death by that asshole Clive Duncomb.

The number 23.

Sitting at his desk, he doodled the number several times. There was a very good chance it didn’t mean a damn thing.

He thought about the squirrels. Just the squirrels.

Let’s say you’re some sick bastard trying to make a statement. You decide the way you’re going to get your point across is by killing some animals. And that’s what you do. But why not ten? Why not a dozen? Maybe twenty-five.

Why do you pick a number like twenty-three?

Duckworth Googled it. The first thing that came up was the Wikipedia entry. “Always a reliable source,” Duckworth said under his breath.

It was the ninth prime number.

It was the sum of three other consecutive prime numbers: five, seven, and eleven.

It was the atomic number of vanadium, whatever the hell vanadium was. Duckworth thought that might be one of the coffee flavors Wanda had offered him.

It was the number on Michael Jordan’s shirt when he played for the Chicago Bulls.

In one of the
Matrix
movies, Neo was told that—

The phone rang.

“Duckworth.”

“It’s Wanda.”

“Hey, I was just thinking of you. What’s vanadium?”

“It’s a kind of mineral,” she said. “It has some medical applications.”

“How do you know that?”

“I took science. You take a bit of that when you become a doctor. Is this important?”

“Probably not. I was just—”

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” the medical examiner said. “Just get your ass over here.”

•   •   •

“What were you doing three years ago this month?” Wanda Therrieult asked him after he’d arrived.

“I don’t know, offhand,” Duckworth said. “Working, I’d guess.”

“I’m betting you weren’t. I wasn’t. I was taking some time to be with my sister, who was in her last few weeks.”

“I remember that,” Duckworth said. “Duluth.”

“That’s right.”

Duckworth was thinking. “Vacation,” he said. “Opening of pickerel season. In Ontario. Went up with a friend to a place called Bobcaygeon. Was gone the better part of ten days.”

“Sit down,” she said, and pointed to a second chair she’d wheeled over to her desk. She moved the mouse to make the screen come to life. There appeared three autopsy photos.

“I’m guessing these look familiar to you,” Wanda said.

Duckworth pointed, keeping his finger away from the screen. They were all close-up shots. “Yeah. This is where Rosemary Gaynor was grabbed around the neck. There’s the thumb imprint here, the other four fingers here, and that’s where he stabbed her. The . . . smile. This is all kind of familiar, Wanda. It’s only been a couple of days.”

“This isn’t Rosemary Gaynor.”

Duckworth moved his tongue around the inside of his teeth. “Go on,” he said.

“This is Olivia Fisher.” She paused. “You remember Olivia Fisher.”

She clicked, brought up a small picture of the dead woman. Young, black hair to her shoulders, smiling into the camera. In the background was Thackeray College, where she had been a student.

“Of course,” Duckworth said. “But I was never the primary on that. It was Rhonda Finderman. Before she became chief.”

“That’s why we didn’t make the connection right away.”

“Shit,” Duckworth said. “She should have. She’s so busy with things that have nothing to do with Promise Falls she doesn’t know what’s going on in her own backyard.”

Wanda did a few lightning-quick keystrokes and mouse maneuvers, and brought up autopsy photos from the Gaynor case, as well as a photo of the woman that had made an online news site.

“You’re right,” Duckworth said. “The wounds are nearly identical.” He reached a hand out toward the screen, as though he wanted to touch the face of Rosemary Gaynor.

“Look at her hair, her face,” he said. “The black hair, the complexions of the two women.”

“Very similar,” Wanda said.

Duckworth shook his head slowly. “God, I need a doughnut.”

“Who killed Rosemary Gaynor, Barry?”

He hesitated. “Finderman likes the doctor for it.”

Wanda pointed at the screen, the two dead women. “You think Sturgess did this?”

Barry Duckworth studied the images. “No.”

“Then you know what this means,” she said.

Duckworth nodded.

“It means our guy’s come back,” he said. “Or maybe he never left. Maybe he’s always been here.”

SEVENTY-THREE

I
feel rested.

Ready to get back at it.

Still so much to do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Authors need help, and I had plenty. Thanks go to Susan Lamb, Heather Connor, John Aitchison, Danielle Perez, Bill Massey, Spencer Barclay, Helen Heller, Brad Martin, Nick Whelan, Kara Welsh, Graeme Williams, Gaby Young, Paige Barclay, Ashley Dunn, Kristin Cochrane, Juliet Ewers, Eva Kolcze and D. P. Lyle.

And, as always, the booksellers.

Don’t miss the next Linwood Barclay thriller set in Promise Falls,

FAR FROM TRUE

Available in hardcover and e-book from New American Library in March 2016.

THEY
decided Derek was the one who should get into the trunk.

Before heading off, the four of them, Derek Cutter included, thought it would be cool to smuggle someone in. Not because they couldn’t afford a fourth ticket. That wasn’t the issue. They just felt the situation demanded it of them. It was the sort of thing you were supposed to do.

After all, this was the last night they’d ever have the chance. Like so many other businesses in and around Promise Falls these days, the Constellation Drive-In Theater was packing it in. What with multiplexes, 3-D screens, DVDs, movies you could download at home and watch in seconds—why go to a drive-in, except maybe to make out? And given how much smaller cars had gotten since the drive-in was first conceived, even that wasn’t much of a reason to watch a movie under the stars.

Still, even for people of Derek’s generation, there was something nostalgic about a drive-in. He could remember his parents bringing him here for the first time when he was eight or nine, and how excited he’d been. It was a triple bill, the movies becoming successively more mature. The first was one of the
Toy Story
flicks—Derek had brought along his Buzz Lightyear and Woody action figures—which was followed by some rom-com Matthew McConaughey thing, back when he was only doing crap, and then a Jason Bourne movie. Derek had barely managed to stay awake until the end of
Toy Story
. His parents had made a bed for him in the backseat so he could zonk out when they watched features two and three.

Derek longed for those times. When his parents had still been together.

This night, the Constellation was showing one of those dumber-than-dumb Transformers movies, where alien robots inhabiting Earth had disguised themselves as cars—usually Chevrolets, thank you very much, product placement—and trucks. Morphing from car to robot involved a slew of special effects. Lots of things blew up, buildings were destroyed. It was the kind of movie none of the girls they knew was interested in seeing, and even though the guys tried to make them understand the movie itself didn’t matter, that this was an
event
, that this night at the drive-in was
history
, they’d failed to win them over.