Far From True (2 page)

Then: “I’m gonna have to ask you to pop the trunk.”

“Sorry?” Canton said.

“The trunk. Pop it.”

Shit shit shit shit.

Well, what was the worst that could happen? Derek figured, once this guy found him in the trunk, with the beer, he could do one of three things. He could deny them entry. Or he could charge Derek ten bucks, confiscate the beer, and tell them they could pick it up on the way out. Or the son of a bitch could call the cops.

Derek figured bringing in the police was pretty unlikely. Did the Promise Falls cops really want to be bothered with someone sneaking into the drive-in for free?

At this point, Derek didn’t much care. Right now, he’d happily endure a full body-cavity search if it meant getting the hell out of here.

Canton said, “Uh, I don’t think you have the right to do that.”

“Yeah?” the man said.

“Yeah. I don’t think you have the authority. You’re just some dick selling tickets.”

“Really. Well, my name is Lionel Grayson, and I’m the owner and manager of this place, and if you don’t pop that trunk, I’m calling the cops.”

Maybe it was more likely than Derek thought.
Fine, so be it.

“Okay, then,” Canton said.

Derek heard the driver’s door open. But then another door, on the other side of the car. Tyler had been sitting behind Canton. Which meant George was getting out.

Tyler said, “Jesus, George, what are you—”

Derek didn’t hear the rest as both doors slammed shut.

Canton was saying, “You know, this being the last night you guys are open, we were just wanting to have a little fun and—”

The man, this Mr. Grayson, sounding closer now: “Just open it up.”

“Okay, I hear ya, I hear ya.”

Then, George. “You know, man, this is America. You think being a fucking ticket seller gives you the right to violate our constitutional rights?”

“George, just let it go.”

All three voices at the back of the car now. Derek was still pretty sure Lionel Grayson wouldn’t call the cops. He’d just tell them to piss off. Turn their car around and send them on their way. Derek already had a plan. They’d go back to his place, download a Transformers movie to the flat-screen, and get drunk on his couch.

No need for him to be the designated driver any—

Bang.

No, it was more than that. So much more than just a bang. In the trunk, it sounded to Derek like a sonic boom. The whole car seemed to shake.

It couldn’t have been something on the screen. One of the Transformer robots blowing up, say. You had to be in the car, have the radio tuned to the right frequency, to hear the movie.

And even if this had been a regular movie, in a theater, the bang was too loud.

It sounded very close.

George.

Could he really have been that dumb? Had he gotten out of the car with the gun? Had he started waving it at the manager? Had he pulled the trigger?

That stupid, stupid, stupid son of a bitch. Surely to God he didn’t think getting caught over something like this was cause to shoot a guy.

There were screams. Lots of screams. But they sounded off in the distance.

“Jesus!” someone shouted. Derek was pretty sure that was Canton.

Then: “Oh my God!” That sounded a lot like George.

Derek frantically patted the back wall of the trunk, looking for the emergency release. His heart was pounding. He’d broken out in an instant sweat. He found the lever, grabbed hold, yanked.

The trunk lid swung open.

Canton was there, and George was there. So was a third man. A black man Derek figured was Lionel Grayson, the manager. Not one of them was looking into the trunk. In fact, all three had their backs to Derek, their collective attention focused elsewhere.

Derek sat up so quickly he banged his head on the edge of the opening. He instinctively put his hand on the injury, but he was too spellbound to feel any pain.

He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

The Constellation Drive-in Theater’s four-story screen was coming down.

Dark smoke billowed from the width of its base as it slowly pitched forward, in the direction of the parking lot, as though being blown over by a mighty wind.

Except there was no wind.

The immense wall came down with a great whomping crash that shook the ground beneath them. Clouds of smoke and dust billowed skyward from beyond the fence.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Barely a second. Then a strangled symphony of car alarms, whooping and screeching in a discordant chorus of panic.

And more screams. Many, many more screams.

“HELLO?
Georgina?”

“No, it’s not Georgina. It’s
me
. You heard what’s happened?”

“I’ve just been waiting for Georgina to come home, to call, let me know where she is. What’s going on?”

“The goddamn drive-in just fell down.”

“What?”

“The screen toppled over. Like a huge fucking wall.”

“That’s crazy. But it’s closed, right? So nobody was hurt or—”

“No, listen to me. This was the last night for the place. It’s packed. It’s just happened. First responders barely even there yet.”

“Jesus.”

“Look, we’ve got a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw Adam.”

“What? You saw Adam where?”

“Adam and Miriam. I was going by the drive-in as cars were going in, caught a glimpse of Adam’s Jag, that old convertible of his? Had to be him and Miriam. Not another car like that in
Promise Falls. I’d stopped for a coffee up the road, and when I heard the explosion—”

“It was an explosion?”

“Whatever it was. When I heard it, I drove back, got a quick look at what’s happened. That Jag is toast. I could see the tail end of it sticking out of the rubble.”

“Oh, God, that’s terrible. I can’t believe it. Adam and Miriam, maybe they got out before—”

“No, there’s no way. You don’t see the problem?”

“They’re dead. Yeah, it’s horrendous. My God.”

“There’s a bigger problem, for us. With them dead, someone’ll have to clear out their house, go through their things. Next of kin. Adam’s daughter, what’s-her-name.”

A pause at the other end of the line.

“You there?”

“Yeah.”

“Now do you see the problem?”

“I do.”

Cal

“THAT
was delicious, Celeste,” I said. “Thanks again.”

“You know you’re welcome here anytime,” my sister said across the kitchen table to me. “You want some of the tortellini to take home with you? There’s tons of it. I can put it in a container.”

“That’s okay.”

“I know you’re tired of hearing it, but you know you’re more than welcome to stay here. We’ve got two spare rooms.” She glanced to her right at Dwayne. “Isn’t that right?”

Dwayne Rogers turned to me and said, without emotion, “Of course. We’d love to have you.”

I raised a hand in protest. I didn’t want to live here any more than Dwayne wanted me to.

“No, hear me out, Cal,” Celeste said. “I’m not saying you have to live here forever. Just until you find a place to live.”

“I have a place to live,” I reminded her. Celeste was two years
older than me, and had always seen me as her baby brother, even though we were both now in our forties.

“Oh, please,” she said. “A room over a used-book store. That’s not a home.”

“It’s all I need.”

“He says it’s all he needs,” Dwayne told his wife.

She ignored him. “It’s a room—that’s all it is. You need a proper house. You used to live in a proper house.”

I smiled weakly. “I don’t need a big empty house. I’ve got all the space I need.”

“I just think,” Celeste continued, “that living in that miserable space is holding you back.”

“Jesus, let it go,” Dwayne said, pushing back his chair and going back to the fridge for his fifth beer, not that I was counting. “If he’s happy living where he is, then leave him be.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Celeste told him.

“Cal’s doing just fine,” he said. “Aren’t you fine?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Dwayne just nailed it.”

He twisted the cap off the beer, drew hard on it. “I’m gonna get some air,” he said.

“You do that,” Celeste said, and looked relieved once her husband was gone. “He can be such an asshole.” She smiled. “He’s my husband, so I can say that.”

I forced a grin. “He’s okay.”

“He doesn’t get it. He thinks people should just suck it up, no matter what. Except, of course, when it’s something that’s happened to him.”

“Maybe he’s right. People have to move on.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “If it had happened to someone else, if
you
knew someone whose wife and son had both been, you know . . .”

“Murdered,” I said.

“Right. Is that what you’d tell them? Just get over it?”

“No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t hound them, either.”

I knew it was a poor choice of words the moment I’d uttered them.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Celeste asked. “Hounding you?”

“No,” I said quickly. I reached across the table and took her hand in mine, aware of the absurdity of the moment. Here I was, comforting her over my reluctance to let her comfort me. “That came out wrong.”

“I’m sorry if that’s what I’m doing,” she said. “I just think that if you don’t deal with these things, if you don’t give a voice to your feelings, you’ll make yourself sick.”

I wondered when Celeste would get around to doing that with Dwayne. Dealing with him, giving a voice to her feelings.

“I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’m fine. I’m moving forward.” I paused. “I don’t see as I’ve got much choice. I’ve got work here. I’m getting referrals.”

To prove the point, I’d given my sister one of my new business cards. The words
Cal Weaver: Private Investigations
in black, raised type. A cell phone number. Even a Web site and an e-mail address. Maybe one of these days, I’d even be on Twitter.

“I worry about you in that apartment,” she said.

“I like it there. The guy who runs the bookshop, who owns the building, is a decent landlord, and he’s got a good selection of stuff to read, too. I’m good.” I figured if I said it enough, I might even believe it.

“It was smart, you moving back here from Griffon. After . . . you know.”

Celeste wanted me to face what happened, but could never bring herself to say what that actually was. My son, Scott, had been tossed off the top of a building, and my wife, Donna, had been shot. The people responsible for their deaths were either dead or serving time.

“Couldn’t stay there,” I said. “Augie had the good sense to leave, too. They’re down in Florida.” Donna’s brother, Augustus,
the chief of police in Griffon, had taken an early retirement and, along with his wife, headed for warmer climes.

“You keep in touch?”

“No,” I said. After a few seconds, I nodded my head in the direction of the front door and asked, “How’s he doing?”

Celeste forced a smile. “He’s just out of sorts.”

“You guys okay?”

“He’s not getting so much work from the town.” Dwayne had a paving business. “They’re cutting back. Figure unless a pothole’s big enough to swallow up a car whole, they don’t have to fill it. Ninety percent of Dwayne’s business is with Promise Falls. The town’s always contracted out road repair. They’re just letting things go to shit—at least that’s the way it looks to me. I heard that Finley guy is gonna run for mayor again. He might be able to set things straight.”

I didn’t know much about him, except that his previous stint in the position had ended badly. We’d been living in Griffon when all that happened.

“Things’ll pick up for Dwayne,” I said, because it seemed like the thing to say. Maybe this was why Celeste wanted me to bunk in with them. She knew I’d insist on paying room and board. But I couldn’t live here, not under this roof. Not with my controlling sister and her moody, beer-guzzling husband. It didn’t mean I couldn’t help, however.

“You short?” I asked. “If you need some money, just something to get you—”

“No,” Celeste said. “I couldn’t accept that.” But she protested no further, and I wondered whether she was waiting for me to insist.

Next time.

I got up, gave Celeste a peck on the cheek and half a hug. On my way through the living room, I heard sirens.

As I came out the front door, the last in what looked like a convoy of half a dozen ambulances went screaming up the street.
Dwayne was standing at the porch railing, beer in hand, watching the vehicles tear past, with a wry grin on his face.

“There’s always work for those bastards,” he said. “You don’t see the town layin’ them off, do ya?”

ONCE
he was out of the trunk, Derek ran. Not away, not back down the road, but past the gate and onto the grounds of the drive-in theater.

Toward the screams.

He couldn’t run directly to where the screen had fallen. A fence too high to scale ran alongside the driveway for about fifty yards. Once he’d cleared it, he doubled back, sprinting to the disaster site.

There were at least a hundred cars in the lot, and it was Derek’s experience, from the few times he’d been here, that hardly anyone parked in the first row, right in front of the screen. Just as most people didn’t want to sit in the front row of a conventional theater, and have to crane their necks at an awkward angle for two hours, very few were interested in leaning forward, heads perched over the dashboard, to take in a flick.

Except maybe for owners of convertibles.

It was a cool evening, but not too cool to drop the top, if you had a blanket or two. You put down the roof, reclined the seat all the way, and watched the show.

Derek was betting that the two cars that had been crushed by the falling screen were ragtops.

Everyone was out of their cars. Some stood by their vehicles, too shocked to do anything but look toward the collapsed screen in horror. Cars that hadn’t been buried in debris had still been hit by some of it. Many cars had busted windshields. Some of the people milling about in shock were unaware of the blood running from minor cuts on their faces. Others had their phones out, either
making calls or taking video of the mayhem. Probably uploading it to Twitter and Facebook so they could brag that they were the first to do so.

There was random shouting.

“Call 911!”

“Oh my God!”

“Terrorists! It’s a terror attack!”

“Get out of here! Run!
Run!
”

But the only ones running were several men who, like Derek, were heading toward the collapsed screen. By the time he reached it, he was part of a pack huddling around the tail ends of cars that had been crushed. Several people were waving their arms, trying to keep the clouds of dust out of their faces.

Lots of coughing.

“We need a crane!” someone shouted.

“Has anyone called 911?”

“Where the hell’s the fire department?”

Derek was reminded of pictures he’d seen on the news. The aftermaths of earthquakes. Entire buildings crumbling into the streets. But Derek didn’t think this was an earthquake. It wasn’t as if the ground had opened up anywhere. The only thing that had come down was the screen.

And the noise he’d heard while he was still in the trunk, if he was guessing, sure had sounded like an explosion. Could there be gas lines or something under that screen? Propane tanks that linked to the concession stand, where they barbecued the hot dogs?

Or could that guy shouting about terrorists be onto something? Could this have been a bomb?

But how much sense did that make? If you were al-Qaeda or ISIS or whoever was the latest threat to world peace, was this part of your grand scheme to make America surrender? Blow up a drive-in in some half-assed town in upstate New York?

“Grab that!” a man standing near Derek said.

Together, he and three other men tried to shift a piece of the
screen, about the size of two sheets of plywood but ten times as thick, off the top of a small red car that Derek could see, from the markings on the trunk, was the remains of some old sports car. Derek knew enough about cars to guess this was a midsixties Jaguar.

“One . . . two . . . three!”

The four of them, putting everything they had into it, shifted the piece about four feet to the left, enough to expose the passenger side of the two-seater.

“Oh Jesus,” someone said, turned, and threw up.

It was a person. Or had been, once. It was hard to tell much more than that. The head, little more than pulp and bone now, had been mashed down into the rest of the body.

A woman, it looked like to Derek.

A man with a stronger stomach stepped carefully around to the side of the car and leaned over the body. At first Derek thought he was trying to get a better look at the dead woman, but now the man was peering beneath the debris that obscured the driver’s side. He’d taken out his phone, opening a flashlight app, and was shining it under there.

“This one’s a goner, too,” he said. “Let’s check the other car.”

Sirens could be heard in the distance. The deep foghornlike moans of fire trucks.

The second car—Derek could tell from the taillights that it was a Mustang—was buried under much more debris than the first. The men stood there, shaking their heads.

“The fire department might have something to lift it off,” Derek said. “I don’t think we can budge it.”

“Hello?” someone yelled into the pile of wood and plaster. “Can anyone hear me in there?”

Nothing.

Derek wondered, briefly, what had happened to his so-called friends. They sure weren’t here trying to help. Probably took off in the car while they had the chance. Assholes, the lot of them.

“Those bastards!” a man shouted. “Those goddamn bastards! Idiots!”

Derek spun around, saw that it was the man who’d wanted to inspect the trunk. The drive-in owner, Lionel Grayson. At first, Derek wondered if he was talking about his friends, but quickly figured out his tirade was directed at someone else.

“Fucking idiots!”
he screamed at the top of his lungs. He put his hands on his forehead and started to wail. “Oh God, oh dear God!”

Derek took a step toward him. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What idiots?”

Grayson wasn’t hearing him. His eyes were fixed on the catastrophe before him. “Not happening,” he whispered. “Can’t be happening.”

“What idiots?” Derek asked again.

“The demolition people,” he said, not looking at Derek. “It comes down next week. . . . They weren’t even supposed to . . . they’re not supposed to put the charges in until . . . I don’t know. . . . I don’t know how this could . . .”

Grayson dropped to his knees, the upper half of his body wavering. Derek and a woman standing nearby rushed to the man’s side, knelt down, kept him from toppling over.

Three ambulances screamed into the parking area, lights swirling. People waved them toward the front. Paramedics leapt out, ran in their direction.

Derek was thinking about what the manager had said. How the screen was set to come down soon. How some demolition had been scheduled for a later date. But someone had screwed up, big-time, and allowed the dynamite—or whatever it was—to go off early.

And kill people.

Derek was pretty sure no one was going to give a shit about him trying to sneak in for free.