Far From True (30 page)

ED
Noble parked the car close to the back of the Laundromat so he could make a quick getaway once he’d put a bullet in Samantha Worthington’s head. He left the car unlocked. What he would’ve really liked to do was leave the keys in, with the engine running. Pull the trigger, run out the back door, hop in the car, and away he’d go.

But that’d be just stupid. There was always the possibility someone—a kid, more than likely—might stroll by and be unable to resist the temptation to take the car for a joyride.

Ed Noble wasn’t sure this was a nice enough neighborhood to take the chance. Didn’t matter where you were—you just couldn’t trust people. He was no fool.

So he got out of the car, pocketed his keys, untucked his shirt so it hung over the small gun he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. It occurred to him, just then, that this gun Yolanda had given him didn’t have a silencer on it. It was going to make a big bang when it went off. All the more reason to have the car close. By the time anyone came to check out what the noise was, he’d be gone.

He was feeling a little bit jazzed about all this. And, if he was honest with himself, scared, too.

Ed had never actually killed anyone before. Hurt, sure. There was that one time he and Brandon—before Brandon held up that bank and got sent up—one night in the North End they beat up this guy good who’d looked at Ed’s girlfriend—well, former girlfriend—the wrong way. Dragged him out the back door when the guy went
to take a piss, punched him in the head until he’d lost consciousness, then tried this thing they’d seen in a movie, where they laid the guy out on the street, put his open mouth on the edge of the curb, like he was trying to take a bite out of it, then stomped on the back of his head.

Fuck, the noise. Like you were snapping a two-by-four over your knee.

That was probably the worst thing Ed had ever done. Until he’d tried to kidnap that kid yesterday. But even that was pretty much nothing compared to what he was about to do now. It was like adding to your résumé. When people found out what you could do, you’d get better and better jobs. He knew this would all get back to Brandon, and the guys he knew on the inside. There might be things they’d need done out in the real world, things Ed could help them with.

Word of mouth was everything.

Noble didn’t head straight for the back door. He moved quickly for the wall. Then he inched along it, heading for the door, touching the gun beneath his shirt, making sure it was there, even though he could feel it digging into his side. There was a grimy, dust-covered window between him and the door. He leaned into it, putting one eye on the inside of the Laundromat.

The window looked in on the office at the back. It afforded a view of a desk jammed into one corner, cleaning supplies, a
worktable with a coin-sorting machine sitting on it, mini-boxes of soap and other supplies, a calendar on the wall from a local appliance firm that probably serviced the machines. There was a door on the opposite wall that led into the main area. It was open, and Noble could see a sliver of what was going on in there.

He could see the woman, talking to someone. The door wasn’t open wide enough to make out who.

That wasn’t good.

He was hoping there’d be no one there, but of course she was running a business, and there was always the possibility there’d be customers. But if Noble could get Sam when she was in the office, and the door was closed, if someone heard a gunshot, he figured he’d have time to get away without being spotted.

He moved quickly to the other side of the window, gripped the doorknob, and slowly turned it. He pulled the door open half an inch per second until it was just wide enough to allow him to slip inside. Once he was in, he shut the door noiselessly behind him.

He could hear Sam and some man talking. About a fire, about clothes that smelled all smoky.

Noble thought the voice sounded familiar.

Can’t be,
he thought.

He could swear the guy she was talking to was the same one who’d been there the morning before, who’d thrown soap in his eyes. If Noble ended up having to shoot a witness, was there a better witness to shoot?

Noble stepped quietly to the other side of the room, positioned himself by the door.

Waited.

He heard the man say something about leaving his car unlocked. Noble’s heart was pounding as he took the gun into his right hand.

Footsteps headed this way.

Just in case there was someone else out there washing clothes, he wanted the door shut and locked before he pulled the trigger.

Needed to buy himself those extra few seconds.

She came into the room, right past him.

He rushed her from behind, using his gun hand to reach around her, his left to cover her mouth. She managed a millisecond of scream.

“Not a fucking sound,” he whispered into her ear.

She squirmed in his arms, fought hard until he brought up the gun so she could see it.

Sam went still.

“That’s smart,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be just fine.”

Yeah, right.

“We’re just going to move together over to the door.”

He pulled her backward, one hand still over her mouth, his other hand now pressing the gun to her temple. Once they were close enough to the door, Noble shut it with his foot.

There was a dead bolt.

“Don’t you make a sound now,” he said, taking his hand off her mouth long enough to throw the bolt.

He was pleased she hadn’t screamed. The gun, clearly, had scared her into keeping her mouth shut. He felt he could release his grip on her. She turned around, her eyes wide, her face full of fear.

It was kind of a turn-on, seeing how scared she looked.

“What now?” she asked. “What the hell do you want?”

“Who was that you were talking to?” he asked.

“What?”

“Out there. Is that the same asshole from yesterday?”

She had her eyes on the gun. “Just tell me what you want, Ed.”

“It’s what Yolanda wants,” he told her.

Just do it. Don’t stall. Don’t draw it out.

“Carl’s not here,” she said. “He’s at school. And they’re not letting him out of their sight. You can’t pull the kind of stunt you pulled yesterday.”

“That’s not what Yolanda wants,” he told her. “I mean, yeah, she still wants Carl, but she’s thought of another way to go about it.”

Sam’s chin trembled as the realization set in. “Come on, Ed. You gotta be kidding me. Not even Yolanda would do that.”

Ed Noble grinned nervously. “She’s something else, you gotta admit.” He raised the gun. “It’s nothing personal. I mean, with me.”

From beyond the door, someone shouted: “Sam!”

BEST
to your boy.

Randall Finley’s words were ringing in Barry Duckworth’s ears.

Best to your boy.

Trevor had been at the house, Barry recalled. He’d dropped by to pick up some CDs and then wandered into the kitchen just after Barry had been telling Maureen his concerns about the chief.

The last thing Duckworth could have wanted was for his thoughts about Finderman to become public. Okay, so maybe she should have been keeping a closer eye on the Gaynor murder. She’d have seen how similar it was to the Fisher woman’s slaying. It would have steered his investigation in another direction from the get-go. But he was never going to point a finger. Wouldn’t the chief have been within her rights to throw it back in his lap? Why hadn’t he reviewed earlier crimes himself to look for common elements? Why hadn’t he brought himself up to speed on cases that had happened while he was away?

He’d been venting when he told all this to Maureen. Seeking to place blame elsewhere. Not wanting to have to carry all the weight himself. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, putting any of this on the chief. But now it was out there. If she hadn’t already heard about Randall Finley’s charges, she would any minute now.

Sitting in his car, he wondered whether he should call her. Get ahead of this. Tell her what Finley had said, and where Duckworth believed he’d gotten his information. Fess up. Fall on his sword.

Except Duckworth didn’t know for sure.

So before he called his boss, he had to call his son.

He got out his cell, called up Trevor’s number from his list of contacts, and tapped on it with his thumb.

Three rings later, a pickup.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Duckworth asked.

“Dad?”

“Where are you, right now?”

“I’m at work,” Trevor said.

“You’re at Finley Springs? Or you’re on the road, doing a delivery?”

“On the road.”

“Where?”

“Greenwich,” Trevor said. A small town east of Promise Falls. “I’m just coming into Greenwich. Got about five drop-offs to do here.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m not going to be here all that—”

“There’s a gas station and a Cumberland Farms on Main Street. You know where—”

“That’s one of the places where I have to make a stop,” his son said.

“I’ll meet you. Twenty minutes.”

“Dad, what’s going on? Has something happened to Mom? Is she—”

“Be there.” Duckworth ended the call.

•   •   •

Ignoring all speed limits, and turning on the flashing red lights set in the front grille, Duckworth made the trip to Greenwich in fifteen. A quarter of a mile away he spotted the Finley Springs van parked in the Cumberland Farms lot, close to the road.

Trevor had been watching for him, and was getting out of the van as the unmarked cruiser pulled into the lot and screeched to a halt. He was standing by Duckworth’s door as he got out of the car.

“What is it?” he asked. “You’re going to make me late for the rest of my run.”

Duckworth got up close to his son, jabbed a finger at his chest.

“You’ll never guess what I heard Randy say today.”

“Huh?”

“At a press conference. Just now. He had all this stuff to say about my boss. How she missed a connection between two homicides. I’m scratching my head, wondering how he could have come up with something like that.”

Trevor swallowed hard. “Why are you asking me about this?”

“I just wondered if you had any idea where he came up with that.”

Trevor averted his eyes. “Who the hell knows how he comes up with anything? He’s kind of a nutcase. Everyone knows he’s full of shit.”

“You heard me talking to your mother.”

Trevor said nothing.

“You heard me talking about this with your mother. You were standing outside the kitchen and heard it.”

“You’re always talking about work stuff. How am I supposed to know what’s private and what isn’t?”

Duckworth placed both palms on his son’s chest and gave him a shove. Trevor stumbled backward, caught himself before tripping onto the asphalt.

“Goddamn it, you really did do it,” Duckworth said, his cheeks flushed. “I was hoping I was wrong. I was hoping maybe he got it from somebody else. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t know!” Trevor shouted.

“Do you realize what you’ve done? That asshole’s going to turn this into a campaign issue. He’s going after my boss. You think this isn’t going to come back to me? You think it’s not going to bite me in the ass? What am I going to tell her when I get hauled into my office? What?”

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, starting to tear up.

“You fucked me over! Way to go! My own son! Is this payback? Is that what it is? Some lifelong grievance you decided to settle by putting my job at risk? You think it’s just me you’re hurting? You think this won’t hurt your mother? Jesus Christ, what were you thinking, blabbing to him about that?”

“I said I’m sorry! You just don’t know what he’s like.”

“I know what he’s like more than anyone. What are you talking about?”

Trevor turned away, head down.

“Trev,” Duckworth said. “Talk to me.”

“I owed him,” his son said, back still turned.

“Owed him what?”

Trevor turned slowly. “It was about Trish.”

Duckworth lowered his voice. “What about her?”

“There was—something happened between us. An accident. A misunderstanding.”

Duckworth reached out, gently gripped his son’s arm, slowly turned him around. “What kind of accident? When was this?”

“Just before we broke up. She was going to slap me and I went to stop her and I . . . I kind of ended up hitting her.”

“You
hit
her?”

“And Mr. Finley, he found out all about it because he’s close with Trish’s family, and he talked to her about whether to go to the police, whether she should have me charged, and he kind of made it sound like he talked her out of it, but that could change, depending on whether I could help him out or not. You know, like if I ever heard anything interesting that might help him, like, politically.
And when I heard you talking to Mom about those murders, I thought that was something he could use, so I told him. I didn’t want to. But I wanted us to be square, you know, so I wouldn’t owe him anymore.”

“What’d he say?”

Trevor dropped his head. “He said it was a start.”

“He’s a fucking blackmailer,” Duckworth said. “I’ll kill him.”

“He was keeping me out of trouble. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I did a stupid thing. I never meant to hit Trish. I really didn’t. I was just swinging my arm around to deflect her, you know? But my hand, it got her right on the cheek and . . .”

Trevor began to cry. “I really fucked up. I fucked up huge. I hate this job. I hate working for that asshole. I just. I didn’t—”

“Come here,” Duckworth said. He pulled his son into his arms, patted his back softly.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Trevor said, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder. “You’re in deep shit. You’re in trouble.”

“We’ll work it out,” Duckworth said. “We’ll work it out.”

“I
thought I’d find you here,” Victor Rooney said.

Walden Fisher, on one knee before the gravestones of his wife and daughter, turned and looked at the man standing on the cemetery lawn behind him.

“Huh? Victor?” Walden said.

“You come up here most every day. I went by the house, and when I couldn’t find you there, I thought I’d take a run up here.”

Walden put both hands on his bent knee, pushed himself up. His left pant leg was damp from the grass.

“Victor,” he said. “You wanted to see me about something?”

Victor stood there in frayed jeans and a faded Buffalo Sabres T-shirt. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I came by to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

Victor shrugged. “Things aren’t working out for me here. I’ve been trying to get work, but I’m banging my head up against the wall. Can’t find anything. This town’s got nothing to offer.”

“Things are kind of tough everywhere,” Walden said. “Not just here.”

“Maybe. But I think things are just going to get worse here.”

“What do you mean?”

Victor shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“Where do you think you’ll go?”

Another shrug. “I haven’t worked that out yet. That’s what I’ll put my mind to over the next few days, while I finish up a few things.”

“What things?”

“You know, just stuff. Say good-bye to a few friends, things like that. Do some research online, see where a good place to go might be. Albany maybe. That’s close. But I might go far away, too. Maybe Seattle. I got some friends I went to school with out there. Maybe they got some leads on things.”

“Good to have options.”

“I know you blame me,” Victor said.

“Come again?”

“For what happened to Olivia. That you think it was my fault.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Victor. I’ve never accused you of killing Olivia.”

“Did you send that detective to talk to me? Duckworth? He came by my place, asking me how I was dealing with what happened to Olivia. Why would he do that?”

Walden shrugged. “I didn’t send him. I mean, he came by to see me, asking a few more questions. I guess they haven’t totally given up trying to find Olivia’s killer. I guess the conversation got around to you, but—”

“So it was you.”

“I’m sorry, Victor. I never meant to cause you any kind of trouble.”

“You blame me because I was supposed to meet her. In the park. And I was late. I know you hold me responsible.”

“I’ve never said that,” Walden told him.

“You don’t have to. I can tell. I blame myself, too. I just . . . I lost track of time. If I’d been there five minutes earlier, we’d have been in the bar, having a drink, getting a bite to eat.”

“Plenty of blame to go around,” Walden said.

“So, it’s not like I’ve decided to forgive myself or anything, but I’ve decided I have to move on. I have to try and get my shit together. Maybe I can do that somewhere else, by starting over.”

“Just don’t rush into anything, Victor. Think on it through the Memorial Day weekend, at least.”

Victor glanced at the headstones, then looked back at Walden Fisher. “Maybe you should, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Move on. I mean, coming up here, every day. Talking to Olivia and your wife, like they can hear you. Maybe that’s not that healthy a thing to do. Maybe it’s holding you back from getting on with your life.”

“This
is
my life. Paying my respects to them.”

Victor nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, then. I guess I said my piece.” He half turned, as if getting ready to leave, then stopped. “You hear about that thing last night?”

“What thing would that be?”

“The bus.”

Walden shook his head. “What bus?”

“A Promise Falls bus. Like, a regular city bus. I was jogging, and coming down the street, there’s this, like, fireball. It’s a bus, totally empty, the whole thing on fire. Someone would’ve had to steal a bus from the compound, splash some gasoline around inside, toss in a match, put it in neutral, and let it roll. It crashed right into the flower shop, caught the building on fire.”

“That’s horrible. Was anyone killed? Hurt?”

Victor shook his head. “Don’t think so. Wasn’t anybody on the bus. Had a big number twenty-three on the back. You been hearing about that?”

“I have,” Walden said.

“All the stuff that’s been happening—the drive-in and a bunch of other things—is all connected somehow.”

“That’s what they say.” Walden shook his head in bafflement. “Why would someone be doing something like that?”

Victor smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”