A Tap on the Window

by Linwood Barclay

  I called Donna.

  “I’m heading Rochester way. Not sure when I’ll be home.”

  “Okay.”

  Donna often didn’t ask where I was going. She knew my work could take me almost anywhere unexpectedly.

  I didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

  “Cal?” she said. “You there?”

  “We should go away,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We should take a trip.”

  “Take a trip where?”

  “I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

  “I—I have no idea,” she said.

  “What about Spain?”

  She half laughed. “Why would you say Spain?”

  “It was the first place I thought of. We could do Australia.”

  “Just because we go to the other side of the world doesn’t mean everything will be okay,” Donna said.

  “You said something when we had our midnight breakfast,” I said. “You said we’ll never be happy again.”

  “Cal, I’m sorry. I—”

  “No, wait. You said we’ll never be happy again, but maybe we could be happier.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. “I want to be happier. I would settle for that for now.”

  Now the silence came from the other end of the line. I waited a few seconds before saying her name.

  “I’m here,” she said. Another pause, then, “San Francisco.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to ride on a cable car. I want to stand on the side, holding on. That’s what I want to do.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “When?”

  I thought. “I think—and I could be wrong—but I think I’m getting somewhere, trying to find Claire. When this is wrapped up, we’ll do it. If you can get the time off.”

  “I can get the time off,” Donna said.

  “You can start looking up hotels and stuff when you get off,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe one of those small boutique hotels.”

  “Okay.”

  Each time she said the word, she sounded more sad.

  She said, “I won’t be able to not think of him.”

  “I know. Neither will I.”

  “I want to think about him. I just don’t want to think about him . . .”

  Falling.

  I could never stop thinking about Scott falling.

  FORTY-SIX

  Driving north out of Griffon, I thought I saw the car again in my rearview mirror. That silver Hyundai with the tinted windows. But once I got out of the downtown area, and the buildings began to thin, the car took a hard right and disappeared.

  It took me a full two hours to find Dennis Mullavey’s house in the village of Hilton. There were still some signs up, coming into the village, advertising the annual apple festival a couple of weeks back.

  There was a cool breeze coming in off Lake Ontario as I mounted the steps of the one-story red-brick house. There was a rusted green Ford Explorer from the last century in the driveway. I rang the bell and waited. Seconds later, a tall, very thin black man in neatly creased white khakis and a red pullover Gap shirt opened the door. His short hair was gray, and a pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose. I put his age at late sixties, early seventies. Retired, no doubt, given that he was home in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Yep?” he said.

  “Mr. Mullavey?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Doug Mullavey.”

  “My name is Cal Weaver.” I got out my license, held it in front of him, gave him enough time to get a good look at it.

  “You’re a private eye?” he said.

  “I am.”

  “What brings a fella like you to my door?”

  “I was hoping to have a word with your son, Dennis.”

  “Dennis isn’t here,” he said.

  “When might you be expecting him?”

  The man shrugged. “He doesn’t live here.”

  “Would you have an address for him?”

  “Nope.”

  I smiled. “If you wanted to get in touch with him, how would you go about that?”

  “I guess I’d call his cell.”

  “His cell doesn’t answer. That’s been my experience, and it’s also been the experience of his former employer.”

  “Maybe he’s in a place where you can’t get a good signal,” Doug Mullavey said.

  I leaned into the railing that ran down the side of the steps. “Can we speak plainly, Mr. Mullavey?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

  “I’m trying to find Claire Sanders. A girl from Griffon. Her father’s the mayor there. Your son was going out with her, might still be, for all I know. Claire’s disappeared, and I’m hoping your son might have information that would lead me to her. It’s even possible they’re together.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “The thing is, Mr. Mullavey, Claire went to some lengths to slip away without anyone following her. She had help from a girl named Hanna Rodomski, and that girl’s now dead.”

  That caught his attention. “What happened to her?”

  “She was murdered. Around the same time that Claire vanished. I think Claire took off with Dennis. She got into an old Volvo station wagon, driven by someone matching your son’s description. Does your son have a car like that?”

  “I’m not sure what kind of—”

  “Mr. Mullavey, please. You and I both know no son gets a car without his father’s input and guidance. So you’ve as much as admitted that’s your son’s car. I don’t have any reason to believe Claire or your son had anything to do with that girl’s death, but I’m willing to bet one or both of them know something that could have some bearing on it. And if Hanna Rodomksi’s murder is tied in to Claire’s disappearance, it may very well mean that Claire’s in danger. If Claire’s in danger, and your son is with her, then your son is also—”

  “I really don’t think—”

  I talked over him. “Is also at risk. So if you have any idea where your son is, you’d be well advised to tell me.”

  Doug Mullavey, lips together, ran his tongue over his teeth. His lips parted and he said, “That’s horrible about that girl. Just horrible.”

  “Help me,” I said quietly.

  He opened his mouth and said, “I don’t know you, Mr. Weaver. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know whose interests you really represent. I don’t know, if I asked you who you’re working for, that you’d give me an honest answer. So I’m afraid that I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  I bowed my head wearily, then looked the man in the eye. “I don’t mean your son any harm. I’m trying to keep him, and Claire, out of trouble. What is it you’re afraid of? What is it your son is hiding from?”

  “I’m afraid these are questions I can’t answer. Maybe, in time, you’ll be someone I come to trust.”

  “Others might come with the same questions,” I told him.

  “You think you’re the first?” he said, and came close to a smile.

  “Who else has been here?”

  “You think if I wouldn’t talk to the police, I’m going to talk to you?”

  “The police have been here?” I asked. “Which police? State? Griffon?”

  He waved his hand like he didn’t give a damn. “Someone came around looking for Dennis. Said he’d done some things I know aren’t true, that he stole from people’s houses when he was cutting their lawns and they were away. That’s bullshit. I sent him on his way.”

  “It must have been a Griffon cop,” I said. “Did you get a name? When was this?”

  Mullavey ran a hand over the crown of his head. “You kn
ow, I used to work for Kodak. Retired ten years ago. My wife, Denny’s mom, passed away two weeks after I stopped working.”

  He looked off in the direction of Lake Ontario, although we couldn’t see it from here. “I’m glad I wasn’t there at Kodak for the end, when it ceased to be, what with people no longer needing film. There’s a phrase I used to say there—maybe it wouldn’t be so applicable these days, what with everything being digital and all, but whenever someone asked me what was going to happen next, I used to say, ‘I guess we’ll see what develops.’ I guess we’ll see what develops, Mr. Weaver, but in the meantime, I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I’m not the enemy,” I said.

  “Would the enemy say he was?” Doug Mullavey shot back.

  “No,” I said. “He wouldn’t.” I handed him one of my business cards and to my surprise, he accepted it. He called out to me as I walked back to the car. “Mr. Weaver?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “Dennis is a good kid.”

  “I hope he’s more than that,” I said. “I hope he’s smart. Because it looks like he’s not just responsible for his own safety. He’s responsible for Claire Sanders’, too. I hope I don’t have to come back here and tell you something happened to her, or to your son, and that you could have told me something that would have prevented it.”

  I continued on my way and didn’t look back.

  * * *

  On the drive back to Griffon, Donna called to say she’d be home late, probably around nine. If we were really going to try to go away, there was a lot of work she had to get ahead on. She figured she’d stay late today, a Friday, and Monday so that whoever had to do her job in her absence wouldn’t make a complete mess of it. I suggested that when she got home, we order a pizza.

  No argument.

  I told her I probably wouldn’t make it home much before she did, and that turned out to be true. When I pulled into the driveway at six forty-five, her car wasn’t there. It was dusk, and the streetlights had come on. I felt I’d done about as much as I could today. I was running on empty. I would make a few calls from home tonight, see if I could find out anything about Dennis Mullavey online. Maybe I could track down a Facebook page for him, find out who some of his friends were. If I got lucky, some of them might be right here in Griffon. If I had the energy later in the evening, I’d go looking for them.

  A lot of maybes. Everything depended on my being able to stay awake once I went through the front door. I felt a face-plant on the couch coming on.

  And then it occurred to me I really owed Bert Sanders a call. If I were him, I’d be waiting by the phone, hoping to hear something, anything. That would be the first thing I’d do.

  No. The second. The first thing I was going to do was get a beer from the fridge.

  I put the car in park, took out the key, and sat there for the better part of ten seconds.

  Decompressing.

  Finally, I opened the door, got out.

  Behind me, someone said, “Mr. Weaver?”

  I turned around, saw the baseball bat a millisecond before it connected, catching me at the back of the neck, just below my skull.

  Then things got really bad.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I didn’t black out completely. I was pretty fuzzy at first, no doubt about it. But I could hear things, like when you’re having an afternoon nap on the couch but are still distantly aware of things going on in the house around you.

  I heard someone say, “Fucker!”

  A second voice said, “Got him good.”

  Male voices.

  After I hit the driveway, I slapped my palms onto the asphalt and woozily tried to push myself up, but a sharp kick to my side hindered my efforts, knocking the wind out of me. I dropped and rolled over onto my side. I could hear pitiful moaning.

  That was me.

  I opened my eyes, saw them looking down on me like a couple of skyscrapers. Hard to judge how tall they were from my vantage point. They could have been five one and still looked like giants. Stocky builds, thick arms. Their faces remained a mystery. They wore ski masks, so all I could see was their eyes and mouths. One wore a red mask, with knitted snowflakes on it, while the other had pulled a solid blue one down over his face.

  Red Mask said, “How do you like it, huh? You like that?”

  Blue Mask said, “You better check and see if he’s got a gun on him.”

  Red Mask said, “Shit, yeah, okay.”

  He dropped to his knees, patted me down. “Nothing,” he said.

  Just as well I’d decided not to carry the Glock today. I stood a chance of surviving a beating, but a shot to the head was a lot harder to recover from. I made an unsuccessful attempt to punch Red in the face, but he deflected the blow. Then I went for his mask, trying to slip my fingers under the bottom edge. Stubble under his chin rubbed against my fingers like sandpaper.

  “Fuck off!” he said, ripping my arm away and hitting me backhanded on the cheek.

  “Sit on him,” said Blue. “Hold him down.”

  I was straddled. He grabbed my wrists and with his weight pinned them to the pavement. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of duct tape being torn off a roll. Next thing I felt was tape being wound around my ankles, binding my legs together.

  “Hold him!”

  “I’ve got him. Work fast before someone comes.”

  Blue moved up by my head. While his partner crossed my wrists, Blue taped them together. He wound the tape around half a dozen times, did a pretty good job of it. What he hadn’t thought of was, when I brought my arms down, my wrists would be in front of me. That was a lot better than having them bound behind my back. He tore off a couple more strips and slapped them over my mouth.

  “Okay, asshole, stand up.”

  They had to help me to my feet, then bent me over the hood of my car so I all I could see was metal. Blue held me there while Red ran off. Seconds later, I heard a car start up, then the whining noise of a car backing up speedily. I managed to turn my head enough to see the car back in right behind me. I couldn’t see what make it was. A trunk popped open.

  Red jumped out of the car and with Blue’s help they hauled me off the hood and turned me around. Suddenly, I raised my arms in front of me, wrists still crossed, and attempted to bat Blue across the head. Got him, too, but not hard enough to hurt him. That was when he got the roll of tape again, making several turns around me at waist height, pinning my arms down.

  Shit.

  They shuffled me over to the back of their car, the trunk yawning open to receive me.

  “Yeah, see how you like it,” Blue said. The two of them loaded me in. I lay on my side, looking up.

  “The fun’s just beginning,” said Red.

  And then everything went dark.

  * * *

  I heard some muffled chatter through the trunk lid, then both doors opening and closing. We shot out of the driveway like a sprinter coming out of the blocks. I was tossed around, hit my head.

  The car accelerated, made several turns, and within five minutes we were traveling steadily at what I guessed to be sixty or more miles per hour. We were on a highway. Most likely the Robert Moses, but heading where, I could only guess at this point.

  The dumb-asses had searched me for a gun, but they hadn’t grabbed my phone, which told me I wasn’t exactly dealing with professionals. Although I had to concede they’d been smart enough to get the drop on me.

  My cell was still tucked way down in my inside jacket pocket, but it was of little use to me now. I couldn’t get at it, and even if it somehow slipped out and landed on the floor of the trunk, I was going to have a hard time manipulating it.

  Most cars made in the last few years are equipped with an escape latch in the trunk that can be pulled from the inside. I’m not sure the manufacturers were thinking primarily of kidnap victims.
They just wanted kids who’d accidentally locked themselves in a trunk to be able to get out before they suffocated.

  I didn’t know how recent this car was or whether it had such a latch. And even if it did, I didn’t know where it was located. If I could untie myself, I could start patting around trying to find it. I couldn’t exactly roll out while the car was moving, but someone traveling behind us might see the trunk pop up, spot me in here, and call the cops. Failing that, maybe I could get myself into position, wait until the car stopped and they opened the trunk, and see if I could drive my heels into the face of one of these sons of bitches.

  The tires hummed on the pavement below me, the noise much more audible than if I’d been behind the wheel. There was a rhythmic thunk as we drove over pavement seams. But then the sound changed, became more hollow. We were crossing a bridge.

  Then we were back on solid pavement.

  I didn’t know where we were going, but I had an inkling. I also had an idea who my two kidnappers were.

  They were my chickens coming home to roost.

  The car slowed, turned, sped up, turned again. We were off the highway, and had been traveling for about twenty minutes.

  My cell rang. I felt it vibrating against my chest. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I wondered if the phone’s ring could be heard inside the car, whether it would prompt them to pull over, pop the trunk, and take it away from me. But I could detect a lot muffled chatting in the two front seats, and when they didn’t pull over, I figured they hadn’t heard it.

  I was still struggling with the tape, and while I felt like I was making headway, I wasn’t making it fast enough. If could free my wrists first, I could remove the rest of the tape in seconds. If I could break the tape wrapped around me, I could get my hands to my mouth, peel off that tape, and bite my way through the tape that held my wrists.