Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  “And it’s automatic transmission?” I asked.

  A sharp intake of breath. “Are you kidding me? It’s a stick. You don’t want a car like that with an automatic.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Just asking. Wouldn’t want it any other way. Look, let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay. You want to take it for a spin, have some guy check it out, let me know.”

  “Got it. Take care.”

  “So long.”

  I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. Stood there leaning up against the Honda, staring at the grocery store.

  Thinking.

  Finally, I went inside, where I found Jeremy pushing a nearly empty cart. When he saw me, he reached in, showed me the only thing he’d found so far.

  “I got the Oreos,” he said.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ALBERT Gaffney lay awake most of the night wondering what he should do.

  Should he call the police about Ron Frommer? It was possible Frommer was the one who’d kidnapped Brian and tattooed his back, but then again, was it likely? There was no strong evidence that he’d done it. Not that he didn’t have a motive for being angry with Brian. If Frommer knew Brian had been fooling around with his wife, Jessica, well, just about anyone might lose their cool in a situation like that.

  But what he’d actually done to Brian—knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs—sounded more like what a guy would do to another guy who’d slept with his wife. Pure, straightforward violence. And in a way, you could almost excuse someone for that. Albert was certainly not going to forgive the man for beating up his son, but given the circumstances, well, you could kind of understand where he was coming from.

  Really, though, would Frommer abduct Brian and drug him and tattoo something that made no apparent sense onto his back? But then again, someone had done it. And regardless of who it turned out to be, it still wasn’t likely to make any sense, Albert figured.

  He considered his options. He could, in the morning, call that Duckworth guy and tell him what had happened to Brian when he went to visit Jessica Frommer. At least that way, Frommer would be on Duckworth’s radar. Let the police figure out whether he’d had anything to do with what happened to Brian during those two lost days.

  The only problem was, Brian did not want his father to do that. He was worried that Ron Frommer, who gave every indication of having a short fuse, would hurt Jessica if the police were called. Not because he’d suspect her of calling them—although he might—but because he was the kind of guy who, when upset, lashed out at whoever was close at hand.

  What to do what to do what to do?

  The other option, the one that had been keeping Albert awake and staring at the ceiling, was to talk to Ron Frommer himself.

  Confront the man. But not, you know, is a really confrontational way. Approach him in a semi-public place, ask him flat out whether he was the one who’d done that horrible thing to his son. Of course, he’d deny it either way, but if Albert got the sense he was lying, at that point, he’d go straight to Duckworth with his suspicions.

  No matter how Brian felt.

  The thing was, Monica was right. Albert did not like confrontations. Wasn’t that why he’d had so much trouble standing up to his own wife all these years? But this—this was different.

  This was about his son.

  This was about Brian.

  By the time he got up the next morning, he had decided what he would do. He would, first of all, tell them he was not coming into the bank today. Albert Gaffney was the assistant manager of the Glens Falls branch of the Syracuse Savings and Loan, north of Promise Falls. An excruciatingly boring job in a mind-numbing office, it suited Albert Gaffney just fine. He went in every day, added up numbers, made sure things balanced, checked to make sure the pens at the tellers’ windows had ink in them.

  In the twenty-two years he had worked there, they had had not one single holdup. They had discussed firing their security guard, an elderly man who slept through most of his shift, to save some money, but when the guard got wind of it, he offered to do the job for fifty per cent less.

  “It’s better than sitting at home,” he said.

  Albert believed that his time at the bank had taught him how to read people. So if this Frommer character lied to him, Albert figured he would know.

  When Constance heard her husband booking off work, she assumed it was so that he could spend the day at the hospital with Brian, who had been readmitted to finish the tests he’d walked out on the day before, and to be treated for his bruises. That was, in fact, the reason Albert had given for not coming to work. But when Constance asked what time they were going to go over, Albert said he had some errands to run first.

  “What errands?” she wanted to know.

  “Just errands,” he said, and fled the house before a full-fledged interrogation was under way.

  He drove to the address Brian had given him the day before for the Frommers. By seven thirty in the morning, he was parked on their street, a few houses down. Fifteen minutes later, a man Albert assumed was Ron Frommer came out of the house, got into a pickup truck, and backed it out of the driveway. Albert was able to make out the words “Frommer Renovations” on the door.

  When the pickup moved up the street, Albert put his beige four-door sedan into drive and followed. Maybe, he thought, Frommer would stop someplace for coffee. That would be a good place to approach him, where there were lots of other people around. Frommer wasn’t going to try anything violent when there were plenty of witnesses.

  Or so Albert hoped.

  Albert was not what one would call skilled in self-defence. He had never taken karate or judo classes. In school, he did not go for organized sports. In college, he was not on the football team.

  Sometimes he played golf.

  Frommer drove past several places where he could have bought coffee. A Dunkin Donuts, a McDonald’s, a couple of local diners.

  So much for that idea.

  His route was taking him out of town. Albert was thinking maybe he should have googled Ron Frommer before heading out this morning. Maybe he could have found out where he worked. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t thought this through as well as he could have.

  About five miles out of Promise Falls, along a wooded stretch of highway, Frommer put on his blinker and turned into a driveway. As far as Albert could tell, there was nothing to turn into there.

  Just woods.

  The truck disappeared down a gravel road.

  Albert slowed the car and pulled over to the shoulder. Where had Frommer gone? Should he follow?

  He sat there, listening to the engine idle. Gripped the steering wheel tightly. Felt sweat soaking his shirt under his arms.

  “All I want to do is talk to him,” he said to himself. “That’s all. Just a conversation.”

  Slowly, he turned off the road and inched his way down the driveway, tires crunching gravel along the way. A few yards and the driveway turned into a clearing in the woods. In front of him stood an A-frame chalet-style house. Set up out front of it were a couple of sawhorses and a work table.

  Albert stopped the car a few feet behind the pickup. The tailgate was already down, revealing various tools and lengths of lumber. Frommer, wearing a ball cap with a long visor, was already out of the truck, strapping on a work belt. When he saw Albert’s car approach, he stopped what he was doing and took off the hat.

  Albert stopped the car, turned off the engine, and slowly got out.

  “Hello,” Frommer said.

  “Um, hello, how are you?” Albert said, taking a few steps forward, near the back of the pickup.

  “Can I help ya?” Frommer said, smiling.

  “You . . . you’re Ron? Ron Frommer?”

  “I am indeed,” he said.

  “You do renovations?”

  He nodded agreeably. “Doing some work here on the Cunninghams’ place while they’re in Europe. Were you looking f
or them, or for me?’

  “I was . . . I guess I was looking for you?”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Albert. My name is Albert.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Albert.” Frommer extended a hand and Albert shook it. The man had a firm grip. Albert was betting his own hand felt soft in Ron’s callused one. “So again, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m, uh, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know . . . well, you’ve met my son.”

  Ron nodded. “Okay. What’s your son’s name?”

  “Brian.” Albert watched the man’s face.

  “Brian?” Ron said. “Brian who?”

  “Brian Gaffney.”

  Ron’s smile began to fade. “You say Brian Gaffney is your son?”

  Albert nodded nervously. “I believe you met him yesterday.”

  Ron put the hat back on his head. “Mister, you should turn your car around and go.”

  “You . . . you hurt him pretty bad. He’s back in the hospital.”

  “Like I said, you should go.”

  Albert was tempted to take a step back, but he held his ground. “I know . . . I mean, I can sort of understand why you did that. Finding out your wife, finding out that she had been seeing my son, I can see why a man might lose his temper over something like that.”

  Ron Frommer moved his tongue around in his mouth, poking out his left cheek, then his right.

  “I’m not saying that was the right thing to do. I think you should be charged for that, I do, but all I’m saying is I understand. But that’s not what I want to ask you about.”

  “Really. And what would you like to ask me about?”

  “I want to know about the other thing you did to him. I want to know why you did that.”

  This was how Albert had practiced saying it, in his head, as he lay in bed. Act like he already knew Frommer had done it.

  See if that shook him up.

  He searched the man’s face, looking for any clue.

  Ron Frommer said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Albert swallowed. “I think you know.”

  Frommer studied him for another three seconds, then grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Yes?” Albert said hopefully.

  “I know that only a pussy sends his daddy to settle scores.”

  Albert blinked. “That’s . . . that’s not the issue at all. My son is not . . . he’s not that. He’s a good boy.”

  “A boy? A good boy?” Ron chuckled. “What is he, twelve years old?”

  “Don’t say that. That’s uncalled for.”

  “So little Brian sends his daddy to have a word with me. I mean, if that doesn’t prove he’s a pussy, what would? Why didn’t his mommy come too? Did she stay home to read him a story?”

  “I’m going to tell the police about you,” Albert said, his voice starting to shake.

  “Make sure you call the pussy police,” Frommer said. “I think they could help you. You seem pretty much like a pussy, too. Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

  He turned his back and started walking toward the house.

  Albert stood there, feeling the shame and humiliation wash over him like hot tar.

  He’d gone face to face with this man, hoping for some sort of insight, a clue that would lead him to decide, one way or another, whether this man had anything to do with what happened to Brian.

  He didn’t know any more now than he had before he got out of the car. At least, not about Ron Frommer. But he believed he had gained some insight into himself.

  He was a little man.

  He was a small man.

  He was a pussy.

  Frommer reached the sawhorses, stopped. “Fuck, where’s my saw?”

  Albert glanced into the back of the pickup. There were two different power saws, a ladder, a crowbar, about twenty lengths of two-by-four.

  Frommer was striding back toward the truck.

  “You still here, Pussy Man?”

  When Albert played this moment over and over in his mind later, he would recall that everything seemed to go red. It was as though blood had washed over his eyes.

  But it wasn’t blood. It was some rage-induced optical illusion.

  He had no memory of forming intent. He didn’t think to himself, “Hey, I should pick up that crowbar and swing it into that son of a bitch’s head and beat the living shit out of him with it.”

  He didn’t think that.

  He just did it.

  He grabbed hold of the iron bar, and as Frommer rounded the end of the pickup, Albert swung with everything he had.

  Frommer only had enough time to say “What the—” before the bar connected with his temple.

  There was the sound of skull cracking.

  Frommer dropped instantly, but before he hit the ground, his head bounced off the edge of the tailgate.

  He lay there on the gravel driveway, not moving, blood streaming from his head.

  Albert began to giggle uncontrollably.

  THIRTY-SIX

  BARRY Duckworth called the forensics team still scouring Carol Beakman’s car for clues to tell them that when they were finished there, they’d have to come out to Dolores Guntner’s property. You’d think, a town the size of Promise Falls, one forensics team would be enough.

  In the meantime, he decided to do some more scouring of his own.

  Slowly, he explored every inch of the barn out back of Dolores Guntner’s house. A step-by-step search. As he began, he got out his phone and made a call.

  “Dad?” said Trevor.

  “Yeah. Where are you?”

  “Still hanging around Carol’s apartment. She hasn’t shown up. Every time a taxi comes down the street, I look to see if it’s her. Where are you?”

  “At the home of the woman who was in the trunk of Carol’s car. I found out her last name is Guntner. Heard it?”

  “No, but you know when you said her name was Dolly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m wondering if maybe I did hear that name when Carol saw the woman outside Knight’s. I thought I heard her say ‘Golly.’ You know, like golly, there’s my friend. I wonder now if she was actually saying her name.”

  “Huh,” Duckworth said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you come out here?”

  “Where’s here?”

  Duckworth gave him directions to the Guntner house.

  “I thought you didn’t want me hanging around while you were doing your investigating?” Trevor said.

  “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “So ask.”

  “In person.”

  Trevor was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Duckworth continued with his search, slowly walking through both levels of the barn, looking for anything that might catch his eye. Although the structure did look as though it was once used for the care of livestock, not much evidence of that remained beyond a few strands of hay scattered across the floor.

  Once he’d finished wandering the inside of the building, he exited it. He wanted to walk the perimeter of the barn, explore the grounds around it. In one direction was a large expanse of field, and in the other, near the barn, a forested area.

  First, however, he wanted that picture on the desk in the upstairs room that showed Dolores with two people Duckworth figured were her parents, now in the Davidson House nursing home. He went back inside, up the stairs, grabbed the picture, and came back down.

  As he came out of the house, a car was turning in off the main road and coming up the gravel driveway, a dust stream trailing behind it. It stopped and Trevor got out.

  Duckworth walked over to greet him.

  “Drove by once and missed it,” Trevor said. “Turned around, saw your car.”

  “Great.�
��

  “What did you want to talk to me about in person?”

  “I guess I just want to get ahead of things,” Duckworth said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t want any surprises.”

  “I’m still not getting you.”

  “I think it’s possible you knew, or might have met, the woman in that trunk.”

  Trevor’s eyes went wide. “I knew her? This Dolores person?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I told you, I never heard that name before.”

  “Okay,” said Duckworth. “But I’m wondering if you’ve met her. Let me show you something.”

  He held up the framed picture he’d taken from the house.

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dolores Guntner. And I think these are her parents.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take a good look at her.”

  Trevor studied the picture. “Actually, maybe.”

  “Where do you think you might have seen her?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe a tattoo parlor?”

  Trevor’s head rose sharply. He looked into his father’s face. “What?”

  “You might have met her at Mike’s. When you were getting your tattoo.”

  Trevor’s expression of confusion transformed into contempt. “What the hell is going on here? Have you got cameras on me everywhere? In bars, in tattoo parlors, places of business all over Promise Falls? If I go into a McDonald’s to take a piss, have you got pictures of me with my dick in my hand?”

  “Whether you like it or not, what’s going on today involves you. I’m not saying it involves you in a bad way, but you’re a common thread. Your girlfriend is missing, possibly after talking to this Dolores woman, and she’s someone you’ve come into contact with.”

  “This is unbelievable.”

  “Do you remember this woman or not?”

  “Yes! I remember her!”

  “What do you remember about her?”

  “She took my money, okay? I paid her. I gave her my Visa card and she put it into a machine, then she gave it back. Is this about me getting a tattoo, or is it about me spending money on one when I don’t even have a job?”