No Safe House

by Linwood Barclay

“I know, Unk. He did a terrible thing to you when he took her away. But you got the last laugh.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Sit tight. This is the day we’re all going to get what’s coming to us.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  TERRY

  I took three steps into the Koch apartment, leaving the door open behind me, stopped, and took the place in. I guess I was expecting a dump. After all, this was a father and son living over an appliance repair shop with no woman on the scene. I remembered, from when Stuart was my student, that his mother was absent. I never knew whether she’d walked out on them, had passed away, or what. Any efforts I’d made to get Eldon in for a parent-teacher night failed. Back then, I wrote him off as a father who didn’t give a shit, and I might still have been right about that. But after my most recent chat with Vince, I now knew who Stuart’s father was. It was possible he didn’t want to come in and discuss his son’s progress with someone he’d once grabbed off the street and tossed into the back of an SUV. Maybe he thought it was just possible I might hold a grudge against a student whose father had kidnapped me.

  The apartment, though, was tidy. No dishes in the sink, no mess on the counter, aside from a cardboard takeout tray with one coffee in it. There were no clothes tossed about here and there. An Xbox and games were tucked neatly on a shelf below the television. There were some framed pictures on the wall, one in particular that caught my eye, a Sears-style portrait of Eldon, Stuart at about three years of age, and a woman I presumed was his mother. They all wore the pasted-on smiles we adopt for those kinds of shots.

  Maybe being here wasn’t such a good idea.

  It wasn’t quite as risky as what I’d done the night before. Crawling through a busted basement window, wandering through a house of people I didn’t know, opening closet doors, snooping through every room. That was a new experience for me.

  Stepping into an unlocked apartment without an invitation wasn’t quite as serious a transgression, particularly when you considered I was looking for someone who lived here. But if someone came up those stairs behind me right now, I’d have a tricky time explaining myself. I could tell them the door was open, that I wasn’t here to rob the place, but would they believe me?

  Would Eldon take kindly to finding me here? It was a safe bet Vince wouldn’t.

  I decided to call out one last time, loud enough, I hoped, to wake the dead.

  “Stuart! It’s Terry Archer! Grace’s dad! I just came by to see if you were okay.”

  Nothing.

  I stood there another few seconds. Something made me reach over to the coffee in the takeout tray.

  It was still warm.

  There was a second cup on the table in front of the couch. I stepped over, wrapped my hand around it long enough to determine that it was as warm as the cup on the counter.

  So someone had gone out for coffees, or arrived with them, but then not hung around long enough to drink them. Did that make any sense at all? It meant there’d been two people in this apartment in the last few minutes, and that something had prompted them to leave so quickly they hadn’t bothered to take their drinks with them.

  Or lock the apartment door.

  Did this mean Stuart was alive? He’d shown up with two coffees—a peace offering for his father, maybe—but then they’d both immediately left? Maybe Stuart told his father what had happened, and they were on their way to the house he’d broken into last night?

  God, I had no idea.

  And I wasn’t going to learn anything just standing here. So I backed out of the apartment, stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, and closed the door.

  Maybe they’d come back. I decided to wait a few more minutes, but not up here at the top of the stairs. I walked back down, crossed the street, and got into my car. It was starting to get warm, so I turned the key far enough to let me get the windows down.

  Sat there.

  Pondered my next move.

  If no one showed up here, I didn’t really have one. If Stuart’s fate couldn’t be determined, I didn’t know what else to do but proceed with the lawyer route. We needed to know where we stood, to be ready for anything that might happen.

  I turned on the radio, listened to the news, traffic reports.

  Wasted nearly ten minutes.

  I was about to turn the key when my cell phone rang. I glanced at it, saw that it was HOME calling, and answered.

  “Grace?”

  “Hi, Dad. Did you find Stuart?”

  “No, sweetheart. If I had, I’d’ve called you.”

  “I thought, maybe, if you’d found him, but he was, you know . . . you’d wait till you got home to tell me.”

  “I haven’t found him, one way or another. I dropped by his place, but there’s no one here. Not him, or his dad.”

  “Okay.” She paused. “This is probably nothing.”

  I felt a small chill run the length of my spine. “What, honey?”

  “There’s this guy parked across the street, kind of down a bit.”

  A chill instantly ran down my spine.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “What about him?”

  “I was in my bedroom, looking out the window, but just through the crack in the drapes, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I don’t think he saw me.”

  “What are you saying? Is he looking at the house?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not sure. But he’s kind of looking this way.”

  I turned on the car. “Hang on,” I said. “The Bluetooth thing is kicking in. Okay, you’re on speaker.”

  “Can you hear me?” Grace said.

  “Yeah,” I said, setting the cell phone down on the seat next to me and pulling the seat belt across my body. I put the car in drive and hit the gas.

  “You there?” Grace asked.

  “I’m on my way,” I said. “Five minutes tops.”

  “Like I said, it might be nothing. I’m just kind of on edge, you know? Especially after what you said. About my being a witness and all.”

  “I didn’t mean to freak you out, sweetheart.”

  “I know, but you were right. I might have seen something I don’t even realize I saw? You know? Or heard something?”

  “Describe the car.”

  “It’s just a car,” she said. “Dark blue.”

  “What about the driver? Is there anyone else in the car?”

  “Just the one guy. He’s just a regular guy.”

  God. What was wrong with kids’ observational skills?

  “White guy? Black?”

  “White,” she said.

  “Does he look older or younger than me?”

  “About the same? It’s kind of hard to tell because he’s so far—Hang on.”

  “What?”

  “He’s getting out of the car, Dad.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s kind of looking around. Looking both ways on the street.”

  I felt my heart starting to pick up speed along with the car. “Now that you can see him, how tall? My height?”

  “Taller. And he’s got kind of browny gray hair, and he’s wearing sunglasses and he’s wearing jeans and a white shirt and a jacket. Like, a sport jacket. It’s kind of black.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” I said. “You recognize him? You ever seen him before?”

  “No, I’ve never—He’s crossing the street.”

  “Where are you, Grace?”

  “I’m in my room. I’m watching him from up here.”

  “Is the front door locked?”

  “Yeah. I locked it when you left. Like you said. And I turned the alarm on, too, so if he kicks the door in, it’s going to go whoop-whoop.”

  I didn’t want that image in my head.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s good, that’s good. It’s probably nothing, okay? Probably nothing at all. I’m probably only four minutes away.”

  I was coming up to a stop s
ign. I slowed, glanced both ways, and blew through it. Coming the other way, a school bus. And standing in a cluster on the sidewalk, on my side, a bunch of schoolkids.

  “Shit shit shit,” I said, easing my foot down on the gas a little harder.

  “What is it?” Grace said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s standing in front of our house. He’s looking at the house!”

  “Okay, okay, just calm down. You’re going to be okay. The house is locked. I want you to double-check that you turned on the alarm.”

  “Dad, I know—”

  “Do it!”

  I could hear her thumping down the stairs as she took the phone with her.

  “The red light is on!” she said.

  “Okay, that’s—Shit!”

  I slammed on the brakes. The school bus had stopped, engaged its flashing red lights, and half a dozen kids were crossing the street in front of me. The car came to a screeching halt.

  “Dad! Dad?”

  “I’m okay, honey,” I said, although my heart was pounding like it was trying to break free. I glanced up at the school bus driver, a woman, who was giving me a dirty, reproachful look. The last of the students passed by the front of my car and boarded the bus. A second later, the red lights stopped flashing and I tromped down on the accelerator once again.

  “Grace?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m near the front door.”

  “Can you see him?”

  “No, I’m going to peek out the living room window . . . No, he’s not standing across the street anymore. He must have—”

  In the background, I heard our doorbell.

  “Dad!” she whispered.

  “Grace?”

  “He’s ringing the doorbell. He’s at the door!”

  “It’s okay, honey. Don’t answer it. Just stay away from the door. When no one comes, he’ll go away. When he does, maybe you can get a closer look at the car. Maybe even get a license plate—”

  “He’s knocking now,” she whispered. “He tried the doorbell and now he’s knocking.”

  I raced through another stop sign, leaving honking horns in my wake.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m three minutes away. What’s happening now?”

  “He stopped knocking,” she said, her voice sounding slightly less hysterical. “He’s not ringing the doorbell or knocking or anything.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. He’s given up. So run back up to your room and see if you—”

  “Hang on,” Grace said. “I’m hearing something.”

  “What? What are you hearing?”

  “It sounds like . . . Dad, it sounds like he’s putting a key in the door.”

  “That’s not possible, honey. There’s no way—”

  “It’s turning,” she said.

  “What’s turning?” I asked, holding my breath as I pulled into oncoming traffic to pass a slow-moving van.

  “The dead bolt thingy,” Grace said. “It’s turning.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  VINCE Fleming held back in the bathroom of Eldon Koch’s apartment for a full minute after Terry Archer had left and closed the door. He didn’t want to take a chance that asshole would change his mind and come charging back in.

  Maybe he should have shot him, too.

  Damn you, Eldon.

  Vince told himself it was Eldon who’d forced the play. He’d made it damn clear he wasn’t going along with Vince’s plan. And if Eldon wasn’t going to help cover up what had happened to Stuart, well, it was like they said. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.

  And covering up the circumstances of Stuart’s death, steering the police away from anything to do with Vince and his operation, was a big problem.

  If Eldon wouldn’t play his role in a story that would place Stuart all over the country for several weeks, if not months, into the future, then what, exactly, was he planning to do? Go to the police? Work some kind of deal in return for testifying against his boss? He just might have, especially since he seemed to believe Vince was responsible for Stuart’s death.

  Where’d he get a crazy idea like that?

  Eldon was spouting some pretty insane shit there, right before the end. Suggesting Vince not only killed his son, but was ripping off his clients. Taking their money, scamming them into thinking he’d safeguard it, when in fact he was waiting until he had enough squirreled away, at which point he’d round it all up and take off.

  Vince didn’t like it that Eldon had ideas like that in his head. He wondered whether Gordie and Bert had ever thought the same thing.

  Vince emerged from the tiny bathroom and walked tentatively to the door. Looked to see whether Terry Archer was still out there, maybe standing on the steps. He saw a car parked across the street, Archer behind the wheel, just sitting there.

  What the hell?

  He was waiting. Waiting for Stuart or Eldon to come home. Vince touched the warm coffee on the counter.

  “Shit,” he said to himself. Archer was probably thinking someone would come back for the coffees. But sooner or later, he’d have to leave.

  Vince was stuck here until then.

  He went back to the bedroom, looked at Eldon’s body sprawled across the bed, blood soaking into the sheets. “You dumb bastard,” Vince said under his breath. “You think I wanted to do that?”

  How were Gordie and Bert going to react? The three of them had worked together a long time. They were friends. Vince believed he could persuade them that he’d done the only thing he could. Eldon lost it, he’d tell them. Was spouting crazy talk. His grief had made him irrational, a liability. No telling what he might say, or who he might say it to. If he’d talked to the cops, it wouldn’t have been just Vince who’d take the fall. Gordie and Bert would go down with him.

  They’d see that. They’d understand.

  They needed to know Eldon had screwed up. Big time. He’d been sloppy with the details of their operation, allowed his son to know what was going on. When you thought about it, Eldon was as much to blame for what had happened to his son as the person who’d pulled the trigger on him.

  Gordie and Bert would see that.

  Still, it wouldn’t be easy for them, having to come back here, tonight, when it was dark, to clean up this mess. To get rid of the body of a man they’d come to know. Vince was sure they’d grieve, but they’d know it had to be done.

  Jesus. First Stuart, now Eldon.

  Vince had had a plan worked out to explain Stuart’s disappearance. Let the cops think he died by misadventure while exploring America. Coming up with an explanation for Eldon’s disappearance might take more work. He’d have to give it some thought. If there was one silver lining, the one person who’d have noticed he was missing was no longer around.

  Vince propped himself against the doorjamb. “Weary” didn’t begin to describe how he felt. Beaten. Defeated.

  He could almost feel his insides being eaten away. The doctor wasn’t able to say with any certainty how much longer he had. Six months? A year at the outside? He might be able to buy himself more time with aggressive treatment, but Vince wanted no part of that.

  Better to just keep going, as best he could, for as long as he could.

  Or maybe not.

  Vince got out his phone, entered a number.

  “Yeah?” said Gordie.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m heading back to the shop. Done all I can do for the moment. Cleared out a few places where I could, but I still got some to go.”

  “Bert with you?”

  “No. He’s still doing the rounds. I’ve got, like, four hundred grand, some coke, some hardware in the car. What do you want us to do with it?”

  Vince wondered whether he himself was going to have to open a safe-deposit box. The fucking irony of it.

  “Leave that with me,” Vince said. “I’v
e got some new fires to put out.”

  “Great. We really need more of those.”

  “Archer’s still snooping around.”

  “I thought you talked to him.”

  “I did, but he didn’t get the message. I got an idea how we might solve that, at least temporarily.”

  He told Gordie his idea. “I can do that,” Gordie said. “And what else?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Okay. Look, the good news, if there is any, is so far it looks like our problems are limited to the Cummings house. Kinda puts the dog walker in the crosshairs.”

  Vince said, “See ya in a bit.”

  He took another look at Eldon, caught a whiff of the coppery blood smell.

  He rolled the body up in the bedsheets, grunting and struggling with the effort. There was a roll of plastic sheeting in the truck, and some duct tape. He’d try to get Eldon wrapped up now. Save them some work when they came back here tonight. He’d turn up the AC unit tucked in the window full blast. Anything to help in this heat. He hoped Eldon wasn’t too ripe by the time they returned.

  “I’m sorry,” Vince said. “I should have given you a chance to say good-bye to your boy.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  HEYWOOD Duggan made an early-morning call from home to his client Martin Quayle.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Quayle? Heywood Duggan here.”

  “Duggan! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I thought you’d given up on this. Given up on me.”

  “There’s a reason why you haven’t heard back from Eli Goemann. Someone killed him.”

  Quayle gasped. “Good God. Who did it? What the hell was the man into? You thinking I wasn’t the only person he was trying to scam? Because that’s what I’m starting to think it was. I’m thinking he never had what he said he had. That he just saw the story on the news.”

  “I don’t have the details. A police detective came to see me. A woman. She found out I’d been asking around about him. They haven’t made an arrest.”

  “Did he have it?”

  “Looks like he didn’t. This detective, Wedmore’s her name, didn’t say anything to suggest he was found with anything on him.”