Broken Promise: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  “You just stay here for five seconds,” he said. “I’m going to take off.”

  Duncomb said, “You there? Oh, I get it. I crossed a line with the peeing question. Okay, I’m an asshole. But tell me where you are, Joyce. I don’t know where the hell you are. Joyce?”

  Joyce wondered what the hell this guy on top of her was talking about. He’d dragged her into the bushes so he could run off? Not that that was bad news, but it didn’t make sense.

  Maybe he couldn’t get it up.

  Whatever. She didn’t give a shit. She just wanted to get that gun out of her purse and blow this fucker’s head off in case he changed his mind.

  “We good? Are we good?” he asked her. “Just nod if we’re good.”

  His sweaty palm still over her mouth, she forced a nod.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He took his hand off her mouth, released his grip on her wrist, and started to get off her.

  Joyce got her right arm free. Brought the gun up fast.

  “Jesus!” the man said, bringing his left arm back, then swinging it hard against Joyce’s arm.

  The gun flew from her hand, landing in the blanket of leaves covering the forest floor.

  The man dived for the gun, his legs draped over Joyce’s. He got his hand on it, scrambled to his knees, and pointed the weapon at Joyce. She’d started getting to her feet, but froze.

  “Goddamn it,” the man said. “I was never going to do anything.” He angled the gun away, so that if it went off, it wouldn’t hit Joyce. “It’s all for show, a gig, a kind of social experiment, he called it.”

  “What?” Joyce said.

  “No one actually gets hurt or anything, so—”

  There was a stirring in the bushes to the left. Then a deafening bang. One side of the attacker’s head blew clean off.

  Joyce screamed.

  Clive Duncomb emerged from the brush, gun in hand.

  “Got the son of a bitch,” he said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  David

  “HI,” I said, extending a hand to Dr. Jack Sturgess in Marla’s hospital room.

  He took the hand, gave it a firm shake, and said, “Marla really needs her rest.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I understand that.”

  “You were with her this morning,” Sturgess said, keeping his voice low, drawing me toward him out of Marla’s range of hearing. “You found her with that woman’s child.”

  “That’s right.”

  He raised his index finger, a “give me two seconds” gesture, then stepped around me and approached Marla. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I’m just going to see your cousin out; then I’ll come back and check on you.”

  I guessed that meant I was leaving. Sturgess led me into the hall, let the oversize door to Marla’s room close, and said, “I just wanted to thank you for looking out for her this morning.”

  “I didn’t really do anything. I was just trying to sort out what happened.”

  “All the same, thank you. She’s in a very delicate condition.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding.

  “What did Marla tell you about how she got hold of that baby?”

  “Same as she’s told everyone else, I suppose,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, the mystery woman who came to her door. A delusion, more than likely.”

  “You think?”

  The doctor nodded. “I’d say yes. But it might be helpful, in understanding her state of mind, to know just who she believes it was who delivered this child to her.”

  “I don’t know if I’m following you.”

  “Well, let’s say she saw a tall, dark stranger. That might signify something totally different than if she’d seen a six-year-old girl.”

  “Dr. Sturgess, are you Marla’s psychiatrist?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “If anyone should be trying to read anything into Marla’s fantasies, wouldn’t it be her psychiatrist?”

  Sturgess cleared his throat. “Just because I’m not Marla’s psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’m not interested in her mental health. A person’s mental state is very much related to their physical well-being. For God’s sake, I’m treating her for a slit wrist. You think that doesn’t have something to do with her state of mind?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to help this girl.”

  “So am I,” I said.

  Eyebrows shot up. “How?”

  “I don’t know. Any way I can.”

  “Well, coming here, visiting her, letting her know you care, that’s good. That’s a very good thing to do. She needs that kind of love and support.”

  “I was thinking of doing more than that,” I said.

  “I don’t understand. What else could you possibly do?”

  “I don’t know. Ask around, I guess.”

  “What does that mean? ‘Ask around.’”

  “What it sounds like,” I said. “Ask around.”

  “Are you some sort of private detective, David? Because if you are, it’s never come up. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “My recollection is . . . didn’t I used to see your byline in the Standard? But that was a long time ago. You were a reporter once?”

  “I used to be at the Standard. Then I was at the Globe, in Boston, for a while. Came back here to write for the Standard just as it closed down.”

  “So, this asking around, then, it’d just be something to do to keep busy?”

  I gave myself a couple of seconds, then asked, “What’s your problem with this, exactly?”

  “Problem? I didn’t say I had a problem with it. But since you’ve asked, in case you haven’t noticed, the police are very much involved in this. They are doing plenty of asking around. That’s kind of what they do. So I don’t see what purpose there would be in your going around troubling people at a time like this with a bunch of questions. And that would begin with Marla. It’s great, your stopping by to say hello, but I don’t want you subjecting her to some kind of interrogation.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. The last thing anyone involved in this horrible business needs is some amateur sleuth poking his nose into things.”

  “Amateur sleuth,” I said.

  “I mean no offense,” Sturgess said. “But Marla’s in a delicate condition. As is Mr. Gaynor. The last thing he needs—”

  “Wait,” I said, raising a hand. “You know Bill Gaynor?”

  Sturgess blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “You know the Gaynors?”

  “Yes, yes, I do,” he said. “I’m their family physician.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, why would you? What business would it be of yours to know who my patients are?”

  “It just seems like quite a coincidence,” I said.

  Sturgess shook his head condescendingly. “Promise Falls is not that big a place. It’s hardly shocking that I could end up treating two families with a connection. Oh, look.”

  Aunt Agnes was striding down the hall, her husband, Gill, a few steps behind her. Her eyes landed on me and she offered up one of her rare smiles.

  “David,” she said, giving me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Have you been in to see Marla?”

  “I have. She seems . . . good. Tired, but good.”

  Gill joined his wife at her side, extended a hand. “Dave, good to see you.”

  I nodded. “Uncle Gill,” I said.

  Jack Sturgess spoke up. “Your nephew and I were just having a nice chat. David here has expressed his intention to make some inquiries into the circumstances of the day’s events, and I suspect he’s decided to do this without consulting either of you.”

  “Is t
hat true?” Gill asked.

  “Well, what I was thinking—”

  Agnes said, “What do you mean, inquiries?”

  I raised a cautious hand. “I just want to do whatever I can to help Marla. The police may already’ve made up their minds about what happened, but maybe if I ask a few questions, I might be able to turn up something that would make them think twice.”

  I braced myself for a verbal assault. I figured that even if Agnes accepted that my intentions were honorable, she was such a control freak she wouldn’t want anyone doing anything for a member of her family without her direct supervision.

  So when she reached for my hand, squeezed it, and said, “Oh, thank you, David, thank you so much,” I was caught off guard.

  “Yes,” Gill said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Anything you can do, we’d be most grateful.”

  I glanced at Dr. Jack Sturgess. He did not look happy.

  THIRTY-TWO

  BARRY Duckworth was beginning to think he would never get home.

  He was in his car, headed in that direction, still trying to get his head around what he’d seen at the coroner’s office, when he got a call on his cell.

  “Duckworth.”

  “Detective, it’s Officer Carlson. Angus Carlson.”

  “Officer Carlson. I thought I might be hearing from you. You been talking to the chief?”

  “I heard from her a few minutes ago. About lending a hand to the detective division.”

  “Yeah,” Duckworth said.

  “I’ll be reporting to you.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m looking forward to the opportunity.”

  “Sure. See you in the morning.”

  “There’s another reason why I’m calling,” Carlson said.

  “Another squirrel joke?”

  “No, sir. But it’s sort of connected. Well, not connected, really. It’s just that I’m at a scene that maybe doesn’t warrant your attention, but it’s so weird, and to have something this weird happen the same day as that thing with the squirrels this morning, I thought maybe you’d like to—”

  “Spit it out, Carlson.”

  Officer Carlson told him where he was, and what he’d found.

  “I’ll swing by,” Duckworth said.

  • • •

  Carlson met Duckworth at the Five Mountains admission gates and led him through the darkened park to the Ferris wheel, which reminded him of a monstrous, illuminated tambourine.

  “This is what I thought you’d want to have a look at,” the officer said, pointing to the three mannequins with the words YOU’LL BE SORRY painted across them.

  Duckworth walked around the scene, inspecting it from all angles.

  “Could just be kids,” Carlson said.

  “Could be,” the detective said, but it didn’t feel like kids to him. He could see kids wanting to fire up a mothballed Ferris wheel and take it for a joyride, as dumb a stunt as that might be, considering that it wasn’t exactly easy, if security showed up, to make a run for it when you were at the top of the wheel.

  But there hadn’t been any kids on the wheel when it was found in operation. Just these three lifeless passengers. Whoever’d gotten the ride started had plenty of time to get away before anyone else got here.

  Still . . .

  “Search the park,” Duckworth said. “See if there’s anyone hanging around to watch the show. Maybe somebody left something behind. Dropped a backpack, something.” Some other uniformed Promise Falls police had arrived, and Carlson told them to fan out.

  “Who’ll be sorry?” Duckworth asked aloud, although he wasn’t directing the question to anyone in particular. “And for what?”

  “Sorry they’re going out of business?” Carlson offered. “The park’s gone under, you know.”

  Duckworth knew. “Where’s the woman?”

  Carlson said Gloria Fenwick was waiting in the admin offices for a detective to speak with her. Before going to find her, Duckworth told one of the other officers not to touch the mannequins. Not before they’d been fingerprinted.

  “They’re not real fingers,” the office said, perplexed.

  “The mannequins,” Duckworth said. “Have them dusted for fingerprints.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the officer said.

  A lifelong traffic cop, Duckworth thought.

  He had to press an intercom buzzer at the door to the building where Fenwick worked. “Who is it?” she asked nervously. When he told her, she buzzed him in. She was waiting for him at the top of a flight of stairs, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She led him into the main office area filled with cubicles and computers.

  Every overhead light was on.

  “I’m freezing,” she said. “Ever since I saw those . . . those dummies, I can’t stop shivering.”

  They found some comfortable couches to sit on in a lounge by reception.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” Duckworth said.

  Fenwick studied him. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

  “It was a few years ago. The woman who disappeared here at Five Mountains.”

  “Oh!” she said. “I remember you. You’re the one who wanted to search every single car leaving the park.”

  “Tell me what happened here tonight.”

  She told him: seeing the light outside the office window, discovering the Ferris wheel in full rotation, the painted mannequins.

  “You didn’t see anyone?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’d like to have a look at your surveillance footage,” he said.

  Another shake of the head. “There is none. The cameras are all off.” Fenwick shrugged. “This time of year, even if the park wasn’t closing for good, the cameras would be off. We wouldn’t normally open until next week. There’d be no one here to monitor them. We have a security guard sweep through a couple of times a day, but this was before his next scheduled stop.”

  Duckworth asked, “How many people lost their jobs because of the park going under?”

  “Everyone,” she said. “Me, too, eventually.”

  “How many is that?”

  “About two hundred people directly employed by Five Mountains. And then, some of the concessions, they hired their own people. The ripple effect. Plus, there were plenty of local businesses we patronized. Cleaning services, gardening, things like that.”

  “Anyone seem particularly hostile about being let go?”

  Fenwick leaned back into the couch and stared at the ceiling. “It happens. It’s business. People were upset. Some people cried. But it wasn’t like anyone said, ‘I’ll get you for this.’ No one who said anything like what was written on those dummies.” She paused. “I will never be alone here at night again.”

  “That’s smart.”

  She stopped looking at the ceiling. Fixing her eyes on his, she asked, “You think it’s a serious threat?”

  “I don’t know,” Duckworth said. “But someone went to a lot of trouble to stage all that. Had to drag three dummies out here, paint them, get them into that car, start up that ride. How hard would it be for someone to do that? Get the ride going?”

  “If you’ve got any experience with machinery or electronics, I mean, I guess anyone like that could figure it out.”

  “Kids?”

  She thought a moment. “I doubt it. Unless it was some kid we hired last summer.”

  “Can you find me the names of the employees who ran that specific ride?”

  “I could probably do that,” she said. “But not now. I don’t want to spend another minute here tonight.”

  Duckworth smiled. “Tomorrow’s good.” He gave her one of his cards. “I can get one of the officers to escort you to your car.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Duckworth was going back dow
n the stairs when his cell phone rang once again.

  “Yeah.”

  “This Detective Duckworth?”

  “It is.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s Clive Duncomb over at Thackeray.”

  “You were supposed to send me the names of the women who’d been assaulted.”

  “Yeah, well, about that,” Duncomb said. “There’s been a development.”

  • • •

  “It was a righteous shoot,” the Thackeray College security chief said, standing over the body of the man who had attacked Joyce Pilgrim. Their light sources were a half-moon, the stars, and five flashlights that were being wielded by Duncomb, the three male members of his team, and Duckworth.

  “Well, I guess that settles it, then,” Duckworth said. He gazed down at what remained of the man’s head, then let his eye trail down the rest of the body. The man was in a fleecy dark blue or black hoodie—it wasn’t easy to tell in this light—with a large white 2 stitched onto the left of the zipper, and an equally large 3 to the right.

  “I saw him with a gun in his hand, kneeling over Joyce. I was coming into the trees here, trying to find her, and that’s the situation I encountered.”

  “You can make a full statement at the station,” Duckworth said.

  “Come on. It’s all pretty cut-and-dried. Like I said, it was righteous.”

  Duckworth shone his light directly into Duncomb’s face. “Don’t say that word again.”

  “It’s justified, is all I’m saying. I saved Joyce’s life.”

  “After putting her at risk. Right now this is a homicide. And I’m in charge. You’ll be coming in for a full statement. The whole lot of you.”

  The only member of the security team not there was Joyce Pilgrim. She was at the athletic building, being babysat by a Promise Falls officer until Duckworth was finished here.

  “Many of the students around here carry weapons?” Duckworth asked, shining the light back onto the body.

  “Sure hope not, but that’s not his anyway. Joyce let this clown get her gun off her.”

  “Your security people all licensed to carry?”

  “Well, not technically. But seeing as how Joyce was the bait, I made a decision to give her one of my—”