Broken Promise: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  No helicopters in the air, either.

  Maybe he hadn’t done anything like this before, but Marshall Kemper was no fool.

  He turned the van around and returned to the Boone lane, pulled in. It did indeed lead into thick forest. Someone must have had a home deep in there somewhere. A hunting cabin, maybe.

  The trees came right up close to the road.

  He stopped with the driver’s door about twenty feet from the mailbox, a rusted aluminum container about ten inches high, two feet deep. Shaped like a barn with a rounded roof. He walked around to the front of it, pulled down the squeaky door, and there, just like Gaynor promised, was a package.

  Not an eco bag, but something the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper, with string tied around it. He worked the package out of the box, closed the door, and went back to his truck.

  As he was getting in, he felt something sharp jab him in the neck.

  “Jesus!” he shouted, the package falling out of his hands and hitting the gravel road.

  For a split second, he wondered whether he’d been stung by a bee. But as soon as he turned his head, he saw that there was someone in the passenger seat.

  A man, late fifties, nice suit.

  With a syringe in his hand.

  “What the— What the fuck did you do?” Marshall said. He slapped his hand on his neck where the needle had gone in.

  The man pointed the business end of the syringe at Marshall, using it like a gun to keep him from attacking him.

  “Listen to me,” the man said. “You don’t have much time. You’re probably already starting to feel the effects. It works fast.”

  The guy was right about that. Marshall felt his arms getting heavy. His head was turning into a bowling ball.

  “What did you do?”

  “Listen to me,” he said again. “I have a second syringe. It’ll counteract what I just injected into you. Because it’s going to kill you.”

  “Like, an anecdote?”

  “Yeah, like that. But there isn’t much time.”

  “Then get the thecond thyringe!” Christ, it really was fast. His tongue was expanding like a sponge.

  “Just as soon as you answer my questions. How did you find out what you know about Gaynor?”

  “I justht did, thass all.”

  “Was it Sarita?”

  Marshall shook his head.

  “Clock’s ticking,” the man said.

  Marshall nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Where is she?”

  He tried to shake his head, but it was getting harder and harder to move it. “I’m not delling. . . .”

  “Tick-tock.”

  “Sheeth at my plathe.”

  “Is she there now?”

  Another feeble nod.

  “Where do you live?”

  Marshall tried to form the words, but he was having a hard time getting them out. The man opened the van’s glove box, rooted around until he found the ownership and insurance papers.

  “Is this up-to-date?” the man asked. “Groveland Street? Apartment 36A?”

  Another nod.

  “Good, that’s good. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  Struggling with everything he had, Marshall said, “Other thyrinth.”

  “There is no other syringe.”

  Marshall started to make choking noises, leaned forward, put his head on the top of the steering wheel.

  Another man approached the van on the passenger side.

  “Did he tell you, Jack?” the second man asked.

  “Yeah, he did. I know where Sarita is. How’s the hole coming, Bill?”

  Bill Gaynor raised his dirty hands. “I’ve got three fucking blisters.”

  Jack Sturgess, tipping his head in Marshall Kemper’s direction, said, “Don’t complain to him.”

  FORTY-NINE

  MRS. Selfridge came through for Barry Duckworth. An e-mail, which included phone numbers related to Sarita’s use of Mrs. Selfridge’s landline, dropped into his cell shortly after he left Derek Cutter’s place. He tapped on an already highlighted number, hopeful that whoever picked up would prove to be helpful.

  He got lucky.

  “Davidson House,” a woman said. “How may I connect you?”

  “Sorry, wrong number,” he said, and headed straight there.

  Shortly after he arrived, he was introduced to a Mrs. Delaney, who told him that yes, Sarita Gomez had worked for them, and no, she was not in today.

  “I told all this to the other gentleman,” she said.

  “What other gentleman?”

  Mrs. Delaney pondered. “I don’t think he ever told me his name. But he said he was conducting an investigation.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The man Mrs. Delaney described could be David Harwood. It also could have been a number of other people.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Well, I told him about Mr. Kemper.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Mrs. Delaney told him, and provided an address to the detective, just as she had for the other man.

  Duckworth left.

  • • •

  He parked out front of the Kemper address and went to the door. Banged on it good and hard.

  “Mr. Kemper! Marshall Kemper! This is the police!”

  Duckworth peered through the window, saw no life. He went around to the back of the house and looked through a window there, too. Except for maybe the bathroom, he could see into pretty much all of the apartment.

  He went to the front door and banged again, just in case he was being ignored. “If there’s anyone inside, you need to open the door! My name’s Barry Duckworth and I’m a detective with the Promise Falls police!”

  Nothing.

  He marched over to the other door, banged just as loud. About half a minute later, an elderly woman slowly opened it. The moment he saw her, Duckworth was sorry for hitting the door with quite so much force.

  “What’s all the racket?” she asked, a television blaring in the background. It was one of those court shows. That lady judge who tore a strip off everybody.

  “I’m with the police, ma’am. Sorry for the noise.”

  Duckworth took out his identification and displayed it for the woman. Didn’t flash it, gave her plenty of time to look it over.

  “Okay,” she said. “You passed the test.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Doris Stemple.”

  “Are you the landlord, by any chance? Do you rent out the unit next to you here?”

  She shook her head. “Landlord’s name is Byron Hinkley. Lives in Albany. Comes by once a week, if I’m lucky, to cut the grass. But if you’ve got a leaky tap or something, don’t hold your breath.”

  “I’m looking for Marshall Kemper.”

  “Yeah, well, he don’t live here. That’s his place next door.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He in some kind of trouble?”

  “I just need to talk to him, Ms. Stemple.”

  “Don’t give me that Ms. shit. It’s Mrs. My husband, Arnie Stemple, died fifteen years ago.”

  “Mrs. Stemple, have you seen Mr. Kemper lately?”

  “Saw him head out early today, I think. At least, I heard his truck take off.”

  “Have you seen a woman? Her name would be Sarita. Sarita Gomez. I think she might be with him.”

  “The Mexican girl, yeah, I seen her. I think she took off with him.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Like I said, not long ago. They took off in kind of a hurry.”

  “Did they say anything to you?”

  “I was only watching from the door here. I doubt they even noticed me.”

  “Have you noti
ced anything unusual next door the last day or so? Odd comings and goings? Strange people dropping by?”

  Doris Stemple shook her head. “I won’t lie. I kind of watch what’s going on. But I haven’t seen anything weird lately. There’s a kid up the street, he’s about nine, likes to walk around with his privates hanging out—he’s not right in the head—but other than that, not that much goes on around here.”

  Duckworth handed her one of his business cards. “If you see Mr. Kemper, or his girlfriend, would you please call me? And if you see them, don’t tell them I was asking around for them. I’d like them to be here when I get back.”

  She waved the card in the air with her bony hands. “Okeydokey,” she said. “I’m gonna go back and watch TV, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure,” Duckworth said. “Thanks very much for your time.”

  He got back behind the wheel of his car and decided to return to the station. He was still waiting to hear back from the hotel in Boston where Bill Gaynor had been staying. He wanted to know whether the man had left for home when he’d said he had.

  • • •

  Doris Stemple closed the door of her apartment, locked the door, and called out in the direction of the bathroom, “You can come out now.”

  Sarita Gomez emerged slowly. “He’s gone?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “He was police?”

  “He sure was,” the woman said, backing into an overstuffed chair that was, curiously, in a nearly upright position. She settled herself against the cushioning, gripped a small black remote control that was tethered to the chair with a black cord, touched a button, and the piece of furniture slowly descended into its original position, its motor softly whirring the entire time. When it was finished, her eyes were perfectly level with the television.

  “Can I use your phone again?” Sarita asked.

  “Still trying to raise that boyfriend of yours?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. Just don’t be putting any calls to Mexico on there.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  She used the landline, entered the same number she’d been trying for the last fifteen minutes. Marshall was not answering. It kept going to message.

  “Marshall, when you get this, call Mrs. Stemple. Please.”

  Sarita hung up, slowly crossed the room, and sat down in the chair next to the old woman. She reached over and patted the young girl’s hand.

  “Still no luck?”

  Sarita shook her head. “Something’s gone wrong.”

  “What’s he off doing?”

  “Something really, really stupid.”

  “Well, that’s men for you. Anytime they do something smart it should show up on that little ticker runs across the bottom of the screen on CNN. That’d be news.”

  Sarita took a tissue from the box on the small table next to Mrs. Stemple and dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.

  “Must be bad, the police coming around, looking for both of you,” the old woman said.

  Sarita said, “Yeah. But I’m not a bad person. All I wanted to do was the right thing. But now that I did it, I have to get away.”

  “You don’t seem like a bad person to me. You seem like a nice girl. And thank you for helping me make my bed and warming up my soup.”

  “I needed to keep busy doing something. And it’s what I do. I look after people at Davidson House.”

  “Well, I’ll bet you’re one of their favorites,” Mrs. Stemple said. “What do you think you’ll do?”

  “I can’t wait much longer for Marshall. I’m going to pack my stuff and get out of here in a little while, but if it’s okay with you, I’m going to hang out here awhile. In case Marshall calls, and to make sure that policeman isn’t going back to his place.”

  “Okay by me. Don’t get much company,” she said.

  “I’m going to try calling him again.”

  “It’s only been a minute.”

  But Sarita left the chair and tried anyway. Fifteen seconds later, she was back sitting down.

  She used another tissue to dab at her eyes. “I think something bad has happened. Maybe he’s been arrested.”

  Doris said, “None of my business, but you want to tell me what kind of trouble you’re in?”

  “I . . . figured out something. I heard some things, and I told someone. I told Mrs. Gaynor. She was the lady I worked for. I thought it was the right thing to do. I told her something she wasn’t supposed to know, I guess.” She swallowed hard. “And now she’s dead.”

  “Good lord,” said Mrs. Stemple. “You know who killed that woman? I saw that on the news.”

  Sarita shook her head. “Not for certain. But Mr. Gaynor . . . I never liked him. I’ve never trusted him. There’s something not right about him. When I found her . . .” She had to stop. Her eyes opened wider, as if seeing something that, in her memory, was more vivid than what was actually around her.

  “When I found her, I tried to set things straight.”

  “And what was that, darlin’?”

  Sarita didn’t hear the question. “But I didn’t do enough. I should have explained.” She turned and looked at the old woman. “I . . . I hate to ask this, but would you have any money?”

  “Money?”

  Sarita nodded. “I need to get to New York. Maybe a bus, or on the train. I have to get to Albany first. I’d tell you I’d pay you back, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it. Not anytime soon. If you had anything you could spare—I have to tell you the truth—you’ll probably never see it again.”

  The old woman smiled. “You wait here.” She grabbed the remote button for the chair and slowly, almost magically, she was elevated into a standing position. She walked slowly into her bedroom, where she could be heard opening and closing several drawers. When she returned, she had several bills in her hand, which she handed to Sarita.

  “There’s four hundred and twenty-five dollars there,” she said.

  Sarita appeared ready to weep. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I bet no one ever gave you a tip at Davidson Place for all the work you done, did they?”

  Sarita shook her head.

  “Well, then, you take that, and you get out of here.”

  “Thank you,” Sarita said. “Thank you so much. For that, and for not giving me away when the policeman came to the door.”

  “No problem.”

  “I wouldn’t ever want to get you into trouble.”

  Mrs. Stemple shrugged. “I’ve dealt with cops before. Back when I was your age, when I was a working girl, I had to deal with those assholes all the time. I don’t know what you and your boyfriend did, darling, but I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  FIFTY

  WALDEN Fisher trekked up to the Promise Falls cemetery almost every day. He liked to go up after he’d had breakfast, but once he’d taken Victor Rooney back to his van, he’d decided to run a few errands, and his visit to the cemetery got pushed back to midday.

  Just so long as he got there.

  He’d only started making this a daily trip since Beth had died. He had wanted to come up here more often to kneel at his daughter Olivia’s headstone and say a few words, but Beth would not accompany him. It was too upsetting for her. Even when they were just driving around town, both of them in the car, Walden had to make sure their travels did not take them past the cemetery.

  All Beth had to see was the gates of the place to be overcome.

  Sometimes in the evenings, and on weekends when he wasn’t working, Walden would tell Beth he was off to Home Depot, and come up here instead to visit his daughter. But one couldn’t justify a daily visit to the hardware giant. No home needed that much maintenance. So he got up here only once a week or so.

  But now, with Beth gone, with his wife and daughter b
oth here sharing a plot, there was nothing to stop him from coming as often as he wanted.

  He didn’t always bring flowers, but today he did. He’d popped into a florist on Richmond, at the foot of Proctor, for a bouquet of spring flowers. It was only after he’d gotten back into his car that he realized the woman behind the counter had shortchanged him, giving him a five instead of a ten.

  There were some things you couldn’t worry about.

  He parked his van on the gravel lane that led through the cemetery and walked slowly over to the Fisher family plot. There was a headstone for Olivia, one for Beth, space for a third.

  “Soon enough,” he said, setting a bouquet in front of each stone. He went down on one knee, positioning himself midway between the stones so he could address them both.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Walden said. “Sun’s shining. Everyone’s hoping we have nice weather for the Memorial Day weekend. Still a couple of weeks away. No sense listening to what the weathermen have to say. They can’t get what it’s going to be like tomorrow right, so who knows what the long weekend’s going to be like. I’m not going anywhere, of course. I’ll be right here.”

  He paused, focused on the words “Elizabeth Fisher” carved into granite.

  “The other day, I couldn’t stop thinking about that paprika chicken dish you always used to make. I went all through your box of recipe cards and through all those cooking books you saved, and I couldn’t find it anywhere. And then it hit me that you probably never even had the recipe written down anywhere, that it was all in your head, so I thought, I’m going to give it a try. Because I almost never really bother when it comes to dinner. Lots of frozen dinners, microwave stuff, the kind of food you’d never let into the house. So I thought, I’ll make something. How hard could it be, right? Some chicken, some paprika, you throw it in the oven. Right. So I got some chicken and gave it a try, and did you ever stop to notice how much paprika looks like cayenne?” He shook his head. “Darn near killed myself with the first bite. Went into a coughing fit. Had to drink a glass of water real fast. You would have laughed your head off. It was a sight to see, I’m telling you. So I had to throw the whole mess out, and went and got myself some KFC and brought it home.”

  Walden went quiet for a moment. Then: “I miss you both so much. You were my whole world; that’s what you two were.”