Broken Promise Read online

“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 that 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 down 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—”

  “Wait, so that’s your gun this guy had?”

  “Yeah. And when you’re done with it, if it’s not too much fucking trouble, I’d like to have it back.”

  Duckworth felt blood rushing through his neck.

  “What did I say to you this morning? About sending someone with her experience to act as a decoy?”

  “If I’m supposed to report to you, it’s news to me,” Duncomb countered. “You don’t sign my paycheck.”

  “No, but the college president does, and if he’s got any sense, you’ll be a nursery school crossing guard before the end of the week.”

  “I closed more cases working the Boston PD than this town sees in a decade. You can’t talk to me like—”

  “I just did. If you say one more thing I’ll cuff you and lock you up for the night. God, what a clusterfuck. Does anyone know who this kid is?”

  A member of the security team spoke up. “I’m Phil. Phil Mercer? Uh, I’ve got his wallet here.” He held it up, shined a light on it. “He’s a student here. Well, was. His name is—”

  “You’ve touched the body?” Duckworth asked.

  “I couldn’t have gotten at his wallet otherwise,” he said, as if he’d just been asked the stupidest question he’d ever heard.

  The detective sighed. “Who is he?”

  “Hang on; let me look at this license again. Okay, Mason Helt. His student card is here and everything. Here you go.”

  And he tossed the wallet in Duckworth’s direction.

  The detective, stunned, managed to catch the wallet and still hang on to the flashlight.

  He looked at Duncomb. “You must be so proud,” he said.

  Duckworth found Joyce Pilgrim sitting on a wooden bench in an empty gymnasium. He dismissed the officer who was standing near her, then parked himself next to her on the bench.

  “How are you doing?” he asked after identifying himself.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her legs pressed tightly together, her fingers knitted into tight double fist. She was hunched over, her shoulders tight, as if she were trying to close in on herself.

  “I’m sorry about what you went through. Have you been seen by the paramedics?”

  “I’m not hurt,” Joyce said. She shook her head slowly. “I can’t work for that asshole anymore.”

  Duckworth did not have to ask.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m not trained for this. I can’t do this kind of thing. I can’t.”

  “Duncomb shouldn’t have put you in this position. That was wrong.”

  “I have to call my husband. I don’t think I can drive home on my own.”

  “Sure.”

  “I still can’t believe what he said to me,” Joyce said.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Clive didn’t tell you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Duckworth said gently.

  “When that kid got my gun, he pointed it away from me. Said he was sorry, that he’d never have actually, you know, that he wouldn’t have raped me.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said it was . . . what was the word? He said it was a gig. That he was, like, conducting a social experiment.”

  “A gig?”

  “That was the word. He said that was what ‘he’ wanted. Like another person. Like he was asked to do it, or hired. Does that make any sense?”

  It didn’t. It was an entire day of things that hadn’t made sense. The hanging of twenty-three squirrels, three mannequins in a Ferris wheel carriage, a—

  Wait a second.

  Duckworth closed his eyes for second. Thought back to only an hour ago, as he walked around the base of the Ferris wheel.

  All of the carriages were numbered.

  The carriage holding those three mannequins had a number stenciled on the side of it. Duckworth closed his eyes, trying to picture it.

  The number painted on the side was 23.

  The hoodie worn by Mason Helt was emblazoned with the number 23.

  And how many squirrels had been found hanging by their necks that morning in the park?

  Twenty-three.

  It probably meant nothing. But . . .

  “That is one hell of a coincidence,” he said aloud.

  “You talking to me?” Joyce Pilgrim asked.

  THIRTY-THREE

  David

  SINCE the first person Jack Sturgess had cautioned me against visiting was Bill Gaynor, I decided to see him first. I didn’t know what I’d ask him, but maybe now, some twelve hours after our first encounter, we’d be able to have something approaching a civil conversation.

  Maybe, given that I was the one who’d shown up with Matthew, he’d even want to talk to me. Ask questions about how it all happened.

  So I parked Mom’s Taurus out front of his Breckonwood house, and made the trip to the front door. You wouldn’t know anything had happened here earlier in the day. No police cruisers, no yellow crime-scene tape, no news vans. Everyone had been and gone.

  The street was quiet, and most of the houses were dark, including this one, save for the light over the front door. At the house next door, however, several lights were still on.

  I rang the bell.

  I could sense steps within the house, someone approaching the door from the other side. The curtain at the window immediately left of the door opened, and I saw Bill Gayno
r take a quick peek at me.

  “Go away,” he said. Not shouting, but just loud enough for me to hear through the glass.

  “Please,” I said.

  The light over my head went out.

  And that was that. I wasn’t going to ring that bell a second time. Not after what this man had been through.

  I could think of only one other place I might drive by this late at night before I went home to bed. A place I’d been thinking about for a while now.

  But before I made it back to the car, I heard the door open on the neighboring house that was still lit up. A man I guessed to be in his eighties, thin and elderly, wearing a plaid housecoat, had taken a step outside.

  “Something going on out here?” he asked.

  I said, “I’d come by to see Mr. Gaynor, but he’s not in the mood for visitors right now.”

  “His wife got killed today,” the man said.

  “I know. I was here when he found her.”

  The man took another step out of his house, squinted in my direction. “I saw you this morning. I was watching from the window. There was a fight on the lawn, a woman with their baby.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What the hell’s been going on? I asked the police but they didn’t tell me a damn thing. They had plenty of questions, but weren’t interested in answering mine.”

  I cut across the lawn and met him at his front step. “What do you want to know?” I asked him. “My name is David, by the way.”

  “I’m Terrence,” he said, nodding. “Terrence Rodd. I’ve lived here twenty years. My wife, Hillary, passed away four years ago, so it’s just me here. But I’m not moving out unless I have to. Guess how old I am.”

  “I’m not good at ages,” I said. “Sixty-eight.”

  “Don’t mess with me,” Terrence said. “Really, how old do you think I am?”

  I pondered. “Seventy-nine,” I said. I really thought eighty, but it was like when you put a four-dollar item on sale for three ninety-nine. It looks better.

  “Eighty-eight,” Terrence said. He tapped his temple with the tip of his index finger. “But I’m still as sharp up here as I ever was. So you tell me, what happened there?”

  “Someone stabbed Rosemary Gaynor to death,” I said. “It was pretty horrible.”