The Twenty-Three Read online

In her semidelirious state, Patricia thought she recognized Mrs. Gwynn from 3B facedown in a puddle of her own vomit.

  Patricia managed to cross the lobby and get outside. She had one of the best parking spots. First one past those designated for the handicapped.

  I deserve one of those today, Patricia thought.

  She pointed her key in the direction of her Hyundai, pressed a button. The trunk swung open. Oops. Pressed another button as she reached the driver’s side, got in, fumbled about getting the key into the ignition. Once she had the engine running, she took a moment to steel herself, rested her head momentarily on the top of the steering wheel.

  And asked herself, Where am I going?

  The hospital. Yes! The hospital. What a perfectly splendid idea.

  She turned around to see her way out of the spot, but the upraised trunk lid blocked her view. Not a problem. She hit the gas, driving the back end of her car into a Volvo owned by Mr. Lewis, a retired Social Security employee who happened to live three doors down from her.

  A headlight shattered, but Patricia did not hear it.

  She put the car into drive and sped out of the apartment building parking lot, the Hyundai veering sharply left and right as she oversteered in the manner of someone who’d had far too much to drink, or was texting.

  The car was quickly doing sixty miles per hour in a thirty zone, and what Patricia was unaware of was that she was heading not in the direction of the hospital, which, ironically, was only half a mile from her home, but toward the Weston Street Branch of the Promise Falls Library system.

  The last thing she was thinking about, before her mind went blank and her heart stopped working, was that when they had that meeting about Internet filtering, she was going to tell those narrow-minded, puritanical assholes who wanted what anyone saw on a library computer closely monitored to go fuck themselves.

  But she wouldn’t get that chance, because her Hyundai had cut across three lanes, bounced over the curb at the Exxon station, and driven straight into a self-serve pump at more than sixty miles per hour.

  The explosion was heard up to two miles away.

  Now that he was working as a publicist and campaign manager for Randall Finley, owner of Finley Springs Water as well as the former mayor of Promise Falls on the comeback trail, David Harwood was bringing home free cases of bottled water every day. The stuff was coming into the house faster than he—and the others under his roof—could consume it.

  David’s son, Ethan, drank mostly milk anyway, but David was tossing a bottle a day into the lunch Ethan took to school. With his parents, who were living with him and Ethan until the rebuilding of their kitchen was finished, it was a mixed bag. David’s mother, Arlene, was drinking the stuff at every opportunity, forgoing the water that came out of the tap. It was her way of showing support for David in his new job, even if she hadn’t been very happy at first that he was working for Finley, a man whose predilection, at least once a few years back, for underage prostitutes had tarnished her opinion of him.

  David’s father, Don, however, did not share his wife’s contempt for the former mayor. As the ex-mayor himself had said to David, and Don could not have agreed more, if everyone in the world refused to work for assholes, there’d be almost total unemployment, and there were a lot bigger assholes out there than Finley. Don’s enthusiasm for Finley, however, did not extend to his product. Don viewed bottled water as the ultimate rip-off. The very idea of paying for what came out of the tap for next to nothing was ridiculous to him.

  Not that David disagreed.

  “They’ve already got us paying for TV when it was free when I was a kid,” Don railed. “And they’ve got these deluxe radio stations you have to subscribe to. Good ol’ AM radio’s good enough for me. Christ, what next? They gonna put in a coin slot on our upstairs toilet?”

  When David came downstairs and opened the refrigerator, he found more space than he was expecting. “You’re really guzzling these down,” he said to his mother, who was already there fixing breakfast for Don. David swore they must get up at three in the morning. He’d never managed to beat them downstairs.

  “I’m using them to make the coffee,” she said.

  Don, his finger looped into the handle of his mug, looked up from the tablet he was struggling to read the news on. “You what?”

  Arlene shot him a look. “Nothing.”

  “You made this with that bottled stuff?”

  “I’m just trying to use it up.”

  He pushed the mug toward the center of the table. “I’m not drinking this.”

  Arlene turned, put one hand on her hip. “Is that so?”

  “That’s so,” he said.

  “I didn’t hear you complaining about the taste.”

  “That’s not the point,” he said.

  Arlene pointed to the coffeemaker. “Well, you’re more than welcome to pour that out and make yourself another pot.”

  Don Harwood blinked. “I never make the coffee. You always make the coffee. I always measure it out wrong.”

  “Well, today’s a good day to learn.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds before Don retrieved the cup and said, “Fine. But I want to go on record that I’m opposed.”

  “I’ll send CNN a tweet,” his wife said.

  “I swear,” David said.

  “You better not,” Arlene said. “What do you have going on today with our God-help-us possible future mayor?”

  “Not much,” David said. “Looks like it’s going to be a quiet day.”

  His father’s head went up suddenly, like he was a deer listening for an approaching hunter. “Do you hear that? Must be a helluva fire somewhere. Been hearing those sirens all morning.”

  Those sirens woke Victor Rooney.

  It was a few minutes past eight when he opened his eyes. Looked at the clock radio next to his bed, the half-empty bottle of beer positioned next to it. He’d slept well, considering everything, and didn’t feel all that bad now, even though he hadn’t fallen into bed until almost two in the morning. But once his head hit the pillow, he was out.

  He reached out from under the covers to turn on the radio, maybe catch the news. But the Albany station had finished with the eight o’clock newscast and was now on to music. Springsteen. “Streets of Philadelphia.” That seemed kind of appropriate for a Memorial Day Saturday. On a weekend that celebrated the men and women who had died fighting for their country, a song about the city where the Declaration of Independence had been signed.

  Fitting.

  Victor had always liked Springsteen, but hearing the song saddened him. He and Olivia had talked once about going to one of his concerts.

  Olivia had loved music.

  She hadn’t been quite as crazy about Bruce as he was, but she did have her favorites, especially those from the sixties and the seventies. Simon and Garfunkel. Creedence Clearwater Revival. The Beatles, it went without saying. One time, she’d started singing “Happy Together” and he’d asked her who the hell’d done that. The Turtles, she’d told him.

  “You’re shittin’ me,” he’d said. “There was actually a band called Turtles?”

  “The Turtles,” she’d corrected him. “Like the Beatles. No one says just Beatles. And if you could name a band after what sounded like bugs, why not turtles?”

  “So happy together,” he said, pulling her into him as they walked through the grounds of Thackeray College. This was back when she was still a student there.

  The better part of a year before it happened.

  Three years ago this week.

  The sirens wailed.

  Victor lay there, very still, listening. One of them sounded like it was coming from the east side of the city, the other from the north. Police cars, or ambulances, most likely. Didn’t sound like fire trucks. They had those deeper, throatier sirens. Lots of bass.

  If they were ambulances, they were probably headed to PFG.

  Busy morning out there on the streets of Promise
Falls.

  What, oh, what could be happening?

  He wasn’t hungover, which was so often the case. A relatively clear head this morning. He hadn’t been out drinking the night before, but he did feel like rewarding himself with a beer when he got home.

  Quietly, he’d opened the fridge and taken out a bottle of Bud. He hadn’t wanted to wake his landlady, Emily Townsend. She’d hung on to this house after her husband’s death, and rented a room upstairs to him. He’d taken the bottle with him, downed half of it going up the stairs. He’d fallen asleep too quickly to finish it off.

  And now it would be warm.

  Victor reached for it anyway and took a swig, made a face, put the bottle back on the bedside table but too close to the edge. It hit the floor, spilling beer onto Victor’s socks and the throw rug.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, grabbing the bottle before it emptied completely.

  He swung his feet out from under the covers and, careful not to step in the beer, stood up alongside the bed. He was dressed in a pair of blue boxers. He opened the bedroom door, walked five steps down the hall to the bathroom, which was unoccupied, and grabbed a towel off one of the racks.

  Victor Rooney paused at the top of the stairs.

  There was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, but the house was unusually quiet. Emily was an early riser, and she put the coffee on first thing. She drank at least twenty cups a day, had a pot going almost all the time.

  Victor did not hear her stirring in the kitchen or anywhere else in the house.

  “Emily?” he called out.

  When no one called back, he returned to his room, dropped the bath towel on the floor where the beer had spilled, and tamped it down with his bare foot. Put all his weight on it at one point. When he’d blotted up all the beer he believed was possible, he took the damp towel and placed it in a hamper at the bottom of the hallway linen closet.

  Back in his room, he pulled on his jeans, and found a fresh pair of socks and a T-shirt in his dresser.

  He descended the stairs in his sock feet.

  Emily Townsend was not in the kitchen.

  Victor noticed that there was an inch of coffee in the bottom of the pot, but he decided against coffee today. He went to the refrigerator and pondered whether eight fifteen was too early for a Bud.

  Perhaps.

  Sirens continued to wail.

  He took out a container of Minute Maid orange juice and poured himself a glass. Drank it down in one gulp.

  Pondered breakfast.

  Most days he had cereal. But if Emily was making bacon and eggs or pancakes or French toast—anything that required more effort—he was always quick to get in on that. But it did not appear that his landlady was going to any extra trouble today.

  “Emily?” he called out again.

  There was a door off the kitchen that led to the backyard. Two if one counted the screen door. The inner door was ajar, which led Victor to think perhaps Emily had gone outside.

  Victor refilled his glass with orange juice, then swung the door farther open, took a look at the small backyard through the glass of the screen door.

  Well, there was Emily.

  Face-planted on the driveway, about ten feet away from her cute little blue Toyota, car keys in one hand. She’d probably been carrying her purse with the other, but it was at the edge of the drive, where, presumably, she had dropped it. Her wallet and the small case in which she carried her reading glasses had tumbled out.

  She was not moving. From where Victor stood, he couldn’t even see her back rising and falling ever so gently, an indication that she might still be alive.

  He put his juice glass on the counter and decided maybe it would be a good idea to go outside and take a closer look.

  THREE

  Duckworth

  I have a routine for getting on the scale in the morning.

  First of all, I have to be in the bathroom alone. If Maureen’s in there and sees me step on the scale, she’ll peer around and take a peek, say something like, “How’s it coming?”

  Of course, if it were coming along well, I wouldn’t mind her sneaking a look, but the odds are it won’t be going well at all.

  Second, I have to be naked. If I have so much as a towel wrapped around me, once I’ve seen the readout on the scale, I’ll tell myself I should allow five pounds for the towel. It is, after all, a thick one.

  I can’t have had anything to eat, either. On rare occasions, I’ll have some breakfast before attending to my morning ablutions. Those days, I do not bother to weigh myself.

  Once those three conditions have been met, I’m ready to actually step on the scale.

  This must be done very slowly. If I pounce on the thing, I fear the needle will shoot up too quickly and stick there. Maureen will wander in later and ask if I’m really 320 pounds.

  I am not.

  But if I’m being honest with you, I’m at 276. Okay, that’s not exactly true. It’s more like 280.

  Anyway, I put one hand on the towel rack as I step on, not just to balance myself, but to give the scale a chance to prepare for what’s coming. Once I’ve got both feet planted firmly on it, I carefully release my grip on the bar.

  And face the music.

  Maureen, in the kindest, most supportive way, has been trying to get me to lose a few pounds. She hasn’t expressed the slightest disapproval about how I look. She claims to love me as much as ever. That I’m still the sexiest man she’s ever known.

  I’m grateful for her lies.

  But she says more fruit and vegetables and grains, and fewer donuts and ice cream and pie, might be good for me.

  She doesn’t know the half of it.

  I’ve been to the doctor. Our regular GP, Clara Moorehouse. Dr. Moorehouse says I am borderline diabetic. That my blood pressure is dangerously high. That I am carrying extra weight in the worst place a man can—on my gut.

  It really hit home for me the other day, at the drive-in. A woman who served over in Iraq as a bomb deactivator was helping us out, trying to figure out how the explosive charges had been rigged to bring the screen down, and it was all I could do to keep up with her as she moved about the rubble like a mountain goat scaling a cliffside.

  I was out of breath. My heart was pounding.

  Which I told Dr. Moorehouse yesterday.

  “You have to make a decision,” she told me. “No one can make it for you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Do you know why you do it?” she asked.

  “I like to eat,” I said. “And I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

  That made her smile. “Lately?” she said, looking at me. “Did this just happen in the last week or so?”

  She had me there.

  The truth was, I had been under a lot of stress lately. Not that it had anything to do with what I was or was not eating. But in the twenty years I’d worked for the Promise Falls police—the anniversary had slipped by this month largely unnoticed—I had never had a month like this one.

  It had started with the horrific murder of Rosemary Gaynor. And then there were some strange goings-on around town. Everything from dead squirrels and a Ferris wheel coming to life all on its own to a college predator and a flaming bus.

  As if all that weren’t enough, that bombed drive-in.

  And then there was Randall Finley, the son of a bitch.

  He was running for mayor again and looking for whatever dirt he could get on anybody. The current mayor, the chief of police, anybody. I’d learned that he’d gone so far as to blackmail our son, Trevor, who was driving a truck for Finley’s bottled water company, into telling him things Trevor might have heard me talking about around the house.

  I wanted to kill the asshole.

  Maybe, I told myself, I’d be better equipped to deal with all this bullshit if I weren’t lugging so much weight around.

  Today had to be the day.

  After I’d weighed myself, I shaved. I don’t always bother on a Saturday, b
ut I decided to make an effort. Either my blade was too dull or the shaving cream too loaded with menthol, because my cheeks and neck felt like they’d been set ablaze. I patted my cheeks thoroughly with a towel, which helped. I dug an oversized red T-shirt out of one drawer, and some old purple sweatpants I hadn’t worn in years out of another. Then I went into the closet for my running shoes. When Maureen came upstairs and into the room and saw me, she said, “What’s going on? You look like a down-on-his-luck superhero.”

  “I’m going to do a walk this morning,” I said. “A mile or two. I don’t have to go in this morning. I’m taking a day.”

  I needed a month.

  “I just put on the coffee,” Maureen said.

  “I’ll have some when I get back. And don’t bother making me any breakfast. I’ll just have a banana or something.”

  She eyed me slyly. “You can’t do it this way.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I mean, the walk, that’s a good idea. Go. But you have to eat more than a banana for breakfast. You have nothing more than that and by ten you’ll be inhaling six Egg McMuffins. I can help you with this. I can—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I said.

  “Okay, okay, but if you try to do too much too fast, you’ll get discouraged. You have to do these things gradually.”

  “I don’t have time to do them gradually,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say that.

  “What do you mean?” Maureen asked.

  “I’m just saying, I need to make a change. I might as well do it.”

  “What happened between yesterday and today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, something’s happened.”

  Maureen had acquired over the years, as if by osmosis, some of my skill at spotting a lie when it was being told.

  “I said, nothing.” I looked away.

  “Did you go see Dr. Moorehouse?”

  “Did I what?” God, I was terrible at this.

  “What did she say?”

  I hesitated. “Not a lot. Just, you know, a few things.”

  “Why did you go see her? What prompted it?”

  “I . . . the other day, I felt—I was a little, you know, short of breath. At the drive-in. Climbing over stuff.” Also, recently, at Burger King, but I did not see the point in mentioning that particular incident.