The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) Read online

  I asked, “Why didn’t Whitehead do the midnight check?”

  “I don’t know,” Ottman said.

  “Did you ask him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know where he is. The dumb bastard knocked off early. He’s supposed to be relieved by Trish, but she says when she got here at six, he was gone.”

  “He do that a lot?” Randy asked. “Fuck off early?”

  Ottman was looking increasingly pained. “He’s done it before. But he punched in last night at nine. He was here.”

  “So for all you know,” I said, “he left right after that. He might never have done the midnight check, let alone made a record of it. So if the water was contaminated, it wouldn’t get caught in time.”

  “In theory,” Garvey Ottman said.

  Finley was slowly shaking his head. “Garv, tell me Tate’s not still drinking.”

  “I thought he had it under control,” the water plant manager said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God, this is horrible. If that dumb bastard did this, I swear, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

  “You might have to take a number,” I said. I was astounded the lives of thousands of people could depend on the judgment of an incompetent drunk. “Let’s say something got past Tate. What could it be?”

  “First thing I’d look at is contamination in the reservoir,” he said. “Maybe a fuel spill, or runoff, upstream, from a farming operation, like effluent from a pig farm or something like that. But I’ve done a quick test on the water in the reservoir and it checks out. I mean, it’s not perfect. The reservoir water never is, because that’s what gets treated before it gets pumped up into the tower.”

  “I need an address for Tate Whitehead,” I said.

  “Sure, I got that in the office here,” Ottman said. “But the thing is, his Pinto’s still out there in the lot.”

  I turned on my heels and headed back outside to check the rusting, yellow heap I’d noticed earlier. I hadn’t taken a close look at the car and I wondered whether Tate might be inside, maybe sleeping one off.

  I made a visor out of my hand to peer through the side glass. The interior matched the exterior. Not in color, but the upholstery had as many holes as the fenders, springs and stuffing visible. I saw something else I didn’t like the look of.

  I tried the driver’s door and was not surprised to find it unlocked. It creaked painfully on its hinges as I swung it wide. On the floor in front of the passenger seat were several empty beer bottles.

  Ottman was approaching with a slip of paper. “Here’s Tate’s address and phone number.”

  I took the paper from him and pointed down into the footwell. “That’s the kind of guy you had looking after the safety of every man, woman, and child in this town.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “I didn’t know, really.”

  “You never walked by his car? You never noticed this? You never noticed alcohol on his breath?”

  “It’s just, I mean, the thing is, Tate’s hours and mine, they never really overlap. He comes in after I go home, and he leaves in the morning before I get here.”

  “When’s the last time you even saw him?”

  Before Ottman could answer, Finley, surveying the mess in the car, made a disapproving clucking noise with his tongue.

  “This is very bad, Garv. Very bad.” A shake of the head. “Things weren’t like this when I was running this town.”

  Here we go, I thought.

  “And where the hell is Amanda?” Finley asked. “This town is rudderless.”

  “This all works really well for you, doesn’t it?” I asked him. “Just the kind of catastrophe you’ve been waiting for.”

  “My God, Barry, how could you?” he said. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I had no idea you thought that little.”

  “Maybe you’ve got enough campaign material now that you don’t need to keep leaning on my son.”

  “Barry, now, come on—”

  “And I’m guessing profits are about to go way up. Am I right? Getting Trevor and everyone else in on their day off? Ramping up production? What’s the price on a case of bottled water about to go up to?”

  Garvey Ottman, his eyes moving back and forth between us, must have wondered what the hell was going on.

  Randy’s face almost looked like it was going to crumple. I was shocked to think I might have wounded him. He’d always seemed to me to be immune to offense.

  “You have no idea,” he said, his voice free of rancor. “Yes, I’m increasing production. Like never before. And within the next few hours, we’ll be handing out those cases of water to the folks of Promise Falls, absolutely free. You know something, Barry? I feel sorry for you. To be that cynical. To assume your fellow man has no goodness in him whatsoever.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I knew what I was thinking. I’d misjudged his actions, but I was less sure that I had misjudged his motives. Handing out free water in the middle of this disaster was likely to score him points with potential voters, so long as he didn’t blow his own horn too hard.

  That would be the challenge for Randall Finley.

  “Well, there’s a first,” Randy said. “Detective Barry Duckworth without a comeback.”

  He turned to Garvey. “Give our friend here as much help as you can, and if you find Tate, or if there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

  Then, back to me. “If you want to find Tate Whitehead, I’d start there.” He pointed into the wooded area that separated the plant from the highway. “Probably propped up against a tree blitzed out of his mind.”

  He gave us both a nod, got back in his Lincoln, and drove out of the lot.

  Garvey looked at me, then tilted his head in the direction of the trees. “That’s actually a pretty good idea,” he said.

  We made our way into the woods.

  TEN

  CAL knew something was up as he was driving into Promise Falls.

  He saw two ambulances, each coming from a different part of the town, heading in the direction of the hospital. Driving down one street, he saw uniformed police officers running from house to house, banging on doors.

  Two blocks from Lucy Brighton’s house, he eased off the accelerator when he saw a red Promise Falls Fire Department pumper working its way down the street, lights flashing. But the truck wasn’t racing to a scene. Cal thought he heard something being broadcast, so he powered down the window, pulled over to the curb, and listened as the truck rolled past.

  “Do not drink the tap water!” blared from a speaker mounted behind the front grille. The firefighter behind the wheel had a mike in his hand.

  “This is an emergency! Do not drink water from the tap!”

  Cal turned on the car radio, tuned it in to the Albany news station.

  “—reports coming in of hundreds of people becoming ill in Promise Falls this morning. The town has issued an emergency statement urging citizens not to drink town water. Information is sketchy at this time, but people are already reporting on social media that—and we have to point out that this information has not been confirmed by us—that there have been multiple fatalities. If you live in or near Promise Falls, you are being warned not to drink the water, although there has been no statement so far regarding what kind of possible contamination there may be. We’re going to be staying with this story all morning and will be updating with any details the moment we have them.”

  Cal got out his phone and called his sister, Celeste. The phone had barely finished one ring when he heard, “Cal?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know about the water?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You and Dwayne okay?”

  “We’re okay. We haven’t had any to drink yet. Dwayne heard about it from a neighbor. What about you?”

  “I have to go,” Cal said. “I’ll check in with you later.”

  When he arrived at the Brighton house, eleven-year-old Crystal was sitting on the front step, dressed in pink pajamas. She had a cl
ipboard with some paper on it resting on top of her knees, a pencil in one hand. She was busily drawing when Cal pulled into the driveway, and the sound of his car prompted her to raise her head. But she didn’t get up.

  Cal walked briskly to the front door and said, “Crystal, what’s happening?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Has the ambulance been here?”

  “No. I kept calling, like you said, but it didn’t come.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s in the bathroom.”

  “Upstairs?” he asked.

  The girl nodded, returned to working on her drawing. Cal glanced down, saw that she was drawing what looked like thunderclouds.

  He walked into the house, called out, “Lucy?” He went up the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor, past the guest bedroom, where he and Lucy had spent the night together so recently, and stopped at the bathroom door.

  It was closed. He wondered if Lucy had done that for privacy, or if Crystal had, because she didn’t want to have to see what had happened in there. He turned the knob, eased the door open.

  Lucy Brighton was seated, more or less, on the floor, dressed in pajamas and a housecoat, her arms hanging limp at her sides, palms turned up, hands resting on the tile floor, her head lolled over onto her right shoulder. Her back was leaned up against the tub, her legs splayed open toward the toilet.

  The room was high with the smell of vomit and other bodily fluids.

  Cal was certain Lucy was dead, but he needed to be sure. He turned his head back toward the hall, took a deep breath, then entered the room and knelt next to her body. He put two fingers to her neck, just below the jaw, feeling for any sign of a pulse. There was none.

  “Goddamn it,” he said.

  He stood, looked into the toilet, which had not been flushed and was awash with what he guessed had been the contents of Lucy’s stomach. He glanced at the items on the countertop. Toothbrush, tube of Crest squeezed in the middle, an empty water glass with droplets still clinging to the inside.

  Cal backed out of the bathroom and closed the door. Propped himself up against the wall for ten seconds to draw some fresher air into his lungs.

  He thought immediately of Crystal. If the town’s water supply was deadly, had she had any? But she had sounded fine on the phone, and seemed fine—at least physically—for the moment. So he decided to take a couple of minutes and do a walkabout of the house.

  His real focus was the kitchen. The coffeemaker light was still on, and there looked to be maybe half a cup still in it. There was a mug on the table, maybe half an inch of coffee remaining in it. On a plate, a half-eaten piece of toast.

  More vomit on the floor.

  Cal went back outside, sat down on the step next to Crystal.

  “Do you feel sick?” he asked her.

  “I feel sad.”

  “I know. But do you feel sick in your stomach, like you’re going to throw up?”

  “You think I caught what Mom got?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re feeling okay.”

  “I guess. My hands are a little itchy.”

  “What have you had to eat or drink today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all? Not even a glass of water?”

  “Nope.”

  Cal felt he could relax, a little, where the girl’s health was concerned. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  Crystal was shading the underside of a cloud. Without stopping, or looking at Cal, she said, “I heard Mom making funny noises, so I got out of bed. She was in the kitchen, saying she felt sick, but I should go back to bed. So I did, but then it was worse, so I came down again, and she was on the floor and she wasn’t saying anything and that was when I called 911.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “Nobody answered. So then I found Mom’s cell phone and I called you and then you came.”

  “What happened between the time you called me and when I got here?”

  “Mom kind of woke up, and crawled up the stairs. I watched her the whole time and told her that you were coming. And she went into the bathroom. Where she was sick again, but this time she tried to get it into the toilet.” Crystal stopped moving her pencil and became very still. “And then she just kind of sat back, and then she didn’t get sick anymore.”

  Cal slipped his arm around the girl and held her tight. She allowed him to pull her into him.

  “Did you close the bathroom door?” Cal asked her.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Did you see her?”

  “I did.”

  “Is she totally dead?”

  “Yes,” Cal said. “I’m sorry.”

  Crystal said nothing for several seconds. Finally, she turned her head toward Cal and said, “I don’t know how to pay the bills.”

  “You what?”

  “I don’t know how to do those things. Mom paid the bills, like for electricity and her Visa and stuff, online. I could probably figure it out, but I don’t know if she had passwords.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said, tightening his grip on her.

  “If I don’t pay the bills, I won’t be able to live here. Isn’t that right?”

  “All that will get sorted out, Crystal. Your dad will help do that.”

  “He’s in San Francisco. I think, anyway.”

  “We’ll get him up here to help you.”

  “Mom said he was hard to find.”

  “Still, it can be done. Do you have other family, a little closer? Aunts or uncles or grandparents?”

  Cal felt her head moving side to side. “Nope.”

  “What about on your father’s side? What about his mother and father? Are they still alive?”

  “I don’t think so. I never met them.” She paused. “I have an idea.”

  Cal closed his eyes.

  “Did you get to move back into your apartment again after that fire?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you could live here and you could figure out how to pay the bills and then I wouldn’t have to move out of my house.”

  Cal rubbed his hand on her arm. “Let’s just take everything one step at a time, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “But in the meantime, until your dad gets here from San Francisco, I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

  “I don’t want to live here now,” she said. “I don’t want to go inside.”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “What happens to my mom? Do you take her away?”

  “No. But people will come.”

  “Are you sleeping in your car?”

  “What? No.”

  “I thought you were sleeping in your car because of the fire.”

  “No, sweetheart. I’m in a hotel.”

  “Can I stay with you?”

  Crystal would have to stay with someone until her father showed up, if he showed up. But Cal wasn’t sure of the appropriateness of her living with him at the BestBet. He thought of Celeste and her husband, Dwayne. He could be a bit of an asshole, but Celeste would take good care of the girl, and be tolerant of her eccentricities.

  “I’ll make sure you have a place to stay.” Cal wondered if she’d ever set foot in her own home again.

  “I guess there’s one good thing,” Crystal said.

  “What’s that?”

  “My mom won’t ever have to go to jail.”

  Cal felt his heart skip a beat. “What’s that again?”

  “I heard her talking to someone on the phone. That she might be in trouble. I was really scared she’d go to jail.”

  A lawyer, Cal figured. Lucy had been talking to someone, just in case Cal finally decided to go to the police with what he knew.

  A fire engine, blaring a warning from behind its grille, had rounded the corner and was slowly making its way up the street.

  “Are you okay sitting here while I go talk to them?” Cal asked Crystal.

  “I’ll draw
.”

  “That’s good.”

  “When you come back, could you go into the house and get some things for me?”

  “Yes,” he said, giving her a kiss on the top of her head before he went to talk to the guy behind the wheel of the fire truck.

  ELEVEN

  VICTOR Rooney dialed 911 twice after finding his landlady, Emily Townsend, dead in the backyard of her house. But when no one answered the second time, he figured, what the hell, it wasn’t like they were going to be able to do anything for her anyway.

  He turned on the radio in her kitchen and found the local news. Plenty of talk about what was happening in Promise Falls.

  “That is some serious shit,” he said to no one in particular, reaching into the fridge for a carton of Minute Maid orange juice. He unscrewed the cap and drank straight from the container. That was the sort of thing Ms. Townsend frowned upon, but it was hardly going to upset her now.

  Victor took the carton of juice with him as he stepped out the front door and dropped into one of the wicker chairs on the porch. Lots of activity for a Saturday morning, that was for sure. Neighbors helping sick family members into cars, racing off down the street. Others going house to house, banging on doors. People milling in groups, talking.

  Judging by what Victor had heard on the radio, the hospital was the center of excitement.

  He went back inside, leaving the half-empty carton of orange juice on the table just inside the door where Ms. Townsend left her keys, and went back up to his room. He was glad to have skipped his usual shower this morning. He wouldn’t have wanted any water to have accidentally dribbled into his mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on a pair of sneakers, and grabbed the keys to his van.

  He parked two blocks from the hospital and hoofed it over.

  Even before he wandered into the emergency ward waiting room, he could see the mayhem playing out before him. Paramedics and nurses and doctors all being run off their feet. People puking their guts out. People collapsing.