Far From True (18 page)

Cal

ONCE
I was done talking to the police about Ed Noble’s visit to the Laundromat that morning, I called Lucy Brighton and said I wanted to update her. She invited me to come to her house at eight.

On the way, I had the radio tuned to a local phone-in show.

“Who says we couldn’t be a target of terrorists?” asked the bombastic host. “Are we too insignificant up here? A couple of hours away from New York? Is that what we’re foolish enough to think? Let me tell you something, my friend. You want to strike fear into the hearts of Americans? Then
go
to the heart of America. The big cities are the obvious targets. But why not Promise Falls? Why not—I don’t know—Lee, Massachusetts? Saratoga Springs? Middlebury, Vermont? Duluth? Make Americans feel unsafe wherever they happen to be. That’s what those Islamist fanatics are thinking, and you can be damn sure blowing up a drive-in theater is totally their kind of style. Let’s go to the phones. Go ahead, Dudley.”

Dudley?

“Yeah, I think we need to be looking very closely at our neighbors, because these people, what they do is, they hide amongst us.”

“No kidding, my friend, no kidding. And now we’ve got Mr. Twenty-three out there trying to scare us half to death, according to the brilliant cops in Promise Falls. Well, I’m telling you right
now, I don’t scare easy. Your shtick with twenty-three might work on some people, but it won’t work on me.”

Mr. Twenty-three? What the hell was that about?

I decided it was something I didn’t need to know right now, and turned off the radio. When I rang the bell at the Brighton house, a young girl answered the door. I remembered Lucy telling me her daughter was eleven.

She was holding a clipboard in one hand, several sheets of paper held down by the metal arm. In the fingers of her other hand, an uncapped, fine-point Sharpie pen. She had straight brown hair that fell below her ears, and bangs across her forehead. She reminded me of the
Peanuts
character Marcie, minus the glasses.

If she’d been Peppermint Patty, she probably would have offered some kind of greeting.

Crystal offered none. She stared at me.

“Hi,” I said. “You must be Crystal.”

Crystal said nothing.

“My name is Mr. Weaver. I think your mom’s expecting me.”

She turned and shouted: “Mom!”

So, she could speak. She fixed her gaze on me again. I pointed to the clipboard.

“What are you working on?”

Crystal turned the clipboard so I could see it. She had divided the page into six squares, and filled each of them with crudely drawn characters and word bubbles.

“A comic book,” I said.

“No.”

“Sorry, I thought, with the panels, that it looked like a—”

“It’s a graphic novel,” she said. She flipped ahead through the pages. Dozens of them, all drawn in a similar style to the top one. Some of the pages were just scraps; a few were construction paper in red and green. On every one, more squares, more drawings. While the people were simply drawn, I understood what they were about. She’d managed to capture hand gestures and expressions,
which seemed odd, given that, so far, Crystal seemed to have very few of her own.

I pointed to one of the panels. “Is that a car?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like a sports car.”

“It’s a Jaguar. My grandfather has one. But it’s flat now. Something big fell on it.”

Suddenly, Lucy was there.

“Sorry!” she said to me, pushing her daughter to one side. “Go on in, sweetheart.” The child withdrew. “I was downstairs putting something into the dryer and didn’t even hear the bell.”

“It’s okay. It gave me a chance to meet Crystal.”

Lucy made a smile that was more a grimace. “If she seemed rude—”

“She wasn’t.”

“If she seemed rude,” Lucy pressed on, “she doesn’t mean to be.”

“She was showing me her graphic novel. I made the mistake of calling it a comic book.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” Lucy said. She led me into the living room, where she’d already put out cups, a plate of cheese and crackers, and a carafe of coffee.

“Whoa,” I said.

“It’s no bother.”

“I like Crystal’s drawing style. Kind of minimalist, but you can tell what’s going on, what people are thinking.”

Lucy smiled, shook her head. “That child. She’s drawing all the time, on any shred of paper she can get her hands on. The other day I’d run out of checks and found out she’d been turning the backs of them into four-panel strips. The perfect size, she said. I try not to get mad, but—”

“She’s a talented kid.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes talent and trouble go hand in hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve just met her, but you can see she lacks certain social graces. She’s challenged that way. Doesn’t quite know how to act. Sometimes”—and almost instantly Lucy began to tear up—“other kids . . . they can be so cruel to her. She’s the oddball, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. “My son, Scott, was kind of like that.”

“Was he diagnosed?”

“Diagnosed?”

“Did they figure out what was wrong with him?”

“It wasn’t quite like that. He just had different interests than other kids. He didn’t fit into the mainstream.”

“So it wasn’t anything like Asperger’s?”

“Is that what Crystal has?”

“I don’t even know. Her GP thinks maybe. She has some of the checkmarks. Poor social communication, repetitive behavior. And this obsession with drawing, doing her doodles on everything. I couldn’t find one of my reports the other day, found Crystal had done ‘The Adventures of Lizardman’ on the backs of the pages.”

“Years from now, she’ll be making a million a year drawing for Marvel,” I offered.

“Yeah, well, I could use some of that cash now. There’s a place I’d like to take her, where they’d test her, and then there’s a school that would be better suited to her needs, where they’d find a way to draw her out, even let her do more of this stuff she’s so good at. But I don’t exactly get paid a fortune. I’d talked to my father about it, whether he could, you know, help out. He said he would think about it. . . .”

“And now . . .”

“Yeah, and now. Crystal has always been kind of like this, but I think it got worse when her father left us. She needed a male figure in her life. I think that’s why she liked spending time around my dad. She was good with him.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, enough about all this,” Lucy said, and then lowered her
voice to a whisper. “I take it you called because you’ve found out something? Do you have the discs?”

I reached for a cracker, put a slice of cheese on it. It occurred to me I hadn’t eaten anything for hours.

“I don’t have the discs.”

“But do you know who took them?”

“You know a Clive Duncomb?”

She shook her head. “You mentioned him before, when you were looking up contacts at my father’s house.”

“Yeah. He works at Thackeray. Heads up security there. He and your father—he and his wife were friends with your dad and Miriam.”

Lucy repeated the name. “I know a few people out at Thackeray, given what I do. But the people I know are more in the academic end of things and—”

Lucy stopped herself.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know what the name was, but my father mentioned, I’m pretty sure, that he knew someone at the college who’d given him tips for when he was writing about the police. But this man wasn’t a security guard or anything. He was a policeman, or used to be.”

“That could be Duncomb,” I said. “He’s an ex-cop. Did he say much else about him?”

“I was over there once, and he happened to say something about having this ex-cop, and his wife, and another couple over for dinner. And maybe even a student from Thackeray who wanted to know what it was like to be a writer. I’d dropped by in the afternoon and Miriam already had the table set and everything.”

“Did he say who the other couple was?”

Lucy shook her head.

“What are you thinking?” she asked me.

“I don’t know. I mean, I think we have a pretty good idea what’s on those DVDs. I had it confirmed for me by your father’s
ex-wife, Felicia.” I grimaced. “She hadn’t heard about what happened at the drive-in. I ended up being the one to break it to her.”

“Oh, God, that must have been awful. For her, and for you. You don’t think she was faking, do you? That she already knew but was pretending not to?”

I thought about that. “It seemed legit.” I smiled. “But I’ve been fooled by women before.”

That brought a smile to Lucy’s face, too. “So, if she really didn’t know, there wouldn’t be any urgency on her part to break into my father’s house.”

I nodded. “Anyway, she says that when she and your father split, he gave her any discs that featured her. She destroyed them herself.”

“Unless there were copies.”

“There’s that,” I said. “Sometimes I have nothing to go on but my gut, and my gut says she didn’t do it. But I feel differently about Clive Duncomb.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He acts like he’s head of the FBI instead of security chief at a small college. But when I brought up that something was taken from the house, he didn’t even ask me what it was.”

She let that sink in. “He already knew.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Also, he’s the kind of guy your father might have trusted with a key and the code. Being an ex-cop and all.”

“You’re saying my father, and Miriam, maybe they were having sex with this Duncomb man and his wife? And recording it?”

This had to be uncomfortable for her. It wasn’t exactly comfortable for me, discussing her father’s colorful sex life.

“Maybe,” I said. “One thing I’ve learned over the years is you simply don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. And I’m not just talking about sex. Husbands and wives, parents and their children, they treat each other differently in the privacy of their homes than they do when they’re in public.”

“I got a taste of that when I was in the classroom. The things small children would say to you. Things like, ‘My mom can’t volunteer for the school trip because my daddy pushed her down the stairs.’ And they’d say it so innocently.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“It’s all so ridiculously sordid. Maybe that’s not the word. I don’t care if people want to fool around or wife-swap or whatever. It’s a free country. I’m not like the Taliban—or somebody’s church for that matter—wanting to tell everybody how to live. But when it’s your own father . . . it’s embarrassing.”

“Sure.”

She went to take a bite of a cracker, then put it back on the plate. No appetite.

“I just need to know who it was. If it’s this Duncomb man, maybe I can make a personal appeal to him. Not even accuse him of anything, but just say, ‘Look, if you have those discs, please don’t ever make them public. Please destroy them.’”

I didn’t know whether that was a good idea, but said, “If he took them, and he took them to protect his own reputation, it strikes me as unlikely that he’s going to post them online, if you know what I mean.” I glanced up the stairs. “I’d say the chances of Crystal stumbling onto videos starring her grandfather are pretty unlikely.”

“Oh, God, the very thought.”

I ate another cracker with cheese, poured myself some coffee from the carafe.

“Oh, I should have done that,” Lucy said apologetically.

I took a sip, told her it was good. “You have to decide whether you want me to pursue this any further. I want to have one more look around your father’s house—you’ve hired my services for the whole day—and see if I come across anything else of interest, maybe take a closer look at his e-mails, but I don’t know how much further I can take this.”

Lucy considered. “Maybe another day or two?” She made it sound like she was asking for another sliver of cake. I sensed that she wanted a reason for me to come back here tomorrow, and the day after that.

“Why don’t I see what I learn tonight, and then we can make a decision?” I said.

“That sounds good. I can’t leave Crystal, so you’ll have to go to the house by yourself. I can give you one of my spare keys for the house, and the code is two-six-six-nine. Do you want me to write it down?”

“I can remember.”

We both stood, almost uncomfortably close. A kind of electricity seemed to be passing between us.

The phone rang.

“Just a second,” she said, detouring back into the kitchen.

“Hello?” I heard her say. “Oh, Martin. Martin, I’m so sorry.”

I poked my head into the kitchen.

“Hang on just one second,” she said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked my way. “It’s Miriam’s brother. Martin Kilmer. He’s driving up from Providence.”

I raised my hand, a mini-wave. “I’ll be in touch,” I said softly, let myself out.

As I got into the car, I noticed something on the passenger seat. Several pieces of paper, stapled together.

I kept the door open to keep the dome light on and picked up the document. The cover page featured a drawing of a little girl walking through a forest at night. It was titled “Noises in the Night by Crystal Brighton.”

There was a yellow sticker attached that read: “NOT a comic book.”

I looked back at the house, to a second-floor window, presumably Crystal’s bedroom. She was silhouetted against the light, watching me.

RANDALL
Finley pulled his Lincoln into his home driveway, up next to a red Kia, killed the engine. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, listened to the ticking of the engine as it began its cooldown, then got out. He walked wearily to the front door, but did not get out his key. He expected the door would be unlocked, which it was.

He heard stirring in the kitchen.

“Mr. Finley?” a woman called out.

“Hey, Lindsay,” he said, walking down the hall, loosening his tie on the way to the kitchen.

“You look tired,” said Lindsay. She was in her late sixties, her thinning hair pinned tightly to her head. Her thin, ropy arms were busy wiping down one of the countertops. “Long day?”

“I should have called,” he told her. “Sorry to keep you here so long.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Did you eat? There’s something in the fridge. Some ham, and some potato salad.”

“That’d be nice, actually,” he said. “I could use a drink first.”

He went to the cupboard, brought down a bottle of scotch and a glass. Then he turned on the small television that was mounted below a cupboard, turned it to the news channel.

There was Duckworth, saying something about squirrels.

Squirrels? So maybe Duckworth was finally taking seriously those dead rodents he’d alerted him to. Finley turned up the volume.

“—you count them, you’ll notice there are twenty-three
animals here. Now, let me put this second photo up. . . . Okay, this is the Ferris wheel at Five Mountains. That ride—”

The detective was talking about several incidents linked by the number twenty-three.

“Well,” said Finley. “You hear about this, Lindsay?”

“Hear about what?”

“This guy doing all these things around town, he’s got this sort of signature? A number?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “You know me. I never put on the TV news. I don’t listen to the radio. All the news is depressing. I don’t need that. I just listen to my music.” She pointed to the iPod and earbuds on the kitchen table. Finley had asked her not to wear them when she was in the house, looking after Jane, but Lindsay swore she kept the volume low.

As if anticipating his next question, Lindsay said, “She had a good day. She slept a lot, but she had a good day.”

She took the ham and potato salad from the fridge. One entire shelf was lined with bottles of Finley Springs Water.

“She drank a whole pitcher of lemonade!” Lindsay said as she made up a plate for Finley. “She just loves the frozen concentrate. Sometimes, before I mix in the water, she likes to have a little of the frozen stuff on a spoon.” Lindsay chuckled. “She’s such a character. She makes me laugh. All that lemonade, I had to help her to the bathroom a few times.”

Finley downed his scotch, his eyes still on the Duckworth news conference. When it ended, he turned off the TV. “What was that?”

“The lemonade. She loves it.”

“She needs the fluids,” Finley said. “I’ll bring home some more cases of water.”

“I just use tap water when I mix up the lemonade. I let it run until it gets cold.”

Finely shook his head. “Use my water. It’s so much better.”

“It just takes longer. I have to uncap so many bottles and—”

“I’ll bring home one of those big jugs, make it easier.”

“Sure, okay,” Lindsay said.

“I don’t know what we would do without you.”

Lindsay put the plate on the kitchen table. “There you go,” she said.

“I’m going to go up and see Jane first,” the former mayor said. “You go home. I’ll take it from here.”

“Okay.”

“Got a busy day tomorrow, though.”

“I’ll be here by seven,” Lindsay said.

“You’re worth a million dollars.”

Lindsay smiled. “You can give me a raise if you want.”

Finley walked over and gave the woman a kiss on the forehead. “Has she had her pills?” he asked her.

“She’s good to go. All you have to do is tuck her in for the night and she should be good till the morning. Unless she has to go to the bathroom or something, you’ll—”

“I can help her with that,” Finley said. “Go, go on, get out of here. You’ve done enough.”

Lindsay gave the man a hug, grabbed a jacket and purse that were hanging off the back of a kitchen chair, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“Bye, love,” he said. He poured himself a second scotch and knocked it back.

He went upstairs.

Were there more stairs today than yesterday? he wondered.
Climbing up the flight seemed to take more energy every day. But he needed his strength. He hadn’t even declared officially yet. There was so much hard work ahead.

Interesting development on the news. He could use that.

Finley passed by the guest bedroom, stepped in, took off his watch, and rested it on the bedside table. Removed his tie and threw it on the bed. He sat on the end and took off his shoes, scrunched his toes into the carpet.

“That feels better,” he said to himself.

He stood, went a few more feet down the hall. The door to Jane Finley’s room was open an inch, and he slowly pushed it open.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly.

His wife was in bed, on her back, the covers pulled up to her neck. Her skin was pale, her hair sparse. A soft bedside lamp cast light on a pair of reading glasses, a hardcover Ken Follett novel, and several jars of pills.

Jane’s eyes fluttered open.

“You’re home,” she said. “Does Lindsay know?”

“I just sent her home.”

“Have you eaten?”

“She made something up for me. I’ll have it in a sec. Lindsay said you had a good day.”

“I guess,” Jane said, her eyelids heavy. “What did you do today?”

“This and that,” he said. “I’m thinking I’ll declare tomorrow.”

Jane took a long, deep breath. “You don’t have to do this.”

Finley sat on the edge of the bed, reached through the covers until he found his wife’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. “I can be the man you always wanted me to be.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I shamed you. I—”

“Stop,” she said, her head moving from side to side on the pillow.

“But I did. I want people to see I’m not that man anymore. That I’m a better man. Someone worthy of you.”

He put a hand to her forehead. “You feel warm. Would you like a cool cloth?”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Jane said. “Go eat.”

He got up, went into the bathroom, and ran the water from the tap until it was cold. He held a washcloth under the stream, turned off the water, wrung as much water as he could from the cloth, and returned to his wife’s side.

“Here,” he said, and rested the cloth on her forehead.

“That feels good,” she said. “That feels really nice.”

Finley picked up the Follett book. “How is this?”

“It’s good,” she said. “But it’s so long, and heavy. It’s hard to hold up.”

Finley opened it to where she’d left her bookmark. “Would you like me to read some of it to you?”

“What about your dinner?” Jane asked.

“It’s not hot. Just ham and potato salad.”

“Okay, then.”

He only got through half a page before Jane was asleep. He placed the book back on the bedside table, took the cloth from her forehead, turned off the light, and slipped quietly from the room.