The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) (15 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

GALE
Carlson decided to go out.

Even before catastrophe struck Promise Falls that morning, she’d had no real plans. It might have been a long holiday weekend for her—the dental clinic, which was usually open Saturday mornings, had closed Friday at five and wasn’t to reopen until nine Tuesday morning—but her husband, Angus, was scheduled to work through the weekend. While being bumped up to detective had been good news, being the new guy in the department meant he was at the bottom of the list for getting the weekend off.

He’d started at six that morning, and Gale had no idea when she would see him again. She had every expectation he’d be doing a double or even a triple shift. He, and every other cop and paramedic and doctor and nurse in town. She’d been watching the news—all the major networks were carrying the story within a couple of hours—and seen interviews with people at the hospital, some still waiting to see a doctor, others weeping at the loss of a loved one. There was footage of that goofball who used to be mayor handing out free water down by the falls, the same brand of bottled water Gale kept
in the fridge. And then they went live to a news conference, where the interim head of Promise Falls General, flanked by a doctor and the chief of police, was giving the grim news.

So far, 123 people were dead.

It was one of the worst disasters in the state’s history. After 9/11, a few airplane crashes, and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in New York in 1911, which had claimed 146 lives, this was it.

Nearly three hundred people were being treated for symptoms of hypotension, which—Gale didn’t catch all of it—had something to do with low blood pressure.

One quote in particular, from the hospital’s head doctor, caught Gale Carlson’s attention.

“Whatever has affected these people is resistant to any kind of treatment we can offer. There appears to be nothing we can do.”

Either people made it, or they didn’t. Survival appeared to depend on how much water they had consumed. Only half a cup of coffee? You probably lived. A large glass of water? Probably not. If you’d had a shower or washed your hands, your skin probably felt like it was crawling, but that wasn’t likely to kill you. And while there was little doubt the drinking water was the cause, the source of the contamination remained a mystery.

Dozens of patients had been transferred to hospitals in Albany and Syracuse, and a handful had even been sent to New York City. The local emergency staff had been stretched far beyond their capabilities.

If there was any good news, it was that most people had now gotten the message. The number of people coming to the hospital for treatment in the last couple of hours had dropped off considerably. As bad as it was, it could have been worse, Chief Finderman pointed out. Had this happened on a regular workday, and not on the Saturday of a long weekend, far more people would have been up early, and consumed the contaminated water.

“Oh!” Gale had said while watching the conference when she caught a brief glimpse of her husband walking past the camera.

She wanted to phone him then, ask how he was doing, but she knew this was the wrong time to bother him. She felt she’d been bothering him a lot lately, and watching what Angus had to deal with, she felt awash with guilt.

Maybe her husband was right. Maybe this was no world to bring a child into. Although that had never been his argument, exactly. It wasn’t the state of the world that worried him. It was the quality of parenting, and what he’d endured as a child was certainly not the best.

But Gale knew she would make a wonderful mother, if only given the chance. She’d spent hours on the Internet Googling “my husband does not want a baby,” and been inundated with stories from marriage-counseling and parenting sites. Gale was hardly alone. Millions of women were married to men who did not want to become fathers.

Sometimes what Gale really wanted was just one good book, instead of being overwhelmed with online material. Given that she was going stir-crazy at home, she decided to take a walk downtown.

A walk would do her good. She’d have her phone with her should Angus need to get in touch.

She had a destination in mind.

There was a bookstore in the Promise Falls Mall, but there was a used bookstore downtown where she loved to browse. Although the manager stocked mostly fiction, he also had a nonfiction section and, within that, some books on parenting and psychology.

Maybe she’d find something there, something that would help her persuade Angus that they should take that leap of faith.

Get pregnant.

And after all, it wasn’t as though the baby-making process was without its fun. At least, most of the time.

Gale grabbed her purse. She stepped outside first to see whether she needed a jacket, but it was a pleasant, late-spring day, temperature in the midseventies. No jacket required.

She and Angus lived in a small two-story house not far from the
central business area of Promise Falls. When they first moved here from Ohio, they’d often walked down to the park by the falls, but the novelty of that had worn off. Gale found she strolled down there more frequently on her own, especially when Angus had to work evenings. That had been a regular occurrence when he was in uniform, and likely would still be the case now that he was a detective.

She thought she might go down there today, after her bookstore visit.

Gale set herself a steady pace. It didn’t take long before she had walked the several blocks to her destination.

She was taken aback by what she found.

There were sheets of plywood where the windows of Naman’s Books used to be, and the brickwork was stained with soot. She’d had no idea that there had been a fire here. When had that happened?

“Oh, no,” she said under her breath. There were enough bookstores, used and new, going out of business without one having to go up in smoke.

She thought she heard noise inside, things being shuffled about, and noticed that the glass door, which had been covered over with cardboard on the inside, was ajar. She peeked inside.

“Naman?” she said.

“Hello?”

“Naman, what on earth has happened?”

The owner of the store appeared in the sliver between the door and the jamb, one dark eye taking Gale in.

“It is you,” he said, and opened the door wide enough that she was able to see him. The corner of his mouth went up in an attempt at a smile. “One of my best customers.”

“I didn’t know,” Gale said. “What happened?”

“A fire,” he said.

“When?”

“A few nights ago.”

“How did it happen?”

He shook his head, suggesting he did not want to talk about it.

“Come on,” Gale said. “Tell me.”

“Some guys in a truck. They drove by, threw something through the window. A what-do-you-call-it. Cocktail. Molotov cocktail. A bottle on fire. It broke the glass and landed in the books and the fire started.”

“Oh my God,” she said, peering in to try to see the damage. “I’m coming in.”

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m tough.”

He stepped back to allow her to come in. He had set up two spotlights on stands so he could see what he was doing.

“They haven’t turned the electric back on yet, so I am running extension cords out back, borrowing power from a neighbor. It’s not as bad as it was. It was all wet after the fire department came, water in the basement, thousands of books wet and ruined. I have a Dumpster out back for the stuff I cannot save. But I am going through, book by book, seeing what is salvageable.”

“This is horrible. Did they catch the people who did it?”

Naman shook his head.

“Why would someone do this?”

“They called me a terrorist,” he said.

“Oh, Naman.”

“They see a different kind of name out front, and suddenly I am the kind of guy who would blow up a drive-in theater. Good thing they already set the store on fire, or they would be back today to blame me for what has happened to the water.”

“Those kinds of things, they bring out the ugly side of people.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I don’t know what to say. Do you want me to ask my husband if they are having any luck tracking them down?”

“Your husband?”

“He works for the police. He’s a detective now.”

“I don’t think you ever mentioned that before,” Naman said.

“Maybe not.”

“I think I would have remembered.” He glanced upward. “The man who had the apartment upstairs, he was a private detective. Not with the police, but working for himself.”

“Really?”

Naman nodded. “But he is gone. I don’t think he will come back. Anyway.” He went over to the counter, where he’d been sorting books into boxes. “What were you looking for today? I mean, I am not open, but if I have what you want and it is a little water damaged, I would give it to you for free.”

“I was looking for . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“It’s kind of personal.”

“Oh.”

She laughed. “But if I’d found it, I’d have been bringing it up to you to pay for, so . . .”

“What kind of book?”

“Just . . . advice about marriages. The different things that couples go through.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

She laughed again. “It’s not
that
.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But I know what you were thinking. It’s just, Angus—that’s my husband—and I can’t seem to agree on whether to start a family. I want to, and he’s hesitant.”

“Oh. I don’t know if I have any books like that. In good condition, or damaged. You know, you should go to the bookstore in the mall, maybe. Or look online.”

“I guess. I just—I’ve always liked coming here. I love books, and old books. I love the smell of them.”

“They all smell of smoke now,” Naman said sadly.

“Are you going to reopen?”

“We’ll see. I have to clean up first.”

“I should let you get back to it. I’m so sorry.” Gale turned and, as she took a step toward the door, stumbled over something. “Stupid
me,” she said, bending over and picking up a book that had clearly been drenched by the firefighters. It had dried, and expanded to twice its original thickness.

“Guess this is one for the Dumpster,” she said. She looked at the title.
“Deadly Doses: A Writer’s Guide to Poison.”

“I’ll take that,” Naman said, extending a hand.

Gale gave it to him. “Guess you won’t want that one around when you’ve got nutcases accusing you of awful things.”

She offered an awkward chuckle.

“No,” said Naman. “I guess I don’t.”

TWENTY-FIVE

DAVID
Harwood went straight home.

His father was in front of the TV in the living room, watching CNN. “They just had something on Promise Falls,” Don said as his son walked through.

David wasn’t interested. He was headed for the kitchen, where he kept a laptop tucked at the far end of the counter. He grabbed it, set it up on the table, and sat himself down.

He heard someone bounding down the stairs. A second later, Ethan was in the kitchen.

“Did you find out what happened to Carl?” Ethan asked. “Did he drink the water and get sick?”

“No,” David said, opening a browser and tapping away with his fingers to fill in the search field. His eyes were on the screen. “I mean, not that I know of.”

“Why were you asking if he was in school?”

“Ethan, I’m doing something here.”

“What about his mom? Did she drink the water?”

“Ethan!” David snapped. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Ethan frowned, turned, and walked out of the kitchen.

David had entered “Brandon + Worthington + Boston + bank.”

He figured adding “bank” would narrow the search down, pinpoint stories about the Brandon Worthington who had been sentenced to prison for bank robbery.

Up popped some stories. The initial arrest, a short story about his sentencing. David knew, from his brief experience working at the
Boston
Globe
, that trials were not covered the way they once were, because there weren’t enough reporters to go around. It was only the more sensational cases that made the papers once they went to court. But Worthington’s case had attracted some attention because there was an interesting element to it: His father worked for the bank he’d robbed. Not the same branch, but the same financial corporation.

Brandon was also mentioned in more recent stories about the arrest of his parents in the brief kidnapping of Carl by Ed Noble. Also, they were being investigated for their involvement in Noble’s failed bid to kill Samantha Worthington at the Laundromat. That had ended in a shoot-out with Cal Weaver, and Noble’s arrest.

The shit Sam had been through with these people, David thought. A bunch of total lunatics. Willing to do anything to separate Sam from her son, to take him away and raise him themselves.

But these stories contained no new information for David. This was all ancient history, if something that had happened only a few days ago could be called ancient. What he was looking for was something much more recent. Something that would explain why the owner of the Laundromat would say someone named Brandon had been by looking for Samantha.

He narrowed the search to the last seven days.

And up popped an item from a news station in Boston. A segment called “Hank Investigates,” which he remembered from his time there. Hank, a woman reporter, was always digging into something, and this time it was the ineptitude of local corrections officials. The story was that after Garnet and Yolanda Worthington had been
arrested, they were brought back to Boston to be arraigned, and shortly after that, Yolanda had what appeared to be a heart attack.

She was admitted to hospital, at which point Brandon, who was being held in Old Colony Correctional Center in Bridgewater, made a request for a supervised release so that he could see his mother. Yolanda’s condition was, for a period of time, deemed critical, and there were fears this might be Brandon’s last chance to see his mother in person.

A supervised release was approved.

Just before going into the intensive care unit to see his mother, Brandon asked his escort for his cuffs to be removed. Was it right, he’d asked, that his mother, in what might be the last time she would ever be with her son, see him in handcuffs?

The cuffs were removed.

Brandon was allowed to enter the ICU unaccompanied. After all, his police escort figured, there was only one way out. The officer took a seat just outside the ICU entrance. Gave Brandon ten minutes.

According to the police, Brandon was behind a curtain, talking to his mother, when a male, uniformed orderly came in to check on her. Brandon saw an opportunity. He put the man in a choke hold, and in ten seconds the orderly had slipped into unconsciousness.

The orderly did an on-camera interview. “He was about my size, but man, he was strong. Hooked his arm around my neck, and brother, I was gone.”

Brandon stole his uniform and walked out the ICU door, right past the cop.

He hadn’t been seen since.

His mug shot was displayed on-screen, and the public was asked to call the police if they spotted him. “Police advise that this man should not be approached,” the news reporter said. “He is believed to be dangerous.”

David watched the segment a second time, wondering if he’d missed anything. Like, where the police thought Brandon might be headed, and why.

Nothing.

But he was pretty sure they knew. And he was betting someone with the Boston PD, or the prison system, had given Samantha a heads-up.

No wonder she’d vanished.

David wondered if the local police had been notified, if they were watching for him. He got out his phone and brought up the cell phone number he had for Barry Duckworth. He knew the detective would have his hands full this morning with the water contamination, but he didn’t care.

Duckworth answered on the fourth ring.

“Duckworth. David?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“If this is about your boss, I don’t care.”

“Randy?”

“If you’re looking for him, he’s handcuffed to a door at the water treatment plant.”

“What?”

David felt as though the chair beneath him were swaying. He thought about his earlier conversation with Finley, about how lucky it was that he’d been cranking up production in the days leading up to this disaster.

Was it possible?

Could Randy have somehow—

“I don’t understand,” David said. “What’s he done? Because—I don’t know if this means anything, but he cranked up production before—”

“He’s been getting in the way, that’s what he’s been doing. You’ve got some smarts. You need to talk to him, get him to back off.”

“Getting in the way where?”

“Everywhere I go, pretty much, but especially out here at the water plant. He thinks he’s back in the mayor’s office and I’ve got news for him. He’s not.”

“Okay, okay, but that’s not why—”

“Make it fast, David.”

“Do you know about Brandon Worthington?”

“Who the hell is—”

“You know about Garnet and Yolanda Worthington? They hired that idiot to grab Samantha Worthington’s kid, and then at the Laundromat—”

“Right. I know. Carlson—Angus Carlson—he worked on that, but I know what you’re talking about. Brandon’s the son? The one who’s in jail?”

“He’s not anymore.”

“He got released?”

“He escaped.” David quickly gave Duckworth the details from the news video. “I think he’s in Promise Falls.”

“I’m sure Boston PD’ve been in touch. Look, David, if you see him, call me. But I’m up to my ass in alligators.”

“I’m worried about Sam and Carl. I think they’re on the run and—”

“David, I have to go.” Duckworth ended the call.

“Well, thanks a fuck of a lot,” David said.

“I heard that,” said Ethan from the living room.

Phone still in hand, David tried Sam’s number yet again. If only she’d pick up. She had to see who was calling. If she’d just answer, he could tell her he knew why she’d fled, that he knew Brandon was out of prison and looking for her, that he would help her in any way he could.

No answer after ten rings.

A text,
he thought.

He typed:
Know about Brandon, why you left. Please let me help. Call me when you can.

He hit send. Looked to see that the text had been delivered, and it had. While he stared at the phone, hoping for those three little dots to indicate she was writing back, he wondered where she might have gone.

He didn’t know what other family she might have. He seemed
to recall her mentioning that her parents were no longer alive, so she couldn’t hide out with them until this passed over.

Until Brandon had been caught.

It was looking as though Sam was not going to get back to him, so he put the phone down on the table.

Maybe, he told himself, he should stop worrying. It was possible Sam had things in hand, that she was dealing with this situation the best she could. When she’d gotten word that Brandon was out, she’d packed Carl and herself up and hit the road. Given all she’d been through with Brandon’s parents and Ed Noble, the smartest thing to do was get out of town.

“I wasn’t the priority,” David said to himself.

And why should he be?

Once Brandon had been apprehended, she’d come back, and they’d pick up where they left off.

Sure.

But did it put her in
that
much jeopardy to answer his phone call? To respond to a text?

Unless . . .

Unless she was expecting a trick. The Worthington clan had tried to pull fast ones on her in the past.

Could she be thinking Brandon had found David? That he had his phone, and was pretending to be him in a bid to find out where she and Carl were?

Was that a reach?

But then, suddenly, another scenario occurred to David.

Sam wasn’t answering because Brandon had already found them.