“That’s right. He says you’re nearly paid up, but not quite. Until your debts and the interest are dealt with, he’s gonna keep sending me around to visit you.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do,” the man said. “Next time there will be blood.” He chortled. “And it’ll be coming from the little stump where one of your fucking fingers used to be.”
“I hear you,” the doctor said, most of his wind back now. “I gave him a hundred grand. You’d think he’d be fucking happy with that.”
“If a hundred grand was all you owed, I’m guessing he would be.” And then in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “You know, have you ever considered that maybe you’ve got a problem?”
“What?” Sturgess said; he had one knee up, and was slowly coming to a standing position. Now he was able to look his attacker in the eye. The thug was about thirty, bearded, pushing three hundred pounds easy.
The man rested a hand gently on the doctor’s shoulder. “You think I enjoy this? You think I like beating the shit out of people to get them to pay up?” He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m telling you, maybe you should get help. Gamblers Anonymous or something like that. Don’t go telling my boss I said this, because he likes the business he’s in, but hey, if you got your act together, there’s always some other dumb asshole willing to throw away his paycheck on the horses or blackjack or whatever. But you’re a doctor, right?”
Sturgess nodded.
“You help people. You probably work with your hands, doing surgery, shit like that. So when I see you next, and have to relieve you of one of your fingers, that’s kind of bad for society, you know? Like, imagine this. I chop your finger off; then I get in a car accident or something, and you’re the only doctor on call, but you can’t operate on me because your hand is fucked. That would be ironic, right?”
“It would,” Sturgess said.
“Well, then,” the man said, giving the doctor’s shoulder one more friendly pat, “you better pay up, because I’m one fucking lousy driver.”
He chuckled, turned, and walked away.
Sturgess got his door open and collapsed into the driver’s seat. The man was right. He needed to get his problem under control.
But first he had to pay off the rest of his debts. Otherwise he might not live long enough to get his act together.
SEVENTEEN
David
ONCE Detective Duckworth was done with me, I had to find a way home. I considered calling my father, but he’d already been pressed into service to pick Ethan up at school, and I didn’t want to have to answer all the questions he’d have if he picked me up at a crime scene. And Mom, according to the brief chat I’d had with her, had hurt her leg, so I wasn’t going to trouble her, either.
So I called a cab.
You don’t hail a taxi in Promise Falls the way you do in New York. Unlike in the big city, most people here have a car and use it to go everywhere, so cabbies aren’t wandering suburban streets looking for a fare. You call in, and they send one out to you. Once I’d phoned in, I waited on the corner where I said I would be.
And thought.
What a morning.
Mom just had to send me to Marla’s with chili.
Of course, even if she hadn’t, we’d have all been drawn into Marla’s problems eventually, because we were family. We’d have been concerned; we’d have offered support; we’d have followed developments with interest.
But we wouldn’t be involved. Not like this.
I felt I was involved in this as much as I wanted to be.
I’d promised Marla my support, but not a lot beyond that. I supposed I could start asking around on my own in the hopes of finding something that would hold up her version of events, but just how obliged was I to do that? And there seemed little doubt Agnes would be doing everything she could, starting with the hiring of Natalie Bondurant, to make sure Marla didn’t get charged with Rosemary Gaynor’s murder.
The cab showed up.
I was home ten minutes later. Mom was stretched out on the couch; Dad was in his recliner, not reading, not watching TV, just staring off into space. I felt like I’d wondered into an old-folks’-home lobby.
“Where’s Ethan?” I said.
“I didn’t hear you pull up,” Dad said, his voice low and weary. “Where’s your car?”
“What happened with Ethan?” I asked.
Mom said, “Is Marla okay? Did she give the baby back?”
“Something wrong with the car?” Dad asked.
I had to find a job. I had to move out of here. I raised both hands. “I’ll fill you in, in a minute. Right now, I’m asking about Ethan.”
“He’s up in his room,” Mom said.
“What happened?”
Dad spoke up. “He got into some fight with a kid. Don’t know much more than that, but Ethan says he didn’t start it, and that’s good enough for me. I didn’t get a chance to see the other kid, but I hope Ethan landed a couple of good ones on him. I got his name if you want it, and the father’s. In case you and me want to go over there and have a word with them.”
The hands went up again. “Thanks for that, but let me just talk to Ethan. Okay?”
Mom couldn’t help herself. “What about Marla?”
“In. A. Minute.”
I climbed the stairs, rapped lightly on Ethan’s door, but did not wait for an answer before I opened it.
He was facedown on his bed, on top of the covers, his head buried in his pillow. He rolled onto his side and said, “Where were you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did Poppa have to get me?”
“Because I was busy. And nice try, trying to make this an interrogation of me from the get-go, but I’m the one who’s got the questions. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
I pulled Ethan’s computer chair over next to the bed and sat down. “That’s not the way this is going to go. Who’d you get into a fight with?”
He mumbled something.
“Speak up.”
“Carl Worthington.”
“He’s in your class?”
Ethan nodded.
“How did the fight start?”
“He’s always picking on me.”
“How’d the fight start?”
“He . . . he took something from me at recess and I tried to get it back.”
“What’d he take?”
“Just something.”
“I’m not in the mood, Ethan. Spill it.”
“Poppa’s watch. I mean, one of his dad’s watches.”
“What?”
“From that box of old stuff that he has in the basement. My great-grandfather’s things. Like ribbons and medals and old letters and postcards and stuff. There was a watch, but not like a regular watch. It was big and didn’t have a strap?”
“A pocket watch,” I said. “A long time ago, men would keep a watch in the front pocket of their vest. You took that?”
“Sort of.”
“Did you ask your grandfather if you could take it?”
“Not exactly,” Ethan said.
“So the answer is no,” I said.
“I’d just never seen anything like it and I wanted to show it to my friends. Or show it to some kids so they might want to be my friend.”
I felt my heart sinking. I should be angry but it wasn’t in me.
“So you took it to school. Then what happened?”
“There was a bunch of us passing it around to look at it, and Carl said he really liked it and put it in his pocket. When I told him to give it back he wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you just tell a teacher he took it from you and make him give it back?”
“I started to get scared, because I might have to tell the teacher how I got it, and then Poppa would find out and I’d be in trouble. So I just grabbed Carl and tried to get it out of his pocket, and he punched me in the head and we fell down together and everyone was watching, and then Mr. Appleton came over.”
br />
“Your teacher?”
Ethan shook his head. “He’s not my teacher. He was just on yard duty. We got sent to the office.” Ethan’s lip began to tremble. “When Poppa came to pick me up I thought somehow he knew.”
“I don’t think he does,” I said.
“But next time he looks in that box and can’t find the watch—”
I gestured for Ethan to sit and put my arms around him as he started to cry. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll sort it out. So this kid, he still has the watch?”
I felt him nod into my shoulder.
“And the school doesn’t know anything about it?”
“They don’t know.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I have some money saved up. Maybe we can go to a store where they sell old things and buy another watch just like that.”
I patted his back. “Like I said, we’ll sort it out.”
“Don’t tell him. Don’t tell Poppa. He’ll kick us out before you have a chance to find a job and get us a place to live.”
That cut in more ways than I could count. “He wouldn’t do that,” I said. “He would never do anything like that. I can’t promise you he won’t find out, but I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”
He nodded, broke free and grabbed a tissue from the box on his bedside table, and blew his nose.
“Is this why you’ve been acting sick in the morning?” I asked him.
Ethan didn’t say anything.
“Because you don’t want to go to school and run into this kid?”
“Sort of,” he said quietly. “Maybe. He’s been picking on me ever since I came back here. But he’s not the only one. Some of the other kids are meaner.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Okay. Listen, why don’t you hang out here for a while longer.”
“Am I grounded?”
“No. Just give me fifteen minutes before you come down.”
I knew I was going to have to fill my parents in on what was happening with Marla and the police and the body I’d found. I didn’t want Ethan to hear all of that, although I knew, what with the Internet and everything, he’d probably know the broad strokes before the end of the day.
“Well?” Dad said when I entered the living room.
“Just a fight,” I said. “No big deal. Did you say you had the name of the kid’s father?”
“Sam Worthington,” he said. “Heard the name when I was in the office. Whatcha going to do?”
“Nothing. I just wondered.”
I could tell there was something wrong with Mom, the way she was lying down. “Tell me again what happened to you.”
She told me about tripping on the stairs. She pulled up her pant leg and showed me her injury.
“Jesus, Mom, you should go to the hospital.”
“Nothing’s broken. It’ll be okay. Now tell us what’s going on.”
I did. They let me tell the story pretty much all the way through without interruptions, aside from the occasional “Oh, dear” or “Good heavens” from Mom. Dad’s first question, not surprisingly, was, “When they going to give you back your car?”
“This is so terrible,” Mom said. “What can we do to help, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”
I told them I had to go out, and asked Mom if I could borrow her old Taurus. She didn’t drive much anymore, but she still had her car, and the plates were up-to-date.
“Keys are in the drawer,” she said.
I knew this was probably a bad idea. Getting involved in your kids’ disputes, especially when it brought you face-to-face with other parents, wasn’t always such a good move.
I felt the best way to handle Mr. Worthington when I saw him would be to tell him there was a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t accuse Carl of stealing anything. I’d say something along the lines that Ethan had agreed to let Carl hang on to the watch for a while, but the watch wasn’t his to lend. I’d explain that it was a family heirloom, that it had been Ethan’s great-grandfather’s. I’d embellish. I’d say that once Ethan’s grandfather found out it was missing, the boy was going to be in for a good whoopin’.
No, I could not say that. That was ridiculous.
The important thing was not to lay blame. Be nice. Just get the damn watch back.
I opened the address app and looked for S. WORTHINGTON. There was one, on Sycamore.
It wasn’t that far from where my parents lived, which made sense, since Ethan and Carl were going to the same school, but it seemed a great distance. The block where the Worthingtons lived was a stretch of low-income town houses jammed together like upended shoe boxes on a shelf. Cars in varying stages of disrepair were parked in short driveways, back ends hanging over the sidewalk.
This might not have been something I’d ordinarily have felt up to, but after the morning I’d had, there was a part of me that just didn’t give a shit. I’d be nice, but I was going to get back that damn watch that little bastard had stolen from my son.
I found the right door, climbed the three cement steps, one hand on the rusted metal railing, and knocked.
From behind the door, a muffled shout.
“Who is it?” Didn’t sound like a man to me.
“I’m looking for Sam Worthington!” I shouted back. “I’m Ethan’s dad!”
“Who?”
“Ethan’s a friend of my son! I just came by to—”
Suddenly the door swung wide.
It was a woman.
“I’m Samantha,” she said flatly. “Most people call me Sam.” About thirty, short brown hair, wearing a tight white tee and jeans just as snug. They fit her well.
She was a nice-looking woman, but if I’m honest, I’d have to say the first thing I noticed was the shotgun she had in her hands, and the fact that it was pointed right between my eyes.
EIGHTEEN
“WHAT would it take to get you to get Five Mountains up and running again?” Randall Finley asked Gloria Fenwick as they sat in the offices of Finley Springs Water. It was a far cry from the office he had when he presided over the small empire of Promise Falls as its mayor. Back then he had a broad oak desk, leather armchairs for guests, velvet drapes at the windows. Well, at least they looked like velvet.
But his office at the Finley Springs bottling plant, five miles north of Promise Falls on a tract of land that had been in his family for five generations, lacked charm. A cheap metal desk topped with chipped fake-wood laminate. Plastic stackable chairs. He’d rehung a few framed photos that had adorned the walls of his mayoral office. Shaking hands with Fox News commentator Bill O’Reilly. Fake fisticuffs with former wrestler and onetime governor Jesse Ventura.
There’d never been a Penthouse calendar on the wall of the mayor’s office, however. Finley was thinking maybe he should have taken that down before inviting Fenwick to drop by. What the hell. It wasn’t like it showed anything she hadn’t already seen herself. In the mirror.
Gloria Fenwick, forty, pencil thin, blond hair to her shoulders and decked out in Anne Klein, had been the general manager of the theme park, and was still in charge of the place, winding things down for the parent corporation. That meant dealing with creditors, selling off bits and pieces of the place, entertaining offers for the property. As far as that went, there had been none.
“I don’t even know why I agreed to this meeting,” Fenwick said, standing, looking at the closest plastic chair. The seat was cracked, and looked as though it would pinch her in a delicate place if she dared sit in it.
“You agreed to it because you know if an opportunity presented itself that would make you look good to your superiors, you’d go for it.”
Fenwick picked up a plastic bottle of Finley Springs Water that was sitting on the man’s desk. She held it up to a flickering overhead fluorescent light and squinted. “This looks a little cloudy to me.”
“We had a few quality issues with the last batch,” Finley said. “Perfectly safe to drink despite a few
contaminants.”
“You should put that on the label,” she said.
Finley’s desk phone rang. He glanced at who the caller was, but ignored it. “Won’t you sit down?”
“This chair is cracked.”
Finley came from behind his desk and found another chair that looked less likely to pinch Fenwick’s very pleasant butt. She sat, and Finley returned to the chair behind his desk.
“Your park was a huge shot in the arm for Promise Falls.”
“Five Mountains is not reopening,” she said.
“I think your corporate overlords are not taking the long view. A park like that, it needs time to develop, build an audience, as it were.”
“What’s this to you?”
He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, a posture that made his stomach loom in front of him like an upturned wok.
“I’m looking to get back into politics,” Finley said. “I want back in the game. Promise Falls has hit the skids. This town is broken. Businesses closing, people moving away. Paper’s gone under. That private prison—which would have meant a shitload of jobs—didn’t get built here. A plant that was making parts for GM and Ford lost its contract to Mexico. And as if all that weren’t bad enough, the local theme park has folded up its tent. That’d be you.”
“It was not a viable operation,” Gloria Fenwick said. “Building in that location was a miscalculation. Traffic patterns were misjudged. Promise Falls is too far north of Albany. There are no other attractions, like a discount outlet mall, to make this a logical destination point. People had to go too far out of their way to get here. People don’t pass Promise Falls on their way from point A to point B. So the place has been mothballed.”
“Every time I drive by, it kind of freaks me out,” Finley said. “Seeing that Ferris wheel, the roller coaster, everything just sitting there, not moving. Abandoned like that. It’s creepy.”
“Try being there,” Fenwick said. “My office is still on the property. It’s like living in a ghost town. Especially late at night.”
“Anyway, when I get back in,” Finley said, putting his hands on his desk and leaning forward, “I can make it so Five Mountains pays no local business taxes or property taxes for five years. And in five years’ time, if the park is still not financially viable, that could be reexamined. Make it ten years. People having jobs is more important than filling local tax coffers.”