He stopped with the driver’s door about twenty feet from the mailbox, a rusted aluminum container about ten inches high, two feet deep. Shaped like a barn with a rounded roof. He walked around to the front of it, pulled down the squeaky door, and there, just like Gaynor promised, was a package.
Not an eco bag, but something the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper, with string tied around it. He worked the package out of the box, closed the door, and went back to his truck.
As he was getting in, he felt something sharp jab him in the neck.
“Jesus!” he shouted, the package falling out of his hands and hitting the gravel road.
For a split second, he wondered whether he’d been stung by a bee. But as soon as he turned his head, he saw that there was someone in the passenger seat.
A man, late fifties, nice suit.
With a syringe in his hand.
“What the— What the fuck did you do?” Marshall said. He slapped his hand on his neck where the needle had gone in.
The man pointed the business end of the syringe at Marshall, using it like a gun to keep him from attacking him.
“Listen to me,” the man said. “You don’t have much time. You’re probably already starting to feel the effects. It works fast.”
The guy was right about that. Marshall felt his arms getting heavy. His head was turning into a bowling ball.
“What did you do?”
“Listen to me,” he said again. “I have a second syringe. It’ll counteract what I just injected into you. Because it’s going to kill you.”
“Like, an anecdote?”
“Yeah, like that. But there isn’t much time.”
“Then get the thecond thyringe!” Christ, it really was fast. His tongue was expanding like a sponge.
“Just as soon as you answer my questions. How did you find out what you know about Gaynor?”
“I justht did, thass all.”
“Was it Sarita?”
Marshall shook his head.
“Clock’s ticking,” the man said.
Marshall nodded. “Yeah.”
“Where is she?”
He tried to shake his head, but it was getting harder and harder to move it. “I’m not delling. . . .”
“Tick-tock.”
“Sheeth at my plathe.”
“Is she there now?”
Another feeble nod.
“Where do you live?”
Marshall tried to form the words, but he was having a hard time getting them out. The man opened the van’s glove box, rooted around until he found the ownership and insurance papers.
“Is this up-to-date?” the man asked. “Groveland Street? Apartment 36A?”
Another nod.
“Good, that’s good. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Struggling with everything he had, Marshall said, “Other thyrinth.”
“There is no other syringe.”
Marshall started to make choking noises, leaned forward, put his head on the top of the steering wheel.
Another man approached the van on the passenger side.
“Did he tell you, Jack?” the second man asked.
“Yeah, he did. I know where Sarita is. How’s the hole coming, Bill?”
Bill Gaynor raised his dirty hands. “I’ve got three fucking blisters.”
Jack Sturgess, tipping his head in Marshall Kemper’s direction, said, “Don’t complain to him.”
FORTY-NINE
MRS. Selfridge came through for Barry Duckworth. An e-mail, which included phone numbers related to Sarita’s use of Mrs. Selfridge’s landline, dropped into his cell shortly after he left Derek Cutter’s place. He tapped on an already highlighted number, hopeful that whoever picked up would prove to be helpful.
He got lucky.
“Davidson House,” a woman said. “How may I connect you?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” he said, and headed straight there.
Shortly after he arrived, he was introduced to a Mrs. Delaney, who told him that yes, Sarita Gomez had worked for them, and no, she was not in today.
“I told all this to the other gentleman,” she said.
“What other gentleman?”
Mrs. Delaney pondered. “I don’t think he ever told me his name. But he said he was conducting an investigation.”
“What did he look like?”
The man Mrs. Delaney described could be David Harwood. It also could have been a number of other people.
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him about Mr. Kemper.”
“Who’s that?”
Mrs. Delaney told him, and provided an address to the detective, just as she had for the other man.
Duckworth left.
? ? ?
He parked out front of the Kemper address and went to the door. Banged on it good and hard.
“Mr. Kemper! Marshall Kemper! This is the police!”
Duckworth peered through the window, saw no life. He went around to the back of the house and looked through a window there, too. Except for maybe the bathroom, he could see into pretty much all of the apartment.
He went to the front door and banged again, just in case he was being ignored. “If there’s anyone inside, you need to open the door! My name’s Barry Duckworth and I’m a detective with the Promise Falls police!”
Nothing.
He marched over to the other door, banged just as loud. About half a minute later, an elderly woman slowly opened it. The moment he saw her, Duckworth was sorry for hitting the door with quite so much force.