Or words to that effect. She totally lost it.
“We’re fucked!” she said. “They’re going to find us!”
Cory had tried to laugh it off. Told this Carol Beakman that Dolly was just messin’ with her. But Dolly wouldn’t calm down, and Cory could see Carol had to be thinking, holy shit, what did I just walk into here?
So she started to leave.
Which didn’t strike Cory as a very good idea. Hold on, he said to her. There’s been a misunderstanding. Let’s try to sort this all out.
But Carol was already heading to her car. Cory was about to shoot out the door after her, but not before telling Dolly to get a grip, look what she’d done.
Dolly’d screamed, “It’s over! I can’t do this shit any more. I can’t, I can’t! You’re crazy, that’s what you are! You’re a fucking psycho!”
Cory found his hands around her neck. He pushed her up against the wall and squeezed with everything he had. She put up a good fight, he had to give her that. Kicked and flailed about, but he didn’t let go, didn’t stop squeezing. Not until she slid down the wall and crumpled into a heap on the floor.
But that still left Carol Beakman.
He charged out the door. Incredibly, she was still there. In her rush to escape, she’d fumbled with her purse and dropped it next to her car. She was on her knees, scrabbling through the contents that had spilled out, searching frantically for her keys.
Cory kicked her in the head.
That was all it took. Carol’s head bounced up against the fender of the Toyota, and then she slid to the ground. Cory picked her up and carried her into the barn. Secured her to the metal cot where he had performed his artistry on Brian Gaffney.
He had mixed feelings, at first, at discovering she was still alive. But he soon saw the advantages of keeping her that way. He actually thought maybe Dolly had been right, that the police could be getting close, and if that was the case, Carol Beakman might be useful.
Now, sitting in this tiny cabin in Cape Cod, he realized he should have taken more time to think through all the other aspects of his predicament.
His first thought had been to get rid of Dolly, and Carol Beakman’s car. He put Dolly into the trunk of the Toyota, then drove his van to within a mile of the industrial park where he intended to leave the car. After hoofing it back to the nearest bus line to downtown Promise Falls, he got a cab to drop him half a mile from Dolly’s place. More hoofing. Then he drove Carol’s car to the tile place, hours before they opened, and left the vehicle out back by a Dumpster.
He walked back to his own vehicle from there and, after doing some online research to check on the latest Pilford sightings, headed for Kingston.
And from there, the Cape.
But not before loading a thoroughly drugged Carol Beakman into the back of the van.
One did not abandon the mission because of a few setbacks.
So now here he was, in East Sandwich, only a few beach houses away from Jeremy and that bodyguard of his.
It was time to get this done.
Cory’s regret was that this time there would be less artistry. Craig Pierce’s fate had had a certain sense of style to it. And the work he’d mistakenly done on Brian Gaffney was to have been Jeremy Pilford’s fate. If they hadn’t fucked things up, it would have been a fitting punishment.
But Cory wasn’t going to leave that kind of mark on Jeremy now. First of all, it wasn’t feasible in these new circumstances. Not here, not with that old guy hanging around him. Besides, the whole tattoo thing seemed old hat now.
This time, he had to be pragmatic. Do what had to be done. Which was exactly why he’d brought along his father’s Smith & Wesson. That dandy little revolver he kept locked away next to his bed.
The funny thing was, it wasn’t as though Cory had taken it today. He’d used his father’s key to unlock the cabinet, then used the second key from the drawer to unlock the case, months ago.
He had just never needed it until now.
He could have done it on the beach when he ran into Pilford and his friend. He’d had the gun on him at the time. Could have whipped it out. Bam. Bam. All done. But right in the open, in broad daylight, it felt too risky. There was that older couple way up the beach. They might have heard the shots, despite the sound of the waves crashing into shore.
But now it was nearly dark.
The conditions were right.
Forty-seven
Duckworth gave Alastair Calder his card and returned to his car. He keyed the engine, but before driving away he called the station to confirm that they had the emailed photo of Cory Calder. Once that was done, he gave instructions that the entire state, not just Promise Falls, needed to be on the lookout for him. He provided a description of the van, and added a warning.
“Calder is wanted in connection with a homicide investigation. He should be approached with extreme caution. He may be armed.”
Then he raised another matter he had not forgotten about. “Calder’s also wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Carol Beakman.”
He put the phone away and put the car in drive. Next stop: Madeline Plimpton’s house.
He was confident in his assumption that Brian Gaffney had been mistaken for Jeremy Pilford, that the message inscribed on his back was meant for the so-called Big Baby. “Sean,” Duckworth believed, was supposed to be “Sian.”
Once he’d learned Pilford was staying at the Plimpton house in Promise Falls — that there had been a protest there since his arrival — he knew he was on to something. He could feel it. Not only was the young man at risk, so was everyone else in the Plimpton house.
And maybe not just from Cory Calder.
He did a quick check to confirm the address, and ten minutes later was pulling into the driveway. He’d been past this house many times, and he certainly knew Madeline Plimpton. He had met her frequently in the past twenty years, when she was still publisher of the now dead Promise Falls Standard, and her profile in the community was much higher than it was now. Duckworth wondered how one dealt with having presided over a mini-empire for decades, only to see it wither and die.
As he rang the bell, he noticed the plywood nailed over one of the two windows that flanked the door. He spotted part of a gray-haired head through the undamaged pane, and then the door opened.
Madeline Plimpton said, “Yes?” And then, “Oh.”
“Ms. Plimpton,” Duckworth said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Detective Barry—”
“I know exactly who you are,” she said, and reached out and took his hand in hers. “What a pleasure to see you, Detective Duckworth. What can I do for you?”
“It’s more like what I can do for you,” he said, and nodded at the boarded-up window. “You’ve had some trouble here.”
The woman smiled wryly. “Yes, we have. But surely they don’t have you on broken window duty.”
It was his turn to smile. “No. I understand you have a guest. Jeremy Pilford.”
She sighed. “I’m afraid my grand-nephew is not here right now.” A weariness infused her voice. “But come in and meet his mother, and her partner.”
He followed her into the house, through the kitchen, and out to the screened-in porch at the back of the house that was filled with generously cushioned wicker furniture. Madeline appeared surprised to find no one there.
“Oh,” she said. “Where have they gone?” She gazed out into the backyard, where a man and a woman were standing face to face, talking heatedly. “Oh, of course, they’re arguing.”
They went outside, crossed the yard. The couple cut their discussion short and turned to take in Madeline and this new visitor.