Broken Promise: A Thriller

Fifty-seven

Acting Promise Falls detective Angus Carlson’s first day out of uniform wasn’t going to be anything to brag about to his wife when he took her out for dinner that evening. Barry Duckworth had left him a note of things he wanted him to follow up on.

First up, the squirrels.

Carlson figured this was Duckworth’s way of getting even. Okay, so maybe he cracked a couple of stupid jokes. Just trying to break the tension was all. Where was the harm in that? Carlson had always been looking for ways to lighten the mood. What had his mother always said? Turn up the corners of your mouth.

But Duckworth’s list of to-dos didn’t end with squirrels. He wanted Carlson to head back out to Thackeray to interview three young women who’d been attacked, presumably by some guy named Mason Helt, who’d been shot in the head by campus security chief Clive Duncomb.

Finally, Duckworth wanted Carlson to go back out to Five Mountains and learn more about those three naked mannequins — “You’ll Be Sorry” painted across their chests — that had gone for a spin on the Ferris wheel.

Duckworth had added some cryptic notes about the number 23. How that number was a common element in all three incidents. How it might mean something.

“Hmm,” Carlson had said under his breath as he read the detective’s notes. Duckworth wanted him to be on the alert for any recurrence of that number.

He began his day at the park where the squirrels had been found. Walked carefully through the adjoining wooded area. Talked to anyone who happened to pass by, asked whether they’d noticed anything odd the night before last. Knocked on the doors of nearby houses to ask the same.

Came up with a big fat zero.

At one door, an elderly man grinned and said, “This case’ll be a tough nut to crack!”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that funny.

He didn’t do much better at Thackeray. None of the women he wanted to interview was available. Two had gone home for a couple of days. The third, who apparently was going to be spending the summer at the college taking extra courses, couldn’t be found. Another student who lived across the hall from her said she could be at the library, or in town doing some shopping, or just out for a long walk.

Carlson wasn’t going to waste his entire day out there.

Next stop: Five Mountains.

He went straight to the administration offices, where he found Fenwick. According to Duckworth’s exhaustive note, she was going to draw up a list of people who had operated the Ferris wheel during the months the park was open. While it was possible anyone with some mechanical smarts might have been able to get the ride going, someone who’d actually run the thing would have an edge.

“I’m still freaked out about this,” Fenwick said, sitting at her computer, tapping away.

“Sure,” Carlson said. “That’s totally understandable, you being here alone and all, late at night.”

“I thought I was going to have a list for you this afternoon, but I haven’t heard from our former facilities supervisor. He’d know who ran each ride, but of course, head office fired him, and it’s not like he’s in any rush to do me a favor. If I don’t hear from him by the end of today I’ll call him. Weren’t you in uniform last night?”

“I was,” he said.

“You look pretty good out of uniform,” Gloria Fenwick said, smiling.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

“I think maybe it came out wrong.”

“I think it came out just right,” Carlson said.

He asked her about how someone would gain access to the park. The admin offices were behind a locked gate, and a fence ran around the perimeter of the property. Who had keys? he wanted to know.

Fenwick explained that once most of the Five Mountains staff had been fired, the locks were changed. Fenwick and a couple of other office staff who were tasked with winding the place down had keys, as did the security firm that checked on the property several times a day. That was it.

“You seem to be taking this very seriously,” she said. “I mean, as unsettling as it was, there was no real damage done.”

“Detective Duckworth takes everything very seriously,” Carlson said.

He thanked her, said good-bye, and checked out the Ferris wheel first. In the light of day, things looked a lot less sinister. Of course, the mannequins had been taken away, which helped. There was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had gone on here the night before.

Carlson left the Ferris wheel and headed for the closest fence that surrounded the property. If whoever brought in the mannequins didn’t have a key, and there was no indication the locks had been broken or tampered with, the fence had to have been breached somewhere.

It was a wire fence, about nine feet tall. A single strand of barbed wire ran along the top of it to discourage intruders. Not that effective, but then again, Five Mountains probably didn’t want to run several strands. They wouldn’t want to be sending off a prison vibe.

Rides and exhibits backed up to the fence, where the grass grew taller and was untended. Carlson figured someone could put a ladder up against the fence. It was rigid enough. Drag three mannequins up, toss them over. But then the intruder would have to get over, too.

A lot of work.

The park property, a rough rectangle, was about fifteen acres, so it was a long, slow trek along the fence. Carlson didn’t notice anything until he’d rounded the second corner.

The fence had been cut.

Someone would have needed something like bolt cutters, he figured. The chain link had been cut along a post, starting at ground level and going up about five feet. Several links had also been severed along the bottom, creating a simple doorway.

The grass, Carlson noted, was matted down on both sides of the fence. About twenty yards beyond it was a two-lane road that ran along the back of the amusement park property.

He could see where someone had worn down a path in the grass between the fence and the road. He thought about what must have been involved. Someone drives up in a truck or van, has to unload three mannequins. Probably has to drag them one at a time to the fence, push them through. Maybe then he moves or hides the truck, returns, carries the mannequins one by one to the Ferris wheel, because that’s going to take some time.

Gets the three dummies — which probably had their message painted on them before being brought out here — positioned into one of the carriages. Which, Duckworth had noted, was numbered 23.

As if that really mattered.

The Ferris wheel gets turned on, and the intruder takes off. Gets through the opening in the fence, hops behind the wheel of his truck or van, and speeds away.

Carlson wondered why anyone would go to that much trouble. It was backbreaking work. This didn’t strike him as something a few teenagers would do for a lark.

This was someone who really wanted to send a message.

Who was it meant for? Why did the person sending it feel aggrieved? And if this was a real threat, what was coming next?

“Beats me,” Angus Carlson said to himself.