Far From True

Seven

It was the worst thing Detective Barry Duckworth had seen in twenty years of working for the Promise Falls police.

He’d arrived at the drive-in at 11:49 p.m., and by 12:31 a.m. he’d established a few basic facts.

The screen had come down about twenty minutes past eleven. It had fallen in the direction of the parking lot, and while scattered debris had hit several cars, two had been crushed. Although it was hard to look at it this way right now, later the thinking would be that it could have been a lot worse.

Given that the rear license plates were visible, Duckworth was able to determine quickly to whom the cars belonged. The first, an older-model Jaguar, had been registered to an Adam Chalmers, of Ridgewood Drive. The fire department had cleared off enough of the car to see that there were two casualties in the vehicle, a man and a woman.

Chalmers and his wife, Duckworth guessed.

The other car, a 2006 Mustang convertible, was registered jointly to a Floyd and Renata Gravelle, of Canterbury Street. One of the firefighters had told Duckworth that it looked like two kids in the car. A boy and a girl, probably late teens.

Both dead. Heads crushed.

There were some nonfatal injuries. Bud Hillier, forty-two — whose three children, aged eight, eleven, and thirteen, were in the car with him — was resting his hands atop the steering wheel of his Taurus station wagon when a chunk of screen came through the glass and lopped off two of his fingers. Dolores Whitney, thirty-seven — who’d brought her daughter, Chloe, eight, to a drive-in for the first and, undoubtedly, last time — suffered four broken ribs when a large piece of wood pierced her windshield.

Compared with the people in the two convertibles in the first row, these folks had gotten off easy.

Arriving shortly after Duckworth was Angus Carlson, who’d recently been moved up from uniformed officer to detective status because the department was short of investigators. Duckworth hadn’t yet made his mind up about Carlson. The younger cop struck him as inexperienced and, at times, a bit of a jerk.

When Carlson spotted Duckworth, he went straight to him, took a quick glance at the scene, and asked, “So what movie was playing? Crash? Flatliners? Good Luck Chuck?”

Duckworth gave him the addresses he’d gotten from running the plates on the two cars. “Go to those houses, find out who the people in those cars likely are. See if you can do it without cracking any jokes.”

Carlson frowned. “Just breaking the tension.”

“Go.”

Lionel Grayson, who’d been identified as the owner and manager, was being treated by one of the paramedics. He gave every indication of being in mild shock, and had nearly passed out before Duckworth’s arrival.

“Mr. Grayson,” Duckworth said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

The man looked at Duckworth vacantly. “It was our last night.”

“I understand that, yes.”

“It was supposed to be a... celebration. Sad, too, but a night to remember all the wonderful times people had here...”

He looked away. Duckworth could see the dried trail of tears that had run down the man’s cheeks.

“How many?” the man asked.

“How many what?”

“How many are dead?” Grayson asked.

“It appears to be four, sir, although until all the debris is removed, we won’t know for sure. Someone might have been walking along there, but it’s two cars that were crushed. Do you have any idea how this happened?”

“Marsden,” he said. “He should be here soon. I called him.”

“Who’s Marsden?”

“Clifford Marsden. He owns Marsden Demolition.”

“Are you saying he did this? He blew up the screen?”

“He must have,” Grayson said. “But he mixed up the dates, or set the timer wrong, or something.”

“You hired him to demolish the screen?”

Grayson nodded.

“When was that supposed to happen?”

“In another week,” he said. “A week from today. I didn’t even think he’d planted the explosives yet. That’s crazy. Why would he put in the explosives a week early? Run the risk of something like this happening?”

“That’s something we’ll want to ask him.”

“He’s on his way. I tried to call him, but my hands were shaking. I couldn’t handle my phone. Someone did it for me. But he’s coming. When I get my hands on him, I... I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Why was the screen supposed to come down so soon after closing?”

“It was part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The sale,” Grayson said. “To Mancini Homes.”

“All this land has been sold?”

Grayson nodded. “The sale goes through in a month. Before then, I have to clear the property. The screen, the outbuildings, the fencing, it all has to come down. It was one of the conditions.”

“What’s happening with the land?”

Grayson shrugged. “Houses, I guess. I don’t know. It never really mattered to me. I got just under three mil for the land. I was going to go to Florida. With my wife. Retire. But now... how do I... this is so horrible.”

Duckworth put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’re going to find out what happened, okay? You just hang in.”

He noticed a big car snaking its way between fire engines and ambulances, then pulling over near the fence. Duckworth wondered whether this was Clifford Marsden. But when the driver opened the door, and the interior light went on, he saw that it was someone else.

Randall Finley.

Getting out of the passenger side was another man the detective recognized. David Harwood. Former reporter, now assistant to the former mayor. Camera in hand.

Finley had already spotted something that interested him. A black SUV, covered in dust, some small chunks of the movie screen decorating the roof and the hood. The tailgate was wide open, and a woman was tending to two small girls — neither more than ten years old — sitting with their legs dangling over the bumper. One of the girls was crying and the woman was trying to console her.

Duckworth said, “Excuse me, Mr. Grayson. I’ll be right back.”

Finley walked quickly to the SUV, then slowed his approach when he was nearly there.

“How are you folks doing?” he asked.

The woman glanced around. “Hello?”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he said kindly. “Are these your daughters?”

The woman indicated the girl who was crying. “This is Kaylie. She’s my niece, and this is her friend Alicia. Are you with the police?”

“No, my name’s Randall Finley. What’s your name?”

The woman blinked. “Patricia. Patricia Henderson.”

“Hello, Patricia. And hi, Kaylie, Alicia. I need to know, are any of you hurt? Do you need any medical attention?”

“We’re... okay,” Patricia said. “Just shook-up. Some of that... stuff... fell onto the car. The girls — not just the girls, me too — were pretty scared when it happened.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Are you with the police?” Patricia asked again.

Finley shook his head. “No, like I said, my name is Randall Finley, and I’m just a concerned citizen, seeing if there’s anything I can do.”

“Didn’t you used to be mayor?” Patricia asked.

“That was some time ago,” he said, shrugging.

“Why is that man taking pictures?”

Finley glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Could be the press, or someone who has to document the accident scene. Just someone doing his job. I wouldn’t worry about him. Is there anything I can get for you? Do you need some water? I have some bottled water in the trunk of my car. From my own company. Or maybe there’s someone you’d like me to call for you?”

“I’m not married,” the woman said. “I’m waiting around, in case I have to talk to the police or anyone about insurance matters. But I really want to get the girls home. This is all so horrible.”

Finley nodded sympathetically, moved in closer, bent over to smile at the girls, making sure he positioned himself so David could get a good shot. “Maybe Kaylie’s or Alicia’s parents could come get the girls, and then only you’d have to stay here. Would you like me to call them for—”

“Randy!”

Finley whirled around. “Why, Barry, hello. What a terrible thing that’s happened here. What do you know so far?”

Duckworth approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Lending support,” he said. “Pitching in where I can.”

“And what about him?” Duckworth asked, pointing to David Harwood. “What support is he lending?”

“Him?”

“Why’s he taking pictures?”

“Perhaps he’s back working for the press. Out of Albany.”

“He’s working for you.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true, but I certainly wouldn’t stand in Mr. Harwood’s way if he wanted to sell some photos to the media.”

“What’s going on?” Patricia asked.

Finley turned around and flashed her his most sincere smile. “Just working out with the detective here how best to help you folks deal with this tragic situation. If you’ll give me just a moment.”

“I don’t really need your help anyway,” the woman said.

“Well, then, why are you wasting my valuable time?” Finley asked her, turning back to face Duckworth before he had a chance to see the woman’s jaw drop.

“Let’s go talk over here,” Finley said, attempting to lead Duckworth away. But the detective wouldn’t move.

“You’re in the way,” Duckworth said. “I’ve got dead people up there. Injured people. I want you out of here now.”

“Barry, come on,” Finley said. “I’m just doing my job, same as you.”

“If I have to ask you again, you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs.”

Finley met the man’s gaze. “I’m someone you’d rather have as a friend than an enemy.”

“I’d rather have you on the side of a milk carton,” Duckworth said, not breaking eye contact.

It was Finley who finally looked away. “David!” he called out, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear him. “The last thing we want to do is get underfoot. Detective Duckworth, thank you for your continued support. God bless you and all the wonderful emergency workers we have here in Promise Falls. I don’t know where we would be without you!”

And with that, he headed back to the Lincoln, taking David with him. Duckworth watched until they were both in the car and heading out of the lot.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!”

Duckworth turned. Lionel Grayson had tackled a man, brought him down to the ground, and was now pummeling him in the face.

Evidently the demolitions guy had arrived while Duckworth was dealing with Finley. Duckworth ran, grabbed Grayson around the shoulders, and pulled him off the other man.

“Mr. Grayson!” he shouted. “Mr. Grayson, please!”

But Grayson continued to struggle, pointing at the man on the ground. “You son of a bitch! You stupid bastard! You fucking—”

“I didn’t do it!” the man shouted back, struggling to his feet. “Listen to me! I’m telling you—”

“Over there!” Duckworth barked at Grayson. He made him stand alongside the ambulance and got himself between the two men. He asked the man who’d been taking the beating, “You Marsden?”

The man stood, brushed himself off. “I am.”

“You’re the one Mr. Grayson here hired to bring that screen down?”

Marsden nodded, caught his breath. “The screen, and everything else.”

“You think maybe you got a little ahead of yourself here?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” he said, pointing a finger at Grayson.

“What?” Duckworth asked.

“We haven’t done a damn thing here yet. Only thing we’ve done is signed the contract. My guys weren’t coming out for another few days. We haven’t planted so much as a firecracker out here.”