Parting Shot

Thirty-five

Albert Gaffney lay awake most of the night wondering what he should do.

Should he call the police about Ron Frommer? It was possible Frommer was the one who’d kidnapped Brian and tattooed his back, but then again, was it likely? There was no strong evidence that he’d done it. Not that he didn’t have a motive for being angry with Brian. If Frommer knew Brian had been fooling around with his wife, Jessica, well, just about anyone might lose their cool in a situation like that.

But what he’d actually done to Brian — knocking him down and kicking him in the ribs — sounded more like what a guy would do to another guy who’d slept with his wife. Pure, straightforward violence. And in a way, you could almost excuse someone for that. Albert was certainly not going to forgive the man for beating up his son, but given the circumstances, well, you could kind of understand where he was coming from.

Really, though, would Frommer abduct Brian and drug him and tattoo something that made no apparent sense onto his back? But then again, someone had done it. And regardless of who it turned out to be, it still wasn’t likely to make any sense, Albert figured.

He considered his options. He could, in the morning, call that Duckworth guy and tell him what had happened to Brian when he went to visit Jessica Frommer. At least that way, Frommer would be on Duckworth’s radar. Let the police figure out whether he’d had anything to do with what happened to Brian during those two lost days.

The only problem was, Brian did not want his father to do that. He was worried that Ron Frommer, who gave every indication of having a short fuse, would hurt Jessica if the police were called. Not because he’d suspect her of calling them — although he might — but because he was the kind of guy who, when upset, lashed out at whoever was close at hand.

What to do what to do what to do?

The other option, the one that had been keeping Albert awake and staring at the ceiling, was to talk to Ron Frommer himself.

Confront the man. But not, you know, is a really confrontational way. Approach him in a semi-public place, ask him flat out whether he was the one who’d done that horrible thing to his son. Of course, he’d deny it either way, but if Albert got the sense he was lying, at that point, he’d go straight to Duckworth with his suspicions.

No matter how Brian felt.

The thing was, Monica was right. Albert did not like confrontations. Wasn’t that why he’d had so much trouble standing up to his own wife all these years? But this — this was different.

This was about his son.

This was about Brian.

By the time he got up the next morning, he had decided what he would do. He would, first of all, tell them he was not coming into the bank today. Albert Gaffney was the assistant manager of the Glens Falls branch of the Syracuse Savings and Loan, north of Promise Falls. An excruciatingly boring job in a mind-numbing office, it suited Albert Gaffney just fine. He went in every day, added up numbers, made sure things balanced, checked to make sure the pens at the tellers’ windows had ink in them.

In the twenty-two years he had worked there, they had had not one single holdup. They had discussed firing their security guard, an elderly man who slept through most of his shift, to save some money, but when the guard got wind of it, he offered to do the job for fifty per cent less.

“It’s better than sitting at home,” he said.

Albert believed that his time at the bank had taught him how to read people. So if this Frommer character lied to him, Albert figured he would know.

When Constance heard her husband booking off work, she assumed it was so that he could spend the day at the hospital with Brian, who had been readmitted to finish the tests he’d walked out on the day before, and to be treated for his bruises. That was, in fact, the reason Albert had given for not coming to work. But when Constance asked what time they were going to go over, Albert said he had some errands to run first.

“What errands?” she wanted to know.

“Just errands,” he said, and fled the house before a full-fledged interrogation was under way.

He drove to the address Brian had given him the day before for the Frommers. By seven thirty in the morning, he was parked on their street, a few houses down. Fifteen minutes later, a man Albert assumed was Ron Frommer came out of the house, got into a pickup truck, and backed it out of the driveway. Albert was able to make out the words “Frommer Renovations” on the door.

When the pickup moved up the street, Albert put his beige four-door sedan into drive and followed. Maybe, he thought, Frommer would stop someplace for coffee. That would be a good place to approach him, where there were lots of other people around. Frommer wasn’t going to try anything violent when there were plenty of witnesses.

Or so Albert hoped.

Albert was not what one would call skilled in self-defence. He had never taken karate or judo classes. In school, he did not go for organized sports. In college, he was not on the football team.

Sometimes he played golf.

Frommer drove past several places where he could have bought coffee. A Dunkin Donuts, a McDonald’s, a couple of local diners.

So much for that idea.

His route was taking him out of town. Albert was thinking maybe he should have googled Ron Frommer before heading out this morning. Maybe he could have found out where he worked. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t thought this through as well as he could have.

About five miles out of Promise Falls, along a wooded stretch of highway, Frommer put on his blinker and turned into a driveway. As far as Albert could tell, there was nothing to turn into there.

Just woods.

The truck disappeared down a gravel road.

Albert slowed the car and pulled over to the shoulder. Where had Frommer gone? Should he follow?

He sat there, listening to the engine idle. Gripped the steering wheel tightly. Felt sweat soaking his shirt under his arms.

“All I want to do is talk to him,” he said to himself. “That’s all. Just a conversation.”

Slowly, he turned off the road and inched his way down the driveway, tires crunching gravel along the way. A few yards and the driveway turned into a clearing in the woods. In front of him stood an A-frame chalet-style house. Set up out front of it were a couple of sawhorses and a work table.

Albert stopped the car a few feet behind the pickup. The tailgate was already down, revealing various tools and lengths of lumber. Frommer, wearing a ball cap with a long visor, was already out of the truck, strapping on a work belt. When he saw Albert’s car approach, he stopped what he was doing and took off the hat.

Albert stopped the car, turned off the engine, and slowly got out.

“Hello,” Frommer said.

“Um, hello, how are you?” Albert said, taking a few steps forward, near the back of the pickup.

“Can I help ya?” Frommer said, smiling.

“You... you’re Ron? Ron Frommer?”

“I am indeed,” he said.

“You do renovations?”

He nodded agreeably. “Doing some work here on the Cunninghams’ place while they’re in Europe. Were you looking for them, or for me?’

“I was... I guess I was looking for you?”

“What’s the name?”

“Albert. My name is Albert.”

“Pleased to meet you, Albert.” Frommer extended a hand and Albert shook it. The man had a firm grip. Albert was betting his own hand felt soft in Ron’s callused one. “So again, what can I do for you?”

“I’m, uh, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“You know... well, you’ve met my son.”

Ron nodded. “Okay. What’s your son’s name?”

“Brian.” Albert watched the man’s face.

“Brian?” Ron said. “Brian who?”

“Brian Gaffney.”

Ron’s smile began to fade. “You say Brian Gaffney is your son?”

Albert nodded nervously. “I believe you met him yesterday.”

Ron put the hat back on his head. “Mister, you should turn your car around and go.”

“You... you hurt him pretty bad. He’s back in the hospital.”

“Like I said, you should go.”

Albert was tempted to take a step back, but he held his ground. “I know... I mean, I can sort of understand why you did that. Finding out your wife, finding out that she had been seeing my son, I can see why a man might lose his temper over something like that.”

Ron Frommer moved his tongue around in his mouth, poking out his left cheek, then his right.

“I’m not saying that was the right thing to do. I think you should be charged for that, I do, but all I’m saying is I understand. But that’s not what I want to ask you about.”

“Really. And what would you like to ask me about?”

“I want to know about the other thing you did to him. I want to know why you did that.”

This was how Albert had practiced saying it, in his head, as he lay in bed. Act like he already knew Frommer had done it.

See if that shook him up.

He searched the man’s face, looking for any clue.

Ron Frommer said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Albert swallowed. “I think you know.”

Frommer studied him for another three seconds, then grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Yes?” Albert said hopefully.

“I know that only a pussy sends his daddy to settle scores.”

Albert blinked. “That’s... that’s not the issue at all. My son is not... he’s not that. He’s a good boy.”

“A boy? A good boy?” Ron chuckled. “What is he, twelve years old?”

“Don’t say that. That’s uncalled for.”

“So little Brian sends his daddy to have a word with me. I mean, if that doesn’t prove he’s a pussy, what would? Why didn’t his mommy come too? Did she stay home to read him a story?”

“I’m going to tell the police about you,” Albert said, his voice starting to shake.

“Make sure you call the pussy police,” Frommer said. “I think they could help you. You seem pretty much like a pussy, too. Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

He turned his back and started walking toward the house.

Albert stood there, feeling the shame and humiliation wash over him like hot tar.

He’d gone face to face with this man, hoping for some sort of insight, a clue that would lead him to decide, one way or another, whether this man had anything to do with what happened to Brian.

He didn’t know any more now than he had before he got out of the car. At least, not about Ron Frommer. But he believed he had gained some insight into himself.

He was a little man.

He was a small man.

He was a pussy.

Frommer reached the sawhorses, stopped. “Fuck, where’s my saw?”

Albert glanced into the back of the pickup. There were two different power saws, a ladder, a crowbar, about twenty lengths of two-by-four.

Frommer was striding back toward the truck.

“You still here, Pussy Man?”

When Albert played this moment over and over in his mind later, he would recall that everything seemed to go red. It was as though blood had washed over his eyes.

But it wasn’t blood. It was some rage-induced optical illusion.

He had no memory of forming intent. He didn’t think to himself, “Hey, I should pick up that crowbar and swing it into that son of a bitch’s head and beat the living shit out of him with it.”

He didn’t think that.

He just did it.

He grabbed hold of the iron bar, and as Frommer rounded the end of the pickup, Albert swung with everything he had.

Frommer only had enough time to say “What the—” before the bar connected with his temple.

There was the sound of skull cracking.

Frommer dropped instantly, but before he hit the ground, his head bounced off the edge of the tailgate.

He lay there on the gravel driveway, not moving, blood streaming from his head.

Albert began to giggle uncontrollably.