Parting Shot

Fifty-seven

Barry Duckworth was in a deep sleep when the cell phone on his bedside table began to buzz. If Maureen hadn’t given him a shove on the shoulder, he might have slept right through it.

“Barry,” she said. “Barry!”

He opened his eyes, reached for the phone and knocked it to the floor. “Shit,” he said. He leaned down, his hand hunting in the dark for the device as it continued to buzz. He found it, hit the button to accept the call and put the phone to his ear without seeing who it was.

“Duckworth,” he said as Maureen switched on the lamp on her side of the bed.

“Barry, it’s Cal Weaver.”

“Jesus, Cal.” Duckworth threw back the covers and planted his feet on the floor. “What’s happening?”

“A lot. Your guy Calder was here. We met him on the beach today.”

“Tell me everything.”

Weaver brought him up to speed, ending with the fire at Madeline Plimpton’s beach house, how it was designed to force them out of the house so they could be shot.

“I knew you were there,” Duckworth said. “I knew Jeremy Pilford had been staying with her. Went there today, met her and the boy’s mother and her boyfriend. Warned them about Calder. He torched the beach house?”

Weaver said no, that he’d caught a man named Gregor Kiln.

“I’ll check into him,” Duckworth said.

“I don’t think this is related to the social-media outrage surrounding Jeremy,” Weaver said. “This Kiln has the ring of a professional about him.”

“I’m on it.”

“And I need another favor. A number I want you to check. It’s probably a burner, not traceable.”

Duckworth reached for the pad and pen he always kept by the bed, tucked the phone between head and shoulder, and said, “Fire away.”

Cal gave him the number.

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“And assuming it is a burner, and we can’t attach a name to the phone, I’ve got something I want to try.”

Cal told Duckworth what he wanted to do, and what he thought he might need from Duckworth to make it happen.

“And I need you to talk to the locals here,” he added, “and have them keep a lid on things. At least for twelve hours.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Nothing gets out about what happened here beyond the fire.”

“I said I’d do my best,” Duckworth said. “And I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“We’ve got a missing-woman case. Carol Beakman. I think her disappearance is linked to this Calder character.”

Maureen suddenly sat up in bed.

“What do you think’s happened to her?” Weaver asked.

“I’m fearing the worst.”

“Shoot me a picture. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Will do.”

“Local cops are here,” Weaver said. “Gotta go. I’ll get the name of whoever’s in charge and text it to you.”

“Good. How’s the kid?”

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s okay,” Weaver said. “Can’t get into it now, but there’s something not right there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Later.”

“Okay. And when the dust settles, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“Later,” Duckworth said. He ended the call, set the phone down and stood up out of bed.

“Carol?” Maureen said.

“Nothing,” he said. “But Cal encountered Calder in Cape Cod. We know he’s been there, and still might be. I need to get on to the Mass state police.”

Duckworth reached for his pants, pulled them on, then went to the closet for a fresh shirt.

“What’s the thing you want to talk to him about?” Maureen asked.

Duckworth found a white shirt that still had a cleaning tag attached and removed it from the hanger. “Career advice,” he said.