Read Online Fear the Worst: A Thriller by Linwood Barclay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linwood Barclay
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opened them, watched the trees go by as we headed north up the winding two-lane Derby Milford Road, about a twenty-minute drive.
“Where’s the car now?” I pictured a brilliantly lit forensics lab the size of an airplane hangar, the car being gone over for clues by technicians in hazmat suits.
“In a local compound, where they take cars they’ve towed for parking illegally, that kind of thing. They ran the plate, which I’d had flagged in the system. That’s when they called me. Look, I haven’t even seen the car yet. You know the car, you can tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary about it.”
“Sure,” I said.
Everything about this was out of the ordinary. My daughter was missing. At times over the last couple of weeks, I’d tried to find comfort in the thought that while Syd might have run off, that didn’t have to mean harm had come to her.
The first couple of days she was gone, I told myself it was about the fight we’d had. My questioning her about the Versace sunglasses, asking about the receipt. That had pissed Syd off big-time, and I could imagine her wanting to punish me for thinking she might have stolen them.
But as the days went on, it seemed unlikely that that argument had sparked her disappearance. Then I tried to tell myself that it was something else that had made her angry enough to run away. Something I’d done, or maybe Susanne.
Maybe she was punishing both of us, I imagined. For splitting up. For ruining what had been, for a long time, a pretty decent little family. For making her shunt back and forth between houses for five years, for having to move now, at seventeen, into Bob’s house. Sure, it was a bigger place, he had more money, could give her things I couldn’t, but maybe all this change was unsettling, messing her up.
Now, though, there were more logistical questions. I wasn’t just asking myself why she was gone. I was asking myself how. If she didn’t have wheels, how had she gotten to wherever she’d gone? Why leave the car behind?
I couldn’t think of any reasons that made me feel optimistic.
Jennings hung a left at the end of Derby Milford Road, went another couple of miles, straight past the Wal-Mart where I presumed Syd’s silver Civic had been found, then pulled off onto a gravel lot where a couple of tow trucks were parked outside a low cinder-block building that adjoined a fenced-in compound full of cars.
Jennings found a badge in her purse and flashed it at someone in the office window. The metal gate that led into the compound buzzed; then Jennings went through and beckoned me to follow her.
The Civic was tucked in between a GMC Yukon and a Toyota Celica from the 1980s. Syd’s car looked the same as the last time I’d seen it, yet it was somehow different. It wasn’t just Syd’s car now. There was something ominous about it, as though it was sentient, knew things it didn’t want to tell us.
“Don’t touch it,” Jennings said. “Don’t touch anything. In fact, put your hands in your pockets.”
I did as I was told. Jennings set her purse down on the hood of the Celica and took out a pair of surgical-type gloves. She pulled them on, giving them a good snap at the wrist.
I walked slowly around the car, peering into the windows. Sydney was proud of this little car, and kept it tidy. Unlike Jennings’s vehicle, there were no discarded Big Mac boxes or Dunkin’ Donuts cups.
“Do you have the keys?” I asked.
“No,” Jennings said. “But the car was found unlocked.”
She was walking around it in a crouched position, looking at it in a trained, professional way. She seemed to be studying the handle on the driver’s door.
“What?” I asked from the other side of the car.
She held up one gloved hand, index finger pointed up, as if to say, “Give me a sec.”
I came around the back of the car, stood there and watched as she gingerly opened the door with one finger, slipping it under the handle and lifting very
“Where’s the car now?” I pictured a brilliantly lit forensics lab the size of an airplane hangar, the car being gone over for clues by technicians in hazmat suits.
“In a local compound, where they take cars they’ve towed for parking illegally, that kind of thing. They ran the plate, which I’d had flagged in the system. That’s when they called me. Look, I haven’t even seen the car yet. You know the car, you can tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary about it.”
“Sure,” I said.
Everything about this was out of the ordinary. My daughter was missing. At times over the last couple of weeks, I’d tried to find comfort in the thought that while Syd might have run off, that didn’t have to mean harm had come to her.
The first couple of days she was gone, I told myself it was about the fight we’d had. My questioning her about the Versace sunglasses, asking about the receipt. That had pissed Syd off big-time, and I could imagine her wanting to punish me for thinking she might have stolen them.
But as the days went on, it seemed unlikely that that argument had sparked her disappearance. Then I tried to tell myself that it was something else that had made her angry enough to run away. Something I’d done, or maybe Susanne.
Maybe she was punishing both of us, I imagined. For splitting up. For ruining what had been, for a long time, a pretty decent little family. For making her shunt back and forth between houses for five years, for having to move now, at seventeen, into Bob’s house. Sure, it was a bigger place, he had more money, could give her things I couldn’t, but maybe all this change was unsettling, messing her up.
Now, though, there were more logistical questions. I wasn’t just asking myself why she was gone. I was asking myself how. If she didn’t have wheels, how had she gotten to wherever she’d gone? Why leave the car behind?
I couldn’t think of any reasons that made me feel optimistic.
Jennings hung a left at the end of Derby Milford Road, went another couple of miles, straight past the Wal-Mart where I presumed Syd’s silver Civic had been found, then pulled off onto a gravel lot where a couple of tow trucks were parked outside a low cinder-block building that adjoined a fenced-in compound full of cars.
Jennings found a badge in her purse and flashed it at someone in the office window. The metal gate that led into the compound buzzed; then Jennings went through and beckoned me to follow her.
The Civic was tucked in between a GMC Yukon and a Toyota Celica from the 1980s. Syd’s car looked the same as the last time I’d seen it, yet it was somehow different. It wasn’t just Syd’s car now. There was something ominous about it, as though it was sentient, knew things it didn’t want to tell us.
“Don’t touch it,” Jennings said. “Don’t touch anything. In fact, put your hands in your pockets.”
I did as I was told. Jennings set her purse down on the hood of the Celica and took out a pair of surgical-type gloves. She pulled them on, giving them a good snap at the wrist.
I walked slowly around the car, peering into the windows. Sydney was proud of this little car, and kept it tidy. Unlike Jennings’s vehicle, there were no discarded Big Mac boxes or Dunkin’ Donuts cups.
“Do you have the keys?” I asked.
“No,” Jennings said. “But the car was found unlocked.”
She was walking around it in a crouched position, looking at it in a trained, professional way. She seemed to be studying the handle on the driver’s door.
“What?” I asked from the other side of the car.
She held up one gloved hand, index finger pointed up, as if to say, “Give me a sec.”
I came around the back of the car, stood there and watched as she gingerly opened the door with one finger, slipping it under the handle and lifting very
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