The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) by Linwood Barclay Page A

that number, and she answered on the third ring.
    “Did you get Trevor?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she said, sounding out of breath. “I woke him up. And then he called me back a few minutes ago to tell me he’s being asked to come into work.”
    “What? Finley called him in?”
    “I don’t know if it was him specifically, but he’s going in, on his day off—he had to come in.”
    It didn’t take long for me to put it together. If the water wasn’t drinkable, there’d be an increased demand for the bottled stuff from Finley’s uncontaminated spring. The son of a bitch was goingto use this crisis to make himself a small fortune. I wondered how much he’d hike the price. The opportunistic bastard could probably charge whatever he wanted once the shelves of all local grocery stores were cleared of every other brand of bottled water.
    As much as Randy’s exploitation of what was shaping up to be the biggest tragedy in the history of this town infuriated me, it wasn’t my problem. I had no doubt that trying to rip off the citizens of Promise Falls would backfire on him and very likely deep-six his hopes of getting the mayor’s job back.
    Maureen said, “You there?”
    “Yeah. Just thinking. How’s it going on the street?”
    “I feel like I’m doing collections on a paper route, banging on all these doors. I think I interrupted Stan and Gloria in the middle of you-know-what, and poor old Estelle probably thinks her nightie is long enough to hide her business, but she’s mistaken.” She paused, then said worriedly, “There’re a couple houses where I didn’t get any response at all.”
    I knew what she was thinking. “Maybe they’re away.”
    “I hope so. You know that old man who lives alone down on the corner?”
    “Which end?”
    “Going south. The house with the red shutters. He’s got that old Porsche in the garage. I think he used to be a dentist—his wife died years ago?”
    I knew the house. “Yes.”
    “I couldn’t raise anyone there.”
    “Just hit all the houses you can, and then maybe go back,” I said. “And I need another favor.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Find Amanda Croydon. She’s apparently out of town. She needs to be here. Maybe someone else is trying to track her down, but there’s so much going on I just don’t know. If you can find her, tell her to call me.”
    “On it. Anything else?”
    “All for now. If you hear anything, call.”
    The phone rang again before I could put it away. “Yes?”
    “Ottman’s already there,” Randall Finley said. “At the plant. He’s waiting for us.”
    “I don’t need you to be there,” I told him.
    “I’m trying to help you out here, Barry.”
    “I know exactly who you’re helping out.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    I put the phone back into my pocket.
    Coming into view ahead of me, hovering over the horizon like some massive unidentified flying object on stilts, was the Promise Falls water tower. That meant I was close to the water plant, a sprawling two-story cinder-block structure. It sat in the shadow of the tower, and was hidden by enough trees that the town’s administrators felt they didn’t need to spend an extra dime on making the building even remotely attractive.
    Beyond the water plant was a reservoir fed by various tributaries. The water was treated in the plant to make sure it was free of E. coli and other contaminants, then pumped high up into the tower. From there gravity did the rest, channeling water through a vast network of mains across Promise Falls.
    I sped down the driveway, parked near the main entrance, where three other cars were parked. There was a white Ford pickup, a blue Chevy Blazer, and a rusting, yellow Pinto that was a piece of crap even when it was brand-new back in the 1970s. I hadn’t thought there were still any of those on the road.
    As I got out from behind the wheel, I heard another car roaring into the lot. Finley’s Lincoln.
    I headed straight into the plant without waiting