“I’ll remember. That leaves two more.”
“Okay. Uh, how about jobs? I want to bring jobs to Promise Falls.”
“That’s kind of like the first one. Wanting to help people out.”
“Oh yeah. It is kind of the same. How about Five Mountains?”
David flinched on the inside. He had bad memories of the amusement park. It was where his wife had gone missing five years ago. Ultimately, she was found, but there was no happy ending.
“What about Five Mountains?”
“I want it reopened,” Finley said. “I want to shame the corporate owners into canceling their plans to close it. And failing that, I want someone else to come in and take it over. That drew plenty of dollars to the town. It should stay open.”
“What do you think the odds are they’ll change their mind?”
“Oh, zero,” Finley said. “Not a chance. Already tried talking to Gloria Fenwick.” I remembered her. Finley grinned. “Even offered her a small inducement, but she declined.”
“Jesus, a bribe?”
Finley sighed. “David, please. Anyway, that should be in my platform.”
“But if there’s nothing you can do about it, then...”
“Just because it can’t be done doesn’t mean I can’t tell the people I want it to be done,” he said. “You hear Amanda even raising a peep about this?”
Amanda Croydon, the current mayor, who, based on anything David had heard, was planning to run again.
“I can nail her for not even trying,” he said.
“When you’re making a speech, I’d avoid phrases like ‘nail her.’”
Another grin. “So what’s that leave us? What are we down to? One reason left for why I want to be mayor.” He pursed his lips. He seemed to be struggling with this one.
“Maybe the real reason is harder to acknowledge publicly,” David said.
His eyes went to slits. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I’m just saying that maybe some of your motivations for running have less to do with the public good and more to do with personal gain.”
“What are you getting at, David?”
David put his palms a few feet apart on the picnic table, as though bracing himself. “What was your meeting with Frank Mancini about?”
“Why you asking?”
“Because you wouldn’t tell me. I’m supposed to be working for you, but you keep things from me.”
“You don’t have to know everything. You only need to know what I want you to know.”
“Suppose I’m asked? You’ve put me in the role of your spokesperson. If someone wants to know why you’ve been meeting with Mancini, what should I say?”
“Who’s going to ask?”
“I am. Right now.”
“He’s a developer. He’s the kind of guy who brings jobs and money to the table. Of course I’m going to talk to a guy like that.”
“Whose money and whose table?” David asked.
Finley’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to get off your chest?”
“I’m just saying, Mancini’s bought the land where four people died last night. That property, for a whole slew of reasons, is going to be under the microscope for some time. That’s something you need to think about.”
“You seem to be suggesting a policy of openness and transparency. That be right, David?”
“Always better to get ahead of bad news,” David said. “That way you’re able to handle it when it breaks. So, yeah, openness might be one of your five. How you want to run an open and aboveboard city hall.”
Finley nodded slowly. “So, is that the policy you’ve adopted with your boy? Ethan, right?”
“What?”
“So you’ve told him, then?”
David wondered what the hell his nine-year-old son had to do with any of this. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve told Ethan about his mother. About Jan.”
“What about Jan?”
“That she wasn’t all she claimed to be. A lot of her story never became public. But you hear things. It was a tragic story, no doubt about it. But some might say Jan brought that on herself. Killed by the man whose hand she cut off. Came here to live a normal life, married a regular guy like you. But she was hiding out, wasn’t she? Thing is, the past has a way of catching up with you. Oh, yes, the story got around. I heard bits and pieces. I have to say, her exploits make me look like an amateur.”
“You’re a piece of work.”
“I’m just trying to make a point that we all keep some facts back. Maybe it was all for the good that Ethan’s mother met a sudden end. That way there were never charges, no trial. A couple of stories, and then it all went away.”
“My son was four years old when his mother died,” David said. “Of course I didn’t tell him the whole story then.”
“And since? What is he now? Nine, ten years old?”
“Eventually, I’ll fill him in.”
Finley leaned toward David. “If it would help in any way, I could tell him.”
“Don’t go there, Randy.”
“It’d be my way of lessening the burden for you.” He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “It’s what I do.”
David felt his face warming with rage.
“You know, I like this,” Finley said. “We have a good back-and-forth, a nice rapport. We can get things out in the open. You can say what’s on your mind, and I can say what’s on my mind. I think that bodes well for moving forward. Anyway, here’s number five: Cut the bullshit. That’s what I’m about. I want to cut the bullshit. I think the voters will like that.”
Finley got up and headed back into the office, leaving David to dig his fingernails into the top of the picnic table.
Twenty-six
After his meeting with Olivia Fisher’s father, Barry Duckworth stopped at a Burger King to grab some lunch.
He went in telling himself he would order one of their salads. They had a straight garden salad, then a couple with chicken in them. Plus some wraps with lots of lettuce, and more chicken, stuffed into them. Any of those would be better than his usual order: a Whopper with a side order of fries.
He needed to curb that kind of eating. Change his habits. Get some of that fat off his belly. Didn’t the doctors say that was the worst kind of fat? That stuff that gathered at your waist? But then, what the hell other kind of fat was there? Did you see people walking around with big fat thighs and thick arms and washboard stomachs?
Duckworth could have done the drive-through, but he didn’t want to eat in the car. He’d end up with ketchup and mustard on his shirt. So he parked the unmarked cruiser, went inside, approached the counter, and said, “I’ll have a Whopper and a small order of fries.” Paused. “With a Diet Coke.”
“Cheese on the Whopper?” the girl behind the counter asked.
“Sure,” he said.
Once he had his tray, sat down, and unwrapped his burger, he got out his phone and entered a number.
Six rings, then: “You’ve reached Chief Rhonda Finderman. Please leave a message at the beep.”
“It’s Barry. There’s something I think we need to go public about, but I gotta bounce it off you first. Call me when you get a chance.”
He set the phone down and shoved four french fries into his mouth before attacking the burger. He felt a small measure of guilt with every bite. When he was done, he felt something more than that.
A slight pain in his side. He stood up, kept one hand on the table to steady himself. He figured it was indigestion, or maybe it was something muscular. Sitting all the time, either in the car or at his desk, even here at Burger King.
Duckworth took a few deep breaths.
“You okay?”
A young woman clearing off tables was looking at him with concern.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m good. Thank you.”