by Harlan Coben
“Thank you, Ash.”
Ash could feel the pull of the man, his magnetism. He would have never bought fully into it, of course, but that didn’t mean Ash couldn’t see what was happening and even be moved by it. We all have our talents. Some run faster or are stronger or better at math than others. We watch athletes because they awe us with what they can do with a ball or puck or whatever. This man, Casper Vartage, likewise had skills. Mad skills. You could get lost in those skills, hypnotized by them, especially if you were the kind who didn’t focus or were of a certain mind frame.
Ash was not one of those kind.
Ash was focused, and right now he was curious and upset. He worked by anonymity. There were passwords and anonymous communications via secure websites and apps. He never came face-to-face with those who employed him. Never.
Dee Dee knew that. She knew the dangers too.
He let go of the old man’s hand and glared at Dee Dee. The glare was asking why she brought him here, and her response, a rather serene smile, seemed to indicate that he should have patience.
The two sobbing women left the room, and the two guards, including the bastard who had hit him with the baton, entered. Once again, Ash didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like the smug look on Guard One’s face.
The old man struggled to speak, but he managed to say, “Forever be the Shining Truth.”
The others in the room chimed back, “Forever be the Shining Truth.”
Ritual. Ash hated mindless ritual.
“Go,” the old man said to Ash. “The Truth will always prevail.”
The rest of the room’s inhabitants intoned, “The Truth will always prevail.”
The guard smirked at Ash, then he let his eyes crawl all over Dee Dee, then he wiggled his eyebrows at Ash. Ash showed nothing. He glanced at Dee Dee. She knew.
It was starting to make some sense now.
One of the brothers handed Ash a key fob. “A new car is waiting for you. Untraceable.”
Ash took the key. First chance he got, he’d stop on the road and switch the license plate with a similar car, just to be on the safe side. When they crossed state lines, he’d probably switch it yet again.
“We trust you can take care of this,” the other brother said.
Ash said nothing and started toward the door. The guard smirked at him the whole time. The guard was still smirking when Ash reached him, turned, and faced him. The guard was still smirking when Ash, who had palmed the knife, slashed the blade across the guard’s throat.
Ash didn’t step back. He let the blood from the carotid artery spray his face. He didn’t flinch. He waited for the surprised gasps. They came quickly.
Ash stepped to the other guard, still looking on in shock, and snatched his weapon away from him.
The first guard, the one with the sliced carotid artery, fell to the floor, trying in vain to keep the blood from gushing out of him. It looked as though he were strangling himself. The sounds coming from him were primitive, guttural.
No one moved. No one spoke. They all just watched the guard writhe and kick out until his convulsions slowed and then stopped.
The two Vartage brothers looked stunned. So too the surviving guard. Dee Dee had that same smile on her face. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was the knowing look on the Truth’s face.
Had he known what Ash was about to do?
The Truth gave Ash a half nod as though to say, Message received.
For Ash, this was simple. The guard had hurt him, ergo the guard paid a price. You punch me, I punch you back way harder. Massive retaliation. Massive deterrent.
This was also a message to those remaining in the room. If you mess with me, I’ll mess with you even worse. Ash would do the job he was hired to do. He would get paid for it, and then it would be over. There would be no benefit in trying to cross him.
In fact, crossing him would be a big mistake.
Ash looked toward the brothers. “I assume you have people who can clean this up?”
They both nodded.
Dee Dee handed him a towel to wipe the blood off his face. He did so quickly.
“We can show ourselves out,” Ash said.
Ash and Dee Dee walked down the back path toward the entrance gate. An Acura RDX was waiting for them. He opened the passenger door for Dee Dee. As he did, he looked up into the distance and saw Mother Adiona on the top of the hill. She gazed down at him, and even from this distance, he could see the pleading in her eyes.
She shook her head in an ominous fashion.
He did nothing.
Ash circled around and got behind the wheel. He drove them back down the tree-lined road, watching the gates of Truth Haven grow smaller in the rearview mirror. He turned onto the main road and when they hit the first traffic light, he took out the note from Mother Adiona, opened it, and read it for the first time:
DON’T KILL HIM. PLEASE.
All in caps and block letters. Then in cursive underneath:
Don’t show this message to anyone, not even her. You have no idea what’s really going on.
“What’s that?” Dee Dee asked.
He handed her the note. “Mother Adiona slipped this to me before she left my room.”
Dee Dee read it.
“What does she mean by ‘You have no idea what’s really going on’?” Ash asked.
“No clue,” Dee Dee said. “But I’m glad you trust me.”
“I trust you more than I trust her.”
“My sneaking you that knife probably helped.”
“It didn’t hurt,” Ash said. “Did you know I’d kill him?”
“Massive retaliation. Massive deterrent.”
“Were you worried about how your leaders would react?”
“The Truth will always provide.”
“And killing that guard was the truth?”
She looked out the window. “He’s dying. You know that, right?”
“The Truth, you mean?”
Dee Dee smiled. “The Truth cannot die. But yes, the current embodiment.”
“Does his death have anything to do with why I was hired?”
“Does it matter?”
Ash thought about it. “No, not really.”
She sat back and hugged her knees to her chest.
“What do you make of Mother Adiona’s note?” he asked.
Dee Dee started playing with a too-long strand of hair she’d missed during her bathroom cut. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to tell the Truth?” He heard the funny way it sounded—the play on words that is the man’s moniker—even as he said it. “I mean, are you going to tell—?”
“Yeah, I know what you meant.”
“Well? Are you going to tell?”
Dee Dee thought about it. “Not right now. Right now, I want us to concentrate on doing our job.”
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
When Simon got back to the ICU, he was surprised to see Detective Isaac Fagbenle waiting for him. For a second, maybe two, hope filled his chest—had he found Paige?—but the expression on Fagbenle’s face indicated that this wasn’t going to be good news. The hope fled even faster than it came, replaced by whatever the opposite is.
Despair? Worry?
“It’s not about Paige,” Fagbenle said.
“What then?”
Simon glanced over the detective’s shoulder to where Sam sat bedside of Ingrid. Nothing new there, so he turned his attention back to Fagbenle.
“It’s about Luther Ritz.”
The man who shot his wife. “What about him?”
“He’s out.”
“What?”
“On bail. Rocco posted a bond for him.”
“Luther wasn’t remanded to trial?”
“Presumption of innocence, Eighth Amendment. You know, like we still do in America?”
“He’s free?” Simon let loose a breath. “You think that puts Ingrid in any danger?”
“Not rea
lly. The hospital has pretty good security.”
A nurse pushed past them, giving them an annoyed glance because they were somewhat blocking the entrance. The two men moved to the side.
“The thing is,” Fagbenle said, “the case against Luther isn’t a slam dunk.”
“How’s that?”
“He claims you shot him first.”
“Me?”
“You, your wife, one of you two.”
“Didn’t you do a residue test on him?”
“Yes. He claims two things. One, he was shooting practice shots, nothing to do with you. And two, if you don’t buy that, he fired back because you shot him first.”
Simon scoffed. “Who’s going to believe that?”
“You’d be surprised. Look, I don’t know all the details, but Luther Ritz is claiming self-defense. That’s going to lead to some tough questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like why you and Ingrid were down there in the first place.”
“To find our daughter.”
“Right. So you were agitated and worried, right? You went to a drug den that your daughter frequented. No one would tell you where she was. So maybe you got more than agitated and worried. Maybe you were desperate, so desperate you or your wife pulled a gun—”
“You can’t be serious.”
“—and he ended up shot. Luther, I mean. So he fired back.”
Simon made a face.
“Luther is back home how, convalescing from a serious wound—”
“And my wife is”—Simon felt his face redden—“lying in a coma ten yards from us.”
“I know that. But you see, someone shot Luther.”
Fagbenle moved in closer. Now Simon got it. Now he understood what was happening here.
“And as long as we don’t know who shot him, Luther’s claim of self-defense will lead to reasonable doubt. The witnesses, if there are any who come forward, won’t be backing your recounting of the events. They’ll back Luther’s.” Fagbenle smiled. “You didn’t have any friends in that drug den, did you, Simon?”
“No,” Simon said, the lie coming quick and easy. Cornelius had shot Luther and saved them, but there was no way Simon would ever admit that. “Of course not.”
“Exactly. So there are no other suspects. Ergo, his attorney will claim, you took it upon yourself to shoot Luther Ritz. You had time after that with everyone scattering. You hid the gun. If you wore gloves, you got rid of them. Whatever.”
“Detective?”
“What?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“So this can all wait, right?”
“I guess it can. I don’t buy Luther’s story. Just so we’re clear. But I do find one thing odd.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you remember when we went into his hospital room so you could make a positive ID?”
“Yes.”
“And Luther, well, let’s just say his driveway doesn’t quite reach the road, if you know what I mean. He was dumb enough to admit being shot at the scene, remember?”
“Yes.”
“So he isn’t fast on his feet.”
“Right.”
“And yet when I asked Luther why he did it, do you remember the first thing he said?”
Simon said nothing.
“He gestured toward you, Simon, and he said, ‘Why don’t you ask him why?’”
Simon remembered. He remembered the feeling of anger that came over him then, looking at Luther, that waste of humanity who’d made the decision to try to end Ingrid’s life. The gall of it all, that someone as low as that could hold such power, had enraged him.
“He was grasping at straws, Detective.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think he’s that smart, Simon. I think Luther knows something he hasn’t yet told us.”
Simon considered that for a moment. “Like what?”
“You tell me,” Fagbenle said. Then: “Who shot Luther, Simon? Who saved you guys?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie.”
Simon said nothing.
“And there’s the rub, my friend,” Fagbenle continued. “Once one lie is let in the room, even for the best of reasons, a whole bunch more will ride in on its back. Then those lies will gang up and slaughter the truth. So I’ll ask you one more time: Who shot Luther?”
They were eye to eye now, inches apart.
“I told you,” Simon said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know. Is there anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I’d like to go sit with my wife.”
Fagbenle slapped Simon’s shoulder in a gesture that was trying to be both friendly and intimidating. “I’ll be in touch.”
As Fagbenle headed down the corridor, Simon’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognize the number and debated letting it go to voicemail—too many solicitations nowadays, even on mobile phones—but the area code was the same as Lanford College’s. He moved to the side and answered.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Greene?”
“Speaking.”
“I got your email and phone message, so I’m calling you back. This is Louis van de Beek. I’m a professor at Lanford College.”
He had almost forgotten about leaving those messages. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem.”
“I’m calling about my daughter Paige.”
There was silence on the other end.
“You remember her? Paige Greene.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded very far away. “Of course.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“I know she dropped out.”
“She’s missing, Professor.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I think something happened to her at school. I think something at Lanford started all this.”
“Mr. Greene?”
“Yes?”
“If I recall correctly, your family lives in Manhattan.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you there now?”
“In the city? Yes.”
“I’m teaching this semester at Columbia University.”
Simon’s alma mater.
“Perhaps,” van de Beek continued, “we should have this discussion in person.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll need a little more time. Do you know the campus?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a big statue on the steps in front of the main building.”
The main building was called Low Memorial Library. The bronze statue, oddly enough called Alma Mater, depicted the Greek goddess Athena.
“I know it.”
“Let’s meet there in an hour.”
* * *
The cops showed up at the Green-N-Leen Vegan Café because someone called 911 when Raoul and his man bun went down from Elena’s knee kick. At first, Raoul, who was still cupping his wounded nuts, wanted to press charges.
“She assaulted my family jewels!” Raoul kept shouting.
The cops rolled their eyes, but they also knew they had to take a statement. Elena pulled Raoul and the man bun into the corner and said simply, “If you press charges, I press charges.”
“But you—”
“—got the better of you, yes I know.”
Raoul was still cradling his crotch as if he’d found a wounded bird.
“But you assaulted me first,” Elena said.
“What? How do you figure?”
“Raoul, you’re new at this. I’m not. The surveillance tape will show that you reached out and touched me first.”
“You were running after my friend!”
“And you assaulted me to stop that, so I defended myself. That’s how this will play. And worse. I mean, look at me, Raoul.” Elena spread her arms. “I’m short, I’m chubby, and even though I�
�m sure you’re very in touch with your feminine side and all kumbaya on feminism, that tape of a small albeit round middle-aged woman kneeing you in the balls will go viral.”
Raoul’s eyes widened. He hadn’t considered that, though maybe his man bun had.
“Do you want to roll those dice, Raoul?”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Raoul?”
“Fine,” he said in the most petulant tone imaginable. “I won’t press charges.”
“Yeah, but now that I start thinking about it, I might.”
“What?”
Elena made the trade. Alison Mayflower’s “real” name—Allie Mason—and current address in exchange for letting bygones be bygones. Alison lived on a farm outside of Buxton. Elena made the drive up. No one was home. She debated sitting outside the house for a bit, but it didn’t look as though anyone had been home in a long time.
Back at the Howard Johnson’s, Elena sat in a room that couldn’t be more motel generic and tried to plot her next move. Lou from her home office had discovered that Allie Mason lived in that farmhouse with another woman named Stephanie Mars.
Was Stephanie Mars a friend? A relative? A partner? Did it matter?
Should Elena drive the half hour to Buxton and try again?
There was no reason to think Alison Mayflower would be more cooperative this time, but then again, trying doggedly was why Elena made the big bucks. Literally. And it wasn’t as though the first meeting hadn’t borne fruit. It had. There was clearly something shady going on with those adoptions. Elena had strongly suspected that before, but after her encounter with Alison Mayflower, she knew for sure. She also knew that at least in Alison Mayflower’s mind, the children had needed saving. And the big new piece of this cockamamy puzzle, though Elena had zero idea how it fit:
All the adopted babies were boys.
Why? Why not girls?
Elena took out a pad and pen and charted out the ages. Damien Gorse was the oldest, Henry Thorpe the youngest. Still, they were almost ten years apart in age. Ten years. That was a long time for Alison Mayflower to be involved in all this.
That meant her involvement was deep. Super deep.
Her phone rang. It was Lou from the home office on some special app he’d installed on her phone. The app made all calls untraceable or something like that. “The leakers in the White House use it,” Lou had told her. “That’s why they never get caught.”
