When the attack first happened, there was no way she could escape it—Coben had forced himself inside her very being, and her body burned from what he had done to her. So she went somewhere else inside her head until it almost seemed like the whole ordeal happened to some other girl, some unfortunate soul named Abby who lived far away and long ago. So when that first card came, the one that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY but really meant I know who you are, she was afraid but also wondering, like a child who puts her hand to the candle flame. She made herself keep it. She held on to it because it made her remember everything she had to leave behind. “I don’t get much mail here,” she told Reed as she pushed off the couch. “It was nothing more than that.”
* * *
Ellie desperately wanted a shower, but she wasn’t taking off her clothes with Reed awake and prowling about the house. She felt like he could see the scars right through the walls and doors, and she was eager to put as much space as she could between them. He appeared tired when she brought him a pillow and blanket for the couch, with lines around his eyes and stubble dotting his chin. She remembered he probably had a life in Virginia that he had abandoned to come up here and help her. “Thanks, uh, for staying tonight,” she muttered, careful not to touch him as she handed him the bed linens. “I didn’t want Sam posting some sort of guard at my door.”
“Might not be the worst idea,” he replied with genuine worry, and her own concern ticked up a notch. He was an FBI agent, sure, but he was standing there in his T-shirt and shorts, sporting bare feet and wire-rimmed nerd glasses. He hardly looked menacing, so what kind of backup would he really be?
“You really think the guy would come back here tonight, while we’re here?” she asked.
Reed ran a hand over his face and glanced at the door. “He left you a gift-wrapped body part today. I don’t think any of us can rightly predict the next move right now. That’s why it might pay to be extra cautious.”
She noticed then that his gun was lying on the coffee table. “I wanted to ask you something: I know you’ve profiled these guys, right? You must have some sort of read by now, looking at all these files. Tell me what you think we’re dealing with here.”
Reed seemed to hesitate with his reply. He scrubbed at his head with both hands so that his hair stood on end like a porcupine’s. “There’s a boilerplate list of traits that is liable to hold true in cases such as these,” he said finally. “White male, age twenty-five to forty-five. We’re looking at multiple victims—adults with no real physical vulnerabilities—which suggests he is practiced, careful, and above average in intelligence. We don’t know why the perpetrator in this case picked Bea, Shannon, and Mark, but you can be sure there was a reason, and that their abductor stalked them for some time before approaching them. The killer probably admires Coben, knows the history of the case inside and out, maybe even has corresponded with him. We will certainly look into that first thing tomorrow. But also he would not really be considered a copycat.”
“But the hand.”
“Yes, it’s a nod to Coben, obviously, and to us as well. But Coben had a very specific type—young women with long hair and pretty hands—and this subject has targeted both males and females, of different races and ages. Plus, well…” He broke off, as if he didn’t want to say this next thought in front of her.
“What?” she demanded.
“The hands were Coben’s trophies. He would never willingly give one up. Not for you, not for anyone.”
* * *
Ellie took her own gun to bed with her, taking care to draw the shades against anything or anyone wishing to peer inside. She locked her door, but light still shafted in beneath it because Reed was down the hall washing up in the single bathroom. Bump gave a dramatic yawn and flopped over on the small oval braided rug. Ellie envied the dog his obvious relaxation as she climbed under the sheet. Her mind was awhirl with images of the severed hand, of Bea and Shannon together at the gas station all those years ago, and of the hard set of Sam’s mouth as he’d laid out her marching orders about the bottle in the woods: Fix this. She really didn’t see how she could.
She screwed her eyes shut against the noise in her head, but already, she knew sleep would be futile. Outside, she heard Reed’s footsteps moving around her house, and she started counting backward from one thousand to block out the sound. In the closet, back when it happened, she had lain on the floor and felt the boards vibrate with Coben’s approach. Footsteps always meant more pain. He’s coming, he’s coming. She clutched the cotton blanket closer to her body and counted louder. “Nine hundred seventy-eight. Nine hundred seventy-seven.”
Her phone buzzed loudly on her nightstand, making her sit up with a gasp.
She fumbled for it in the dark and hit the button to light up the screen and retrieve the text. She frowned in puzzlement when she saw it wasn’t Brady’s number, but then her heart stopped as the words came up. “Oh, God,” she gulped, and threw the phone aside on the blanket like it had bitten her.
But the text was still there, glowing up at the ceiling.
I know it’s you.
6
In his dream, Reed had been buried alive, not in a coffin but with the dirt piled directly over his face, right up in his nostrils and mouth so he could taste and smell it. He heard the crunch of a shovel overhead—someone was coming for him—but he couldn’t move or scream for help. Finally, his rescuers broke through and Reed could feel the daylight behind his closed lids. But instead of helping him out of the hole, they turned a hose on him, with the water splashing down in a manner just as suffocating as the dirt had been. He gasped, desperate to capture a mouthful of air, and as he did so, his eyes opened and the dream vanished into the ether, leaving him prone on Ellery’s couch, eye level with her dog. The fur monster wagged happily when he saw that Reed was awake and his giant tongue came hurtling toward Reed’s face once more. “Ah, no,” Reed said, scrambling off the sofa and away from him. “Definitely not!”
“Bump, stop it.”
Reed turned to find Ellie standing in the doorway, dressed already in jeans and a faded T-shirt with a purple cow on it. Her hair was down for the first time since he’d met her, falling in dark waves around her shoulders, and he saw the ends were still damp from her shower. Her bare feet and the filtered early morning sunlight combined to make her look much younger, effectively transporting them back in time to their first meeting. She’d been pale and withdrawn then, much as now, with the same dark smudges under her watchful, steel-gray eyes. Reed became acutely aware of the fact that he was standing in front of her wearing only his boxers, having shed his T-shirt sometime during the stifling overnight. They had shut the house up like Fort Knox before bed, every door and window locked, and the result was rooms full of hot, dead air. Reed cleared his throat and glanced down at the dog, who was thumping his tail against the hard floor and staring up expectantly at Reed. “I hope you didn’t acquire this cur as any sort of watchdog,” Reed said to Ellie. “Because I have to warn you, he doesn’t seem up to the task.”
“Bump’s a people person,” Ellie replied with a sigh, sounding almost disappointed. “I’ve tried to explain that we’re really just a bunch of selfish, rotten, hateful creatures, but he goes on loving all of us just the same.”
Reed frowned downward at the floppy-eared animal and mentally told him the truth. I’m a world-class fuckup at the moment, you understand? Telephone my ex-wife and ex-boss, and they’ll explain my numerous failings in great detail. Sarit, in particular, has the delightfully textured vocabulary of an Oxford professor and a retired longshoreman. But the dog continued to gaze up at him with adoring eyes. “He, ah, he has an unusual moniker. Is it a metaphor for taking it easy on the roads of life, or something like that?”
Ellie snorted as Reed reached around the dog to grab his T-shirt. “No,” she said. “It’s no metaphor. Stick around awhile and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Speaking of sticky…” He could still feel the remnants of the night sweat
s dried on his skin. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”
Ellery looked momentarily taken aback by his request, but she recovered quickly. “Sure, go ahead. There are clean towels on the shelves in the bathroom. Bump and I will just head out for our morning constitutional.”
Reed halted from tidying up the couch and looked over at her. “Outside?”
“He hasn’t been trained to use the john,” she replied, deadpan.
“Yes, I realize as much. I just … just be careful out there.”
Ellery dropped her chin to her chest, as if acknowledging the possible danger. “We can’t hide in here forever. Come on, boy. Let me just get my shoes on and we can go, okay?”
Bump trotted after her, dog tags jangling, and Reed headed for the bathroom. It was bright white and sparkly clean, free from the lotions, makeup, and other usual trappings of female bathrooms. Ellery’s shower caddy held only unisex drugstore-brand shampoo and conditioner, and some sort of ginger-lily cleanser gel. Still, Reed felt his blood warm as he stepped naked into the tub that was still wet from her shower. It wasn’t a sexual reaction but a realization of how intimate it was to be sharing her space like this. His heart squeezed in sudden longing for his family. Tula, as a chubby happy baby, had showered with him on Sunday mornings while Sarit caught a few extra minutes of sleep. Tula’s tiny giggles bounced and magnified off the tiles as they’d played together under the tickling spray.
Reed scrubbed away at the grit and memories, until he felt ready to face Ellery and her nailed-up house again. He dressed and left the steamy little bathroom, only to stumble at the threshold because the damn dog was lying in his path. “Speed Bump,” Reed muttered as he righted himself. “Got it.”
He found Ellery sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea. “I feel more human now, thank you,” he said.
“There’s water for tea, if you want it. If you prefer coffee, I’m afraid you’ll have to go out. I don’t drink the stuff.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll make us breakfast.” His stomach was so empty he felt like he had a gap at his middle.
“Um, yeah. Good luck with that,” she said into her cup as he opened the refrigerator door.
He peered in at the thin collection of condiments, a quart of skim milk, and a half dozen fast-food containers. There was one lonely, wizened orange. He rotated a glass bottle of fermenting sludge-like apple juice. “What do you eat?” he asked, unable to keep the vague note of horror from his voice.
“I just take a granola bar with me for breakfast,” she said with a shrug. “There are a few different kinds in the pantry if you’d like.”
A granola bar wouldn’t sustain him past nine o’clock. “I’ll just run to the market for a few things, then, shall I? It won’t take long.” He would welcome the distance from her, actually; it would give him time to clear his head.
“Suit yourself.”
He got the directions from her and set out in his rental car. Summer was up and on the job early, a strong sun already muscling its way over the trees into the high blue sky. The air smelled sweet and he left the windows down as he drove, the breeze ruffling his hair. He found the grocery with no trouble and parked amid the scattered other cars in the lot. However, he did not immediately go inside. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number he still considered home. “Sarit here,” she said when it rang through.
“It’s me,” he replied, grateful for her familiar voice. “How is Tula doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s dressed in three layers of pajamas plus a princess dress that’s trailing glitter all over the household. I’m sweltering just looking at her, but she swears the costume is necessary for the royal tea party.” There was a pause. “Never mind us. How are you faring? Did you meet Abigail?”
It was strange now to hear Ellery’s old name, as she had become someone completely new to him in the space of a few short days. “Yes, I met her.”
“And? What is she like?”
He pictured her, nose to nose with Chief Parker, arguing her case despite its lack of merit, or the hint of humor in her eyes as she’d skewered his privileged upbringing. He thought of her quiet, lonely house with its closets nailed shut. She’s like a soldier back from the war, he wanted to say. She’s strong. She’s shattered. Surprisingly funny, if she wants to be. You would like her, presuming she’s not certifiably crazy. He was still waiting on the DNA analysis from the birthday cards. The appearance of the severed hand increased the urgency of the answer. Reed didn’t think that Ellie was that unstable, couldn’t believe she would be damaged enough to reenact some version of Coben’s crimes and then call attention to that fact, but he was aware also that he did not want to believe it—which made it crucial that he keep his attention trained to the facts of the case. Facts stated that Ellery had the opportunity to leave that hand on her porch before he and she departed for their adventures yesterday, so she would remain a suspect until there was proof otherwise.
“She’s, ah, she’s interesting,” Reed managed to reply at last. “A natural investigator. She’s got something here with these missing persons cases.”
“I see,” Sarit said, her tone indicating that she had parsed the tea leaves of his message. “So you’re staying on, then.”
“I have to. We’ve had some … developments.”
“And we have a mediation appointment this Thursday,” she reminded him.
“I know, I know.” He wanted to be there. It was part of his vow to himself when they split. Sarit had accused him of checking out of their marriage long before she’d left it, that he’d cared about everyone in the world but her and Tula. He was going to prove her wrong by showing up faithfully to whatever appointment she demanded of him. “Look,” he said, taking a deep breath. “It turns out that whoever is responsible for the missing persons cases almost certainly knows Ellery’s identity and the history of the Coben case.”
Sarit made her usual humming noise. “That means he knows you too.”
“Yes. You can see then why I need to stay.”
“I don’t like the feel of this, Reed. It sounds like someone with questionable motives is eager to get the band back together again. Why do you need to go along with it?”
“If this is something that was set in motion back years ago, then I don’t really have a choice, do I? As you say, the players are already determined.”
“Something from years ago,” she repeated. “You mean there was a second killer? Maybe Coben had an accomplice? Or are you thinking there is a copycat?”
“I can’t speculate at this point.” He had to remember that, technically, he was speaking to the press.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“You know the rules, Sarit. This is an active investigation and I can’t compromise it. I promise that when it’s okay to talk, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Anything new related to Coben would be front-page material, even after all these years.” He could hear her turning over the juicy possibilities in her mind, but at least she wasn’t angry with him anymore.
“Can I talk to Tula?” he asked.
“Let me see if I can catch her.”
A few moments later, his daughter’s breathless voice came on the line. “Daddy! There was a rock that was moving in the little stream at the park, only it wasn’t a rock, it was a turtle! I named him Stanley, and he was going to come live with us and sleep in my bed but then Mom said I had to leave him there because he needs the water. But next time we go, I am going to bring some lettuce for him.”
“Clever girl,” Reed said. “I’m sure he’ll love that.”
“Daddy,” she said, her voice wistful. “When are you coming home?”
He held the phone tight to his ear and closed his eyes against the rush of emotion. “Soon, baby. Soon.” Someday, when she was old enough to hear it, maybe he could tell Tula the truth: that there was another girl whose small hand turned up wrapped in pretty paper, a girl they had yet to identify and they did not k
now what had happened to her, but this girl was never coming home, and so for the moment, neither could he.
* * *
Back at Ellery’s, the opened windows let the cross breeze flow through, and so the rooms of the house could momentarily breathe again. Ellery loitered in the kitchen, her back to the sink, watching Reed assemble French toast and fry thick cuts of bacon. Bump was living up to his namesake in the doorway, licking his chops every so often as the bacon sizzled. “Where did you learn to cook?” Ellery asked.
“My mother taught me,” he replied as he expertly flipped the slices of bread to brown them on the other side. “She loves to cook—oh, the peach pies she made in the summer were the stuff of county legend—and I am but a pale imitation of her skills. But I was at least more interested than my sisters, one of whom actually burned boiling water.”
“Is that even possible?” Ellery wrinkled her nose.
“It is if you let the pot sit over the flame for three hours until it melts. Technically, I suppose, Suzy burned the pot and not the water. We’re just glad she didn’t burn the house with it.”
“My mother’s specialty was Jell-O with canned fruit in it.” She sniffed in the direction of the stove. “This looks a lot better.”
“Yes, well, it’s about finished. Do you own any plates?”
“Of course I own plates. I’m not a complete savage.”
“What percentage savage are you, then?” he asked, teasing a bit as she retrieved a couple of plates from the cupboard. “Half? One quarter? Tell me, were you raised in a barn?”
At his words, she dropped the plates, which clattered loudly and rolled in different directions, and Reed remembered with horror what had happened to her in a barn.
“I’m sorry,” he said, kneeling with her as she bent to retrieve the plates.
“Forget it,” she replied, not looking at him.
“I’m an insensitive lout.”
“I said forget it,” she repeated, and met his eyes briefly to show she meant it. “Let’s just eat, okay?” She’d fixed her hair into its usual severe style, pulled back at her nape, but he was close enough to see the smattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose. He could see the girl she used to be, the one she’d left behind, and he wondered what it was like to have to live every day with a huge secret. A million little lies she must have told over the years, and convincing ones at that. Just because he knew the truth about some of them didn’t mean he knew them all.
The Vanishing Season Page 11
