Three Harlan Coben Novels
Page 70
“I did it for you.”
And the saddest part was, he was telling the truth. I looked at him.
“You were the best friend I ever had, Lenny. I love you. I love your wife. I love your children.”
“What are you going to do?”
“If I say I’m going to talk, will you kill me too?”
“Never,” he said.
But I wasn’t sure, much as I loved him, much as he loved me, that I believed him.
epilogue
A year haspassed.
During the first two months, I racked up the frequent flier miles coming out to St. Louis every week, trying to figure out with Abe and Lorraine what we were going to do. We started slowly. For the first few visits, I asked Abe and Lorraine to stay in the room. Eventually, Tara and I started going places alone—the park, the zoo, the merry-go-round at the mall—but she looked over her shoulder a lot. It took some time for my daughter to get comfortable with me. I understood that.
My father passed away in his sleep ten months ago. After his funeral, I bought a house on Marsh Lane, two down from Abe and Lorraine, and moved out here permanently. Abe and Lorraine are remarkable people. Get this: We call “our” daughter Tasha. Think about it. It’s short for Natasha and close to Tara. The reconstructive surgeon in me likes that. I keep waiting for things to go wrong. They haven’t. It’s weird, but I don’t question it much.
My mother bought a condo and moved out here too. With Dad gone, there was no reason for her to stay in Kasselton anymore. After all the tragedies—my father’s poor health, Stacy, Monica, the attack, the abduction—we both needed a second act. I’m glad she’s near us. Mom has a new boyfriend, a guy named Cy. She’s happy. I like him, and not just because he has season tickets to the Rams. They laugh a lot. I almost forgot how hard my mom could laugh.
I talk to Verne a fair amount. He and Katarina brought Verne Junior and Perry out in an RV during the spring. We had a great week together. Verne took me fishing, a first for me. I liked it. Next time he wants to hunt. I told him no way, but Verne can be pretty persuasive.
I don’t talk much to Edgar Portman. He sends presents on Tasha’s birthday. He’s called twice. I’m hoping he’ll come out and see his granddaughter soon. But there is simply too much guilt there for both of us. It’s like I said before. Maybe Monica was unstable. Maybe it was just a chemical thing. I know that a great deal of psychiatry problems stem more from the physical, from hormonal imbalances, than life experiences. Chances are there was nothing we could have done. But in the end, whatever may have been the origin, we both let Monica down.
Zia was initially hit hard by my leaving, but then she saw it as an opportunity. She has a new doctor in the practice. I hear he’s pretty good. I’ve opened up a One World WrapAid branch office in St. Louis. So far, it seems to be going well.
Lydia—or Larissa Dane, if you prefer—is going to get off. She did a double-flip off a murder rap and stuck the “I was abused” landing with both feet. She is a celebrity again, what with the mysterious return of the Pixie named Trixie. Lydia appeared onOprah , crying on cue about the years of torment at the hands of Heshy. They flashed his picture up on the screen. The audience gasped. Heshy is hideous. Lydia is beautiful. So the world believes. Rumor has it she is set to appear in a TV movie based on her life story.
As for the baby-smuggling case, the FBI decided to “enforce the law,” which meant bringing the bad guys to justice. Steven Bacard and Denise Vanech were the bad guys here. They’re both dead. Officially, authorities are still searching for the records, but nobody wants to look too closely at what child ended up where. I think that’s best.
Rachel fully recovered from her injuries. I ended up doing the reconstructive work on her ear myself. Her bravery got major play in the press. She received credit for smashing the baby-smuggling ring. The FBI rehired her. She requested and received a post in St. Louis. We live together. I love her. I love her more than you can imagine. But if you are expecting a totally happy ending, I’m not sure I can give you one.
As of now, Rachel and I are still together. I cannot imagine living without her. I think about losing her and it makes me physically ill. Yet I’m not sure that’s enough. There is a lot of baggage here. It confuses things. I understand about her making that late-night call and showing up outside the hospital—and yet, I know those acts eventually led to death and destruction. I don’t blame Rachel, of course. But there is something there. Monica’s death has given our relationship a second chance. That feels strange. I tried explaining all of this to Verne when he visited. He told me that I’m a dumb-ass. I think he’s probably right.
The doorbell rings. There is a tug on my leg. Yes, it’s Tasha. She is fully acclimated to having me in her life now. Children, after all, adapt better than adults. Across the room, Rachel is on the couch. She is sitting with her legs curled under her. I look at her, then at Tasha, and I feel the wondrous blend of bliss and fear. They—bliss and fear—are constant companions. Rarely does one venture out without the other.
“One second, pumpkin,” I say to her. “Let’s go answer the door, okay?”
“Okay.”
The UPS man is there. He has packages. I bring them inside. When I look at the return address, I feel the familiar ache. The little sticker tells me that they are from Lenny and Cheryl Marcus of Kasselton, New Jersey.
Tasha looks up at me. “My present?”
I never told the police about Lenny. There was no evidence anyway—only his confession to me. That wouldn’t stand up in court. But that’s not why I decided not to say anything.
I suspect Cheryl knows the truth. I think maybe she knew from the beginning. I flash back to her face on the stairs, the way she snapped when Rachel and I arrived at their house that night, and now I wonder if it was out of anger or fear. I suspect the latter.
The fact is, Lenny was right. He did do it for me. What would have happened if he had just left the house? I don’t know. It might have been even worse. Lenny asked me if I would have done the same in his place. Back then, probably not. Because maybe I wasn’t that good a man. Verne, I bet, would have. Lenny was trying to protect my daughter without sacrificing his own family. He just messed up.
But man, I miss him. I think about how big a part of my life he was. There are times I reach for the phone and begin dialing his number. But I never finish the call. I won’t speak to Lenny again. Not ever. I know that. And it hurts like hell.
But I also think about little Conner’s inquisitive face at the soccer game. I think about Kevin playing soccer and Marianne’s hair smelling of chlorine from her morning swim practice. I think about how beautiful Cheryl had become since she had the children.
I look down at my daughter now, safe and with me. Tasha is still gazing up. It is indeed a present for her from her godfather. I remember the first time I met Abe, that strange day at the Airport Marriott. He told me that you shouldn’t do the wrong thing for the right reason. I thought about that a lot before deciding what to do about Lenny.
In the end, well, chalk it up as “too close to call.”
I mix it up sometimes. Is it the wrong thing for the right reason or the right thing for the wrong reason? Or are they same? Monica needed to feel love, so she deceived me and got pregnant. That was how it all started. But if she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be staring down at the most wonderful creation I would ever know. Right reason? Wrong reason? Who’s to say?
Tasha tilts her head and twitches her nose at me. “Daddy?”
“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” I say softly.
Tasha gives me a big, elaborate kid shrug. Rachel looks up. I see the concern on her face. I take the package and place it high up in the closet. Then I close that door and pick up my daughter.
acknowledgments
The author—man, I love referring to myself in the third person—would like to thank the following for their technical expertise: Steven Miller, M.D., Director of Pediatric Emergency Medicine, Children’s Hosp
ital of New York Presbyterian, Columbia University; Christopher J. Christie, United States Attorney for the state of New Jersey; Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D., Medical Director of Covenant House Newark; Lois Foster Hirt, R.D.H.; Jeffrey Bedford, FBI; Gene Riehl, FBI (retired); Andrew McDade, brother-in-law extraordinaire and renaissance man. Any mistakes are theirs and theirs alone. After all, they’re the experts, right? Why should I take the heat?
I also want to acknowledge Carole Baron, Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Group (USA); Jon Wood, Susan Lamb, Malcolm Edwards, Anthony Cheetham, Juliet Ewers, Emily Furniss, and everyone at Orion; and the always reliable Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach Vance, Maggie Griffin, and Linda Fairstein.
Oh, and of course, a big thanks to Katharine Foote and Rachel Cooke for freeing me up so I could get over that final hurdle.
about the author
Harlan Coben is the winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, the first writer to win all three. He is the author of nine previous novels, includingTell No One , an international bestseller, as well as the recent blockbusterGone for Good , a main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club. He lives with his family in New Jersey.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Just One Look
A Dutton Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Harlan Coben
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
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ISBN: 1-101-14664-8
A DUTTON BOOK®
Dutton Books first published by The Dutton Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
DUTTON and the “D” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: July, 2004
This book is for Jack Armstrong, because he’s one of the good guys
“Babe, give me your best memory,
But it don’t equal pale ink.”
—Chinese proverb adapted for lyrics in song
“Pale Ink” by the Jimmy X Band
(written by James Xavier Farmington. All rights reserved)
Contents
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
chapter 48
chapter 49
chapter 50
chapter 51
chapter 52
chapter 53
chapter 54
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scott Duncan sat across from the killer.
The windowless room of thundercloud gray was awkward and still, stuck in that lull when the music first starts and neither stranger is sure how to begin the dance. Scott tried a noncommittal nod. The killer, decked out in prison-issue orange, simply stared. Scott folded his hands and put them on the metal table. The killer—his file said he was Monte Scanlon, but there was no way that was his real name—might have done likewise had his hands not been cuffed.
Why, Scott wondered yet again, am I here?
His specialty was prosecuting corrupt politicians—something of a vigorous cottage industry in his home state of New Jersey—but three hours ago, Monte Scanlon, a mass executioner by any standards, had finally broken his silence to make a demand.
That demand?
A private meeting with Assistant U.S. Attorney Scott Duncan.
This was strange for a large variety of reasons, but here were two: one, a killer should not be in a position to make demands; two, Scott had never met or even heard of Monte Scanlon.
Scott broke the silence. “You asked to see me?”
“Yes.”
Scott nodded, waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “So what can I do for you?”
Monte Scanlon maintained the stare. “Do you know why I’m here?”
Scott glanced around the room. Besides Scanlon and himself, four people were present. Linda Morgan, the United States attorney, leaned against the back wall trying to give off the ease of Sinatra against a lamppost. Standing behind the prisoner were two beefy, nearly identical prison guards with tree-stump arms and chests like antique armoires. Scott had met the two cocky agents before, had seen them go about their task with the sereneness of yoga instructors. But today, with this well-shackled prisoner, even these guys were on edge. Scanlon’s lawyer, a ferret reeking of checkout-counter cologne, rounded out the group. All eyes were on Scott.
“You killed people,” Scott answered. “Lots of them.”
“I was what is commonly called a hit man. I was”—Scanlon paused—“an assassin for hire.”
“On cases that don’t involve me.”
“True.”
Scott’s morning had started off normal enough. He’d been drafting a subpoena on a waste-disposal executive who was paying off a small-town mayor. Routine matter. Everyday graft in the Garden State of New Jersey. That had been, what, an hour, an hour and a half ago? Now he sat across the bolted-down table from a man who had murdered—according to Linda Morgan’s rough estimate—one hundred people.
“So why did you ask for me?”
Scanlon looked like an aging playboy who might have squired a Gabor sister in the fifties. He was small, wizened even. His graying hair was slicked back, his teeth cigarette-yellow, his skin leathery from midday sun and too many long nights in too many dark clubs. No one in the room knew his real name. When captured, his passport read Monte Scanlon, an Argentinean national, age fifty-one. The age seemed about right, but that would be about it. His fingerprints had not popped up in the NCIC computer banks. Facial recognition software had come up with a big goose egg.
“We need to speak alone.”
“This is not my case,” Scott said again. “There’s a U.S. attorney assigned to you.”
“This has nothing to do with her.”
“And it does with me?”
Scanlon leaned forward. “What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “will change your entire life.”
Part of Scott wanted to wiggle his fingers in Scanlon’s face and say, “Ooooo.” He was used to the captured criminal mindset—their serp
entine maneuverings, their quest for an edge, their search for a way out, their overblown sense of importance. Linda Morgan, perhaps sensing his thoughts, shot a warning glare across his bow. Monte Scanlon, she’d told him, had worked for various connected families for the better part of thirty years. RICO hungered for his cooperation in a starving-man-near-a-buffet way. Since his capture, Scanlon had refused to talk. Until this morning.
So here Scott was.
“Your boss,” Scanlon said, gesturing with his chin at Linda Morgan, “she hopes for my cooperation.”
“You’re going to get the needle,” Morgan responded, still trying to give off the scent of nonchalance. “Nothing you say or do will change that.”
Scanlon smiled. “Please. You fear losing what I have to say much greater than I fear death.”
“Right. Another tough guy who doesn’t fear death.” She peeled herself off the wall. “Know what, Monte? The tough guys are always the ones who soil their pants when we strap them to the gurney.”
Again Scott fought off the desire to wiggle his fingers, this time at his boss. Scanlon kept smiling. His eyes never left Scott’s. Scott didn’t like what he saw. They were, as one would expect, black and shiny and cruel. But—and Scott might have been imagining things—maybe he saw something else there. Something beyond the standard vacancy. There seemed to be a pleading in the eyes; Scott couldn’t turn away from them. There was regret there maybe.
Remorse even.
Scott looked up at Linda and nodded. She frowned, but Scanlon had called her bluff. She touched one of the beefy guards on the shoulder and gestured for them to leave. Rising from his seat, Scanlon’s lawyer spoke for the first time. “Anything he says is off the record.”
“Stay with them,” Scanlon ordered. “I want you to make sure that they don’t listen in.”
The lawyer picked up his briefcase and followed Linda Morgan to the door. Soon Scott and Scanlon were alone. In the movies, killers are omnipotent. In real life, they are not. They don’t escape from handcuffs in the middle of a high-security federal penitentiary. The Beef Brothers, Scott knew, would be behind the one-way glass. The intercom, per Scanlon’s instructions, would be off. But they’d all be watching.