Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  Grace blocked the sun with her hand and, as always, watched the bus until it turned down Bryden Road. Even now, even after all this time, she still longed to hop in her car and follow just to be sure that that seemingly fragile box of yellow tin made it safely to school.

  What had happened to Jack?

  She started back toward the house, but then, thinking better of it, she sprinted toward her car and took off. Grace caught up to the bus on Heights Road and followed it the rest of the way to Willard School. She shifted into park and watched the children disembark. When Emma and Max appeared, weighed down by their backpacks, she felt the familiar flutter. She sat and waited until they both headed up the path, up the stairs, and disappeared through the school doors.

  And then, for the first time in a long time, Grace cried.

  • • •

  Grace expected cops in plainclothes. And she expected two of them. That was how it always worked on television. One would be the gruff veteran. The other would be young and handsome. So much for TV. The town police had sent one officer in the regulation stop-you-for-speeding uniform and matching car.

  He had introduced himself as Officer Daley. He was indeed young, very young, with a smattering of acne on his shiny baby face. He was gym muscular. His short sleeves worked like tourniquets on his bloated biceps. Officer Daley spoke with annoying patience, a suburban-cop monotone, as if addressing a class of first graders on bike safety.

  He had arrived ten minutes after her call on the non-emergency police line. Normally, the dispatcher told her, they would ask her to come in and fill out a report on her own. But it just so happened that Officer Daley was in the area, so he’d be able to swing by. Lucky her.

  Daley took a letter-size sheet of paper and placed it out on the coffee table. He clicked his pen and started asking questions.

  “The missing person’s name?”

  “John Lawson. But he goes by Jack.”

  He started down the list.

  “Address and phone number?”

  She gave them.

  “Place of birth?”

  “Los Angeles, California.”

  He asked his height, weight, eye and hair color, sex (yes, he actually asked). He asked if Jack had any scars, marks, or tattoos. He asked for a possible destination.

  “I don’t know,” Grace said. “That’s why I called you.”

  Officer Daley nodded. “I assume that your husband is over the age of emancipation?”

  “Pardon?”

  “He is over eighteen years old.”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes this harder.”

  “Why?”

  “We got new regulations on filling out a missing person report. It was just updated a couple weeks back.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He gave a theatrical sigh. “See, in order to put someone in the computer, he needs to meet the criteria.” Daley pulled out another sheet of paper. “Is your husband disabled?”

  “No.”

  “Endangered?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Daley read from the sheet. “ ‘A person of age who is missing and in the company of another person under circumstances indicating that his/her physical safety is in danger.’ ”

  “I don’t know. I told you. He left here last night . . .”

  “Then that would be a no,” Daley said. He scanned down the sheet. “Number three. Involuntary. Like a kidnapping or abduction.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right. Number four. Catastrophe victim. Like in a fire or airplane crash.”

  “No.”

  “And the last category. Is he a juvenile? Well, we covered that already.” He put the sheet down. “That’s it. You can’t put the person into the system unless he fits in one of those categories.”

  “So if someone goes missing like this, you do nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, ma’am.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “We have no evidence that there was any foul play. If we receive any, we will immediately upgrade the investigation.”

  “So for now you do nothing?”

  Daley put down the pen. He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. His breathing was heavy. “May I speak frankly, Mrs. Lawson?”

  “Please.”

  “Most of these cases—no, more than that, I’d say ninety-nine out of a hundred—the husband is just running around. There are marital problems. There is a mistress. The husband doesn’t want to be found.”

  “That’s not the case here.”

  He nodded. “And in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, that’s what we hear from the wife.”

  The patronizing tone was starting to piss her off. Grace hadn’t felt comfortable confiding in this youth. She’d held back, as if she feared telling the entire truth would be a betrayal. Plus, when you really thought about it, how would it sound?

  Well, see, I found this weird photo from the Photomat in the middle of my pack from Apple Orchard, in Chester, right, and my husband said it wasn’t him and really, it’s hard to tell because the picture is old and then Jack left the house . . .

  “Mrs. Lawson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I think so. That I’m hysterical. My husband ran off. I’m trying to use the police to drag him back. That sound about right?”

  He remained unruffled. “You have to understand. We can’t fully investigate until we have some evidence that a crime has been committed. Those are the rules set up by the NCIC.” He pointed to the sheet of paper again and said in his gravest tone: “That’s the National Crime Information Center.”

  She almost rolled her eyes.

  “Even if we find your husband, we wouldn’t tell you where he was. This is a free country. He is of age. We can’t force him to come back.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “We could make a few calls, maybe make a few discreet inquiries.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ll need the vehicle make and license plate number.”

  “It’s a Ford Windstar.”

  “Color?”

  “Dark blue.”

  “Year?”

  She didn’t remember.

  “License plate?”

  “It begins with an M.”

  Officer Daley looked up. Grace felt like a moron.

  “I have a copy of the registration upstairs,” she said. “I can check.”

  “Do you use E-ZPass at tollbooths?”

  “Yes.”

  Officer Daley nodded and wrote that down. Grace headed upstairs and found the file. She made a copy with her scanner and gave it to Officer Daley. He wrote something down. He asked a few questions. She stuck with the facts: Jack had come home from work, helped put the children to bed, gone out, probably for groceries . . . and that was it.

  After about five minutes, Daley seemed satisfied. He smiled and told her not to worry. She stared at him.

  “We’ll check back with you in a few hours. If we hear nothing by then, let’s talk some more.”

  He left. Grace tried Jack’s office again. Still no answer. She checked the clock. It was nearly 10 A.M. The Photomat would be opening now. Good.

  She had some questions for Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

  chapter 6

  Charlaine Swain slipped on her new online lingerie purchase—a Regal Lace babydoll with matching G-string—and pulled up her bedroom shade.

  Something was wrong.

  The day was Tuesday. The time was 10:30 A.M. Charlaine’s children were at school. Her husband Mike would be at his desk in the city, the phone wedged between shoulder and ear, his fingers busy rolling and unrolling his shirtsleeves, his collar tighter by the day but his ego too proud to admit the need for a bigger size.

  Her neighbor, the scuzzy creepazoid named Freddy Sykes, should be home by now.

  Charlaine glanced toward the mirror. She didn’t do that of
ten. There was no need to remind herself that she was over forty. The image that stared back was still shapely, she guessed, helped no doubt by the babydoll’s underwired support—but what had once been considered buxom and curvaceous had weakened and loosened. Oh, Charlaine worked out. There was yoga class—yoga being this year’s Tae Bo or Step—three mornings a week. She stayed fit, battling against the obvious and unbeatable, holding tight even as it slipped away.

  What had happened to her?

  Forget the physical for a second. The young Charlaine Swain had been a bundle of energy. She had zest for life. She was ambitious and a go-getter. Everyone said it. There was always a spark with Charlaine, a crackle in the air, and somewhere, somehow, life—just plain living—had extinguished it.

  Were the children to blame? Was it Mike? There was a time when he couldn’t get enough of her, when an outfit like this would make his eyes widen and his mouth water. Now when she strutted by, he would barely look up.

  When had that started?

  She couldn’t put her finger on it. She knew the process had been gradual, the change so slow as to be almost indiscernible, until, alas, it was a fait accompli. It hadn’t all been his fault. She knew that. Her drive had waned, especially during the years of pregnancies, post-natal nursing, the ensuing exhaustion of infants. That was natural, she supposed. Everyone went through that. Still she wished that she had made more of an effort before the temporary changes hardened into something apathetic and enduring.

  The memories, however, were still there. Mike used to romance her. He used to surprise her. He used to lust after her. He used to—and yes, this might sound crude—jump her bones. Now what he wanted was efficiency, something mechanical and precise—the dark, a grunt, a release, sleep.

  When they talked, it was about the kids—the class schedules, the pickups, the homework, the dentist appointments, the Little League games, the Biddy Basketball program, the play-dates. But that wasn’t just Mike’s fault either. When Charlaine had coffee with the women in the neighborhood—the Mommy and Me meetings at Starbucks—the conversations were so cloying, so boring, so stuffed with all things children, that she wanted to scream.

  Charlaine Swain was being smothered.

  Her mother—the idle queen of the country-club lunch—told her that this was life, that Charlaine had everything a woman could want, that her expectations were simply unrealistic. The saddest part was, Charlaine feared that her mother was right.

  She checked her makeup. She applied more lipstick and rouge and then sat back and appraised herself. Yep, she looked like a whore. She grabbed a Percodan, the mommy equivalent of the lunchtime cocktail, and swallowed it. Then she took a closer look in the mirror, squinting even.

  Was the old Charlaine still there somewhere?

  There was this woman who lived two blocks down, a nice mother of two like Charlaine. Two months ago, this nice mother of two walked up to the Glen Rock train tracks and committed suicide by stepping in front of the 11:10 A.M. Bergen line heading south. Horrible story. Everyone talked about it for weeks. How could this woman, this nice mother of two, just abandon her children like that? How could she be so selfish? And yet, as Charlaine tsk-tsked with her fellow suburbanites, she felt a small pang of jealousy. For this nice mother, it was over. There had to be relief in that.

  Where was Freddy?

  Charlaine actually looked forward to this, her Tuesdays at ten, and perhaps that was the saddest thing of all. Her initial reaction to Freddy’s peeping had been revulsion and rage. When and how had that slid into acceptance and even, God forgive her, arousal? No, she thought. It wasn’t arousal. It was . . . something. That was all. It was a spark. It was something to feel.

  She waited for his shade to come up.

  It didn’t.

  Strange. Come to think of it, Freddy Sykes never pulled down his shades. Their properties backed up to each other’s, so that only they could see in each other’s window. Freddy never pulled down the shade in the back. Why would he?

  Her eyes roamed toward the other windows. All the shades were pulled down. Curious. The curtains in what she assumed was the den—she had never, of course, stepped foot in his house—were drawn closed.

  Was Freddy traveling? Had he perhaps gone away?

  Charlaine Swain caught her reflection in the window and felt a fresh wave of shame. She grabbed a robe—her husband’s ratty terrycloth—and slipped into it. She wondered if Mike was having an affair, if another woman had drained that once insatiable sex drive, or was he just not interested in her? She wondered which was worse.

  Where was Freddy?

  And how degrading, how truly scraping-the-bottom pitiful it was, that this meant so much to her. She stared at the house.

  There was movement.

  It was slight. A shadow had crossed the side of a shade. But movement nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, Freddy was truly peeping again, upping, if you will, his excitement level. That could be it, right? Most peepers got off on the stealth, I Spy aspects of the act. Maybe he simply didn’t want her to see him. Maybe he was watching her right now, surreptitiously.

  Could that be it?

  She loosened the robe and let it slide down her shoulders. The terrycloth reeked of man sweat and the aging remnants of cologne she’d bought Mike, what, eight, nine years ago. Charlaine felt the tears sting her eyes. But she didn’t turn away.

  Something else suddenly appeared between the window shades. Something . . . blue?

  She squinted. What was it?

  The binoculars. Where were they? Mike kept a box of crap like that in his closet. She found it, dug through the many power cords and adapters, and unearthed the Leicas. She remembered when they bought them. They were on a cruise in the Caribbean. The stop was one of the Virgin Islands—she didn’t remember which one—and the purchase had been spontaneous. That was why she remembered it, the buying of the binoculars, because of the spontaneity of such a mundane act.

  Charlaine put the binoculars up to her eyes. They were auto-focus, so there was nothing to adjust. It took her a moment or two to find the space between the window and the shade. But the blue spot was there. She saw the flicker and her eyes closed. She should have known.

  The television. Freddy had turned on the television.

  He was home.

  Charlaine stood without moving. She didn’t know how she felt anymore. The numb was back. Her son Clay liked to play a song from the Shrek movie about a guy forming an L with his fingers on his forehead. Loser. That was Freddy Sykes. And now Freddy, this scuzzy creepazoid, this Loser with a finger-capital L, would rather watch television than her lingerie-clad body.

  Something was still strange.

  All those shades pulled down. Why? She had lived next to the Sykes house for eight years. Even when Freddy’s mother was alive, the shades were never pulled down, the curtains never closed. Charlaine took another look through her binoculars.

  The television flicked off.

  She stopped, waiting for something to happen. Freddy had lost track of the time, she thought. The shade would open now. They would begin their perverted ritual.

  But that’s not what happened.

  Charlaine heard the slight whir and knew immediately what it was. Freddy’s electric garage door had been activated.

  She moved closer to the window. There was the sound of a car starting up, and then Freddy’s hunk-of-junk Honda pulled out. Sunlight reflected off the windshield. The glare made her squint. She blocked it by cupping her hand above her eyes.

  The car moved and the glare cleared. She could now see who was driving.

  It wasn’t Freddy.

  Something, something base and primitive, commanded Charlaine to duck out of sight. She did. She dropped down and crawled for the robe. She pressed the terrycloth against herself. The smell—that combination of Mike and stale cologne—now seemed oddly comforting.

  Charlaine moved toward the side of the window. She pressed her back against the wall and peaked out.


  The Honda Accord had stopped. The driver—the Asian man behind the wheel—was staring at her window.

  Charlaine quickly flattened herself back against the wall. She stayed still, holding her breath. She stayed that way until she heard the car start moving again. And then, just to be on the safe side, she stayed down another ten minutes.

  When she looked again, the car was gone.

  The house next door was still.

  chapter 7

  At exactly 10:15 A.M., Grace arrived at the Photomat.

  Josh the Fuzz Pellet was not there. As a matter of fact, nobody was there. The sign in the store window, probably left from the night before, read CLOSED.

  She checked the printed hours. Opens at 10 A.M. She waited. At ten-twenty, the first customer, a harried woman in her mid-thirties, spotted the CLOSED sign, read the hours, tried the door. She sighed in high drama. Grace gave her a commiserating shrug. The woman huffed off. Grace waited.

  When the store had still not opened at 10:30 A.M., Grace knew that it was bad. She decided to try Jack’s office again. His line kept going into voice mail—eerie hearing Jack’s too-formal recorded voice—so she tried Dan’s line this time. The two men had, after all, spoken last night. Maybe Dan could offer a clue.

  She dialed his work number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dan, it’s Grace.”

  “Hey!” he said with a tad too much enthusiasm. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He hesitated. “When you say you don’t know—”

  “You called him last night, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “We’re supposed to be making a presentation this afternoon. On the Phenomytol studies.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What do you mean, anything else? Like what?”

  “Like what else did you talk about?”

  “Nothing. I wanted to ask him about a PowerPoint slide. Why? What’s going on, Grace?”

  “He went out after that.”

  “Right, so?”

  “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Wait, when you say you haven’t seen him . . . ?”