Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  The Glock was still in the ankle holster.

  The feel of it was constant now. The weapon seemed to be calling to her, mocking her, so close and yet out of reach.

  Grace would have to figure a way to get to it. There was no other choice. This man was going to kill them. She was sure of that. He wanted some information first—the origin of that photograph, for one thing—but once he had it, once he realized that she was telling the truth on that score, he would kill them both.

  She had to go for the gun.

  The man kept sneaking glances at her. There was no opening. She thought about it. Wait until he stopped the car? She had tried that before—it hadn’t worked. Just go for it? Just pull it out and take her chances? A possibility but she really did not think she’d be fast enough. Pulling up the leg cuff, unsnapping that safety strap, getting her hand around the gun, withdrawing it . . . all before he reacted?

  No way.

  She debated the slow approach. Lower her hands a little to the side. Try to work her cuff up a bit at a time. Pretend like she had an itch.

  Grace shifted in her seat and looked down at her leg. And that was when she felt her heart slam into her throat. . . .

  Her cuff had ridden up.

  The ankle holster. It was visible now.

  Panic spread through her. She cut a glance at her captor, hoping that he hadn’t seen it. But he had. His eyes suddenly widened. He was looking right at her leg.

  Now or never.

  But even as she reached, Grace could see that she had no chance. There was simply no way to get there in time. Her captor put his hand on her knee again and squeezed. Pain blasted violently through her, nearly knocking her unconscious. She screamed. Her body went rigid. Her hands dropped, useless now.

  He had her.

  She turned toward him, looked into his eyes, saw nothing. Then, without warning, there was movement coming from behind him. Grace gasped.

  It was Jack.

  Somehow he had risen up from the backseat like an apparition. The man turned, more curious than concerned. After all, Jack’s hands and legs were bound. He was totally spent. What harm could he do?

  Wild-eyed and looking something like an animal, Jack reared back his head and whipped it forward. The surprise caught the man off guard. Jack’s forehead connected with the man’s right cheek. The sound was a deep, hollow clunk. The car shrieked to a stop. The man let go of Grace’s knee.

  “Run, Grace!”

  It was Jack’s voice. Grace fumbled for the gun. She unsnapped the safety strap. But the man was back up again. He used one hand to grab Jack’s neck. With the other he went after her knee again. She pulled away. He tried again.

  Grace knew that there was no time to get the gun. Jack could no longer help. He had used up everything, sacrificed himself, for that one blow.

  It would all be for nothing.

  The man punched Grace in the ribs again. Hot knives blasted through her. Nausea swam through her stomach and head. She felt consciousness start ebbing away.

  She couldn’t hang on. . . .

  Jack tried to thrash away, but he was little more than a nuisance. The man squeezed Jack’s neck. Jack made a sound and went still.

  The man reached for her again. Grace grabbed the door handle.

  His hand clasped her arm.

  She could not move.

  Jack’s lifeless head slid down the man’s shoulder. It stopped on the forearm. And there, with his eyes closed, Jack opened his mouth and bit down hard.

  The man howled and released his grip. He started shaking his arm, trying to get Jack off. Jack clenched his jaw and hung on like a bulldog. The man slammed his free palm into Jack’s head. Jack slumped off.

  Grace pulled the door handle, leaned her body against it.

  She fell out of the car and landed on the pavement. She rolled away, anything to get farther away from her captor. She actually rolled into the other lane of the highway. A car swerved past her.

  Get the gun!

  She reached down again. The safety strap was off. She turned toward the car. The man was getting out. He pulled up his shirt. Grace saw his gun. She saw him reaching for it. Grace’s own gun came loose.

  There was no question now. There was no ethical dilemma. There was no thought about maybe yelling out a warning, telling him to freeze, asking him to put his hands on his head. There was no moral outrage. There was no culture, no humanity, no years of civilization or breeding.

  Grace pulled the trigger. The gun went off. She pulled it again. And again. The man staggered. She pulled it again. The sound of sirens grew. And Grace fired again.

  chapter 49

  Two ambulances arrived. One whisked Jack away before Grace could even see him. Two paramedics worked on her. They were in constant motion, asking questions as they worked, but their words did not register. She was strapped to a stretcher and wheeled toward the ambulance. Perlmutter was there now.

  “Where are Emma and Max?” she asked.

  “At the station. They’re safe.”

  An hour later Jack was in surgery. That was all they would tell her. He was in surgery.

  The young doctor ran a battery of tests on Grace. The ribs were indeed cracked, but there was nothing you could really do for cracked ribs. The doctor wrapped them with an Ace bandage and gave her a shot. The pain began to subside. An orthopedic surgeon checked out her knee and just shook his head.

  Perlmutter came into her room and asked a lot of questions. For the most part Grace answered. On some subjects she was intentionally vague. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep anything from the police. Or maybe, well, maybe she did.

  Perlmutter was pretty vague too. Her dead captor’s name was Eric Wu. He had been in prison. In Walden. That did not surprise Grace. Wade Larue had been in Walden too. It was all linked. That old photograph. Jack’s group, Allaw. The Jimmy X Band. Wade Larue. And yes, even Eric Wu.

  Perlmutter deflected most of her questions. She did not push it. Scott Duncan was in the room too. He stayed in the corner and did not speak.

  Grace asked, “How did you know I was with this Eric Wu?”

  Perlmutter clearly did not mind answering this one. “Do you know Charlaine Swain?”

  “No.”

  “Her son Clay goes to Willard.”

  “Okay, right. I’ve met her.”

  Perlmutter filled her in on Charlaine Swain’s own ordeal at the hands of Eric Wu. He was expansive on the subject, purposefully, Grace thought, so that he could keep mum about the rest of it. Perlmutter’s cell phone rang. He excused himself and headed into the corridor. Grace was alone with Scott Duncan.

  “What are they thinking?” she asked.

  Scott came closer. “The popular theory is that Eric Wu was working for Wade Larue.”

  “How do they figure?”

  “They know you went to Larue’s press conference today, so that’s link one. Wu and Larue were not only in Walden at the same time, but they were cellmates for three months.”

  “Link two,” she said. “So what do they think Larue was after?”

  “Revenge.”

  “On?”

  “On you, for starters. You testified against him.”

  “I testified at his trial, but not really against him. I don’t even remember the stampede.”

  “Still. There is a solid link between Eric Wu and Wade Larue—we checked the prison phone records, they’ve been in touch—and there is a solid link between Larue and you.”

  “But even if Wade Larue was out for vengeance, why not take me? Why take Jack?”

  “They think maybe Larue was trying to hurt you by hurting your family. Make you suffer.”

  She shook her head. “And that weird photograph arriving? How do they figure that into the mix? Or your sister’s murder? Or Shane Alworth or Sheila Lambert? Or Bob Dodd getting killed in New Hampshire?”

  “It is a theory,” Duncan said, “with lots of holes. But remember—and this plugs most of them—they don’t see all thes
e connections the way we do. My sister may have been murdered fifteen years ago, but that doesn’t have anything to do with now. Neither does Bob Dodd, a reporter who was shot gangland style. For now they’re keeping it simple: Wu gets out of jail. He grabs your husband. Maybe he would have grabbed others, who knows?”

  “And the reason he didn’t just kill Jack?”

  “Wu was holding him until Wade Larue is released.”

  “Which was today.”

  “Right, today. Then Wu grabs you both. He was taking you to Larue when you escaped.”

  “So Larue could, what, kill us himself?”

  Duncan shrugged.

  “That doesn’t make sense, Scott. Eric Wu broke my ribs because he wanted to know how I got that photograph. He stopped because he got an unexpected call. Then he suddenly packed us in that car. None of that was planned.”

  “Perlmutter just learned all that. They may now alter their theory.”

  “And where is Wade Larue anyway?”

  “No one seems to know. They’re searching for him.”

  Grace dropped back on her pillow. Her bones felt so damned heavy. The tears started flooding her eyes. “How bad is Jack?”

  “Bad.”

  “Is he going to live?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Don’t let them lie to me.”

  “I won’t, Grace. But try to get some sleep, okay?”

  • • •

  In the corridor Perlmutter spoke to the captain of the Armonk Police Department, Anthony Dellapelle. They were still combing through the home of Beatrice Smith.

  “We just checked the basement,” Dellapelle said. “Someone was kept locked up down there.”

  “Jack Lawson. We know that.”

  Dellapelle paused and said, “Maybe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s still a set of handcuffs against a pipe.”

  “Wu unlocked him. He probably left them there.”

  “That could be. There’s also blood down there—not much of it, but it’s fairly fresh.”

  “Lawson had some cuts on him.”

  There was a pause.

  “What’s going on?” Perlmutter asked.

  “Where are you right now, Stu?”

  “Valley Hospital.”

  “How long would it take you to get here?”

  “Fifteen minutes with the sirens,” Perlmutter said. “Why?”

  “There’s something else down here,” Dellapelle said. “Something you might want to see for yourself.”

  • • •

  At midnight Grace pulled herself out of bed and started down the corridor. Her children had visited briefly. Grace insisted that they let her get out of bed for that. Scott Duncan bought her some regular clothes—an Adidas sweat suit—because she did not want to greet her children in a hospital gown. She took a major pain injection so as to quiet the screaming in her ribs. Grace wanted the children to see that she was all right, that she was safe, that they were safe. She put on a brave face that lasted right up until the moment she saw that Emma had brought her poetry journal. Then she started crying.

  You can only be strong for so long.

  The children were spending the night in their own beds. Cora would stay in the master bedroom. Cora’s daughter, Vickie, would sleep in the bed next to Emma. Perlmutter had assigned a female cop to stay the night too. Grace was grateful.

  The hospital was dark now. Grace managed to stand upright. It took her forever. The hot scream was back in her ribs. Her knee felt more like shards of shattered glass than a joint.

  The corridor was quiet. Grace had a specific destination in mind. Someone would try to stop her, she was sure, but that didn’t really concern her. She was determined.

  “Grace?”

  She turned toward the female voice, readying to do battle. But that wouldn’t be the case here. Grace recognized the woman from the playground. “You’re Charlaine Swain.”

  The woman nodded. They moved toward each other, eyes locked, sharing something neither one of them could really articulate.

  “I guess I owe you a thanks,” Grace said.

  “Vice versa,” Charlaine said. “You killed him. The nightmare is over for us.”

  “How is your husband?” Grace asked.

  “He’s going to be fine.”

  Grace nodded.

  Charlaine said, “I hear yours isn’t doing well.” They were both beyond phony platitudes. Grace appreciated the honesty.

  “He’s in a coma.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “I’m going there now.”

  “Sneaking in?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlaine nodded. “Let me help you.”

  Grace leaned on Charlaine Swain. The woman was strong. The corridor was empty. In the distance they heard the sharp clack of heels on tile. The lights were low. They passed an empty nurse station and got into the elevator. Jack was on the third floor, in intensive care. Having Charlaine Swain with her felt oddly right to Grace. She could not say why.

  This particular section of the intensive care unit had four rooms with glass walls. A nurse sat in the middle, thus able to monitor them all at once, but right now, only one room had a patient in it.

  They both pulled up. Jack was in the bed. The first thing Grace noticed was that her powerful husband, the gruff six-two hunk who’d always made her feel safe, looked so small and fragile in that bed. She knew that it was her imagination. It had only been two days. He had lost some weight. He had been totally dehydrated. But that wasn’t what this was.

  Jack’s eyes were closed. He had a tube coming out of his throat. There was another tube in his mouth. Both were taped with white adhesive. Yet another tube was in his nose. Still another in his right arm. There was an IV. There were machines surrounding him, straight out of some futuristic nightmare.

  Grace felt herself starting to fall. Charlaine held her up. Grace steadied herself and moved toward the door.

  The nurse said, “You can’t go in there.”

  “She just wants to sit with him,” Charlaine said. “Please.”

  The nurse glanced around then back at Grace. “Two minutes.”

  Grace let go of Charlaine. Charlaine pushed opened the door for her. Grace went in alone. There were beeps and dings and a hellish sound like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Grace sat down next to the bed. She did not reach for Jack’s hand. She did not kiss Jack’s cheek.

  “You’re going to love the last verse,” Grace said.

  She opened Emma’s journal and started reading:

  “Baseball, baseball,

  Who’s your best friend?

  Is it the bat,

  Who hits your rear end?”

  Grace laughed and turned the page, but the next page—in fact, the rest of the journal—was blank.

  chapter 50

  A few minutes before Wade Larue died, he thought he had finally found true peace.

  He had let vengeance go. He no longer needed to know the full truth. He knew enough. He knew where he was to blame and where he was not. It was time to put it behind him.

  Carl Vespa had no choice. He would never be able to recover. The same was true for that awful swirl of faces—that blur of grief—he had been forced to see in the courtroom and again today at the press conference. Wade had lost time. But time is relative. Death is not.

  He had told Vespa all he knew. Vespa was a bad man, no doubt about it. The man was capable of unspeakable cruelty. Over the past fifteen years Wade Larue had met a lot of people like that, but few were that simple. With the exception of full-blown psychopaths, most people, even our most evil, have the ability to love someone, to care about them, to make connections. That was not inconsistent. That was simply human.

  Larue spoke. Vespa listened. Sometime in the middle of his explanation, Cram appeared with a towel and ice. He handed it to Larue. Larue thanked him. He took the towel—the ice would be too bulky—and dabbed the bl
ood off his face. Vespa’s blows no longer hurt. Larue had dealt with much worse over the years. When you’ve had enough of beatings, you go one way or the other—you fear them so much that you will do anything to avoid them, or you just ride them out and realize that this too shall pass. Somewhere during his incarceration Larue had joined that second camp.

  Carl Vespa did not say a word. He did not interrupt or ask for clarification. When Larue finished Vespa stood there, his face unchanged, waiting for more. There was nothing. Without a word Vespa turned and left. He nodded at Cram. Cram started toward him. Larue lifted his head. He would not run. He was through with running.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Cram said.

  Cram dropped him off in the center of Manhattan. Larue debated calling Eric Wu, but he knew that would be pointless at this stage. He started toward the Port Authority bus terminal. He was ready now for the rest of his life to begin. He was going to head to Portland, Oregon. He wasn’t sure why. He had read about Portland in prison and it seemed to fit the bill. He wanted a big city with a liberal feel. From what he’d read, Portland sounded like a hippy commune that had turned into a major metropolis. He might get a fair shake out there.

  He would have to change his name. Grow a beard. Dye his hair. He didn’t think it would take that much to change him, to help him escape the past fifteen years. Naïve to think it, yes, but Wade Larue still thought that an acting career was a possibility. He still had the chops. He still had the supernatural charisma. So why not give it a go? If not, he’d get a regular job. He wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. He’d be in a big city again. He’d be free.

  But Wade Larue didn’t go to the Port Authority bus station.

  The past still had too strong a pull. He couldn’t go quite yet. He stopped a block away. He saw the buses churning out to the viaduct. He watched for a moment and then turned to the row of pay phones.

  He had to make one last phone call. He had to know one last truth.

  Now, an hour later, the barrel of a gun was pressed against that soft hollow under his ear. It was funny what you thought of a moment before death. The soft hollow—that was one of Eric Wu’s favorite pressure-point spots. Wu had explained to him that knowing the location was fairly meaningless. You could not just stick your finger in there and push. That might hurt, but it would never incapacitate an opponent.