the Innocent (2005)

by Harlan Coben

"What?"

  "When I called. Where were you?"

  "Oh, I was at a seminar."

  "Where?"

  "What do you mean, where? I'm in Boston."

  "What was it on?"

  "Some new surfing tool to guard against employees using the Web for personal u se. You can't imagine the amount of work hours lost on the Internet."

  "Uh huh."

  "Listen, I have to run. I'm meeting some people for dinner."

  "Anyone I know?"

  "Nope, no one you know." Olivia sighed with a little too much flair. "Check t hat: No one you'd even want to know."

  "Boring?"

  "Very."

  "What hotel are you staying at?"

  "Didn't I tell you?"

  "No."

  "The Ritz. But I'll be in and out. You're better off getting me on the cell p hone."

  "Olivia?"

  "Oh," she said. "Hold up a second."

  There was a long pause. Marsha crossed the lawn, approaching him. She signaled t o her car, asking if it was okay if she took off. He waved that it was fine.

  Ethan and Paul, tired of running around in circles, headed toward him. Ethan g rabbed his right leg, Paul his left. Matt made a face and pointed to the phone, a s if they'd get the meaning that he was otherwise occupied. They didn't.

  Olivia said, "There's a picture on my phone. Which button do I press again?"

  "The one on the right side."

  "Hold on. Here it comes." Then: "Hey, it's you. Dang, I married a handsome d evil."

  Matt couldn't help but smile-- and that just made it hurt more. He loved her. He c ould try to soften the blow, but there was no way he could escape it. "It would b e wrong for me to argue with you," he said.

  "Not your best smile though. Heck, no smile at all. And next time, take your s hirt off."

  "You too," he said.

  She laughed but it wasn't as let-go as usual.

  "Better yet"-- Matt added and then the next words: were they planned?--"why not w ear a platinum-blonde wig?"

  Silence.

  This time he broke it. "Olivia?"

  "I'm here."

  "Before. When I called you."

  "Yes?"

  "I was calling you back."

  As if sensing the tenseness, the boys let go of his legs. Paul tilted his head a t Ethan.

  "But I didn't call you," Olivia said.

  "Yes, you did. I mean, I got a call from your phone."

  "When?"

  "Right before I called."

  "I don't understand."

  "There was a picture on the line. Of a man with dark hair. And then there was a v ideo."

  "A video?"

  "You were in a room. At least it looked like you. Except you were wearing a p latinum-blonde wig."

  More silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Did he believe her? He so wanted to, so wanted to just drop it . . .

  "Earlier today," he said, "right before I left you that message, I got a call f rom your cell phone. It was a camera call--"

  "No, I understand that, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  "Oh, wait," Olivia said. "That might explain something."

  Paul and Ethan had started running in dizzying circles again. They were out of c ontrol and a little too close to the street. Matt put his hand over the m outhpiece and called them back.

  "Explain what?" he asked.

  "I think . . . well, I don't really understand why I didn't get your first call.

  I'm in range. I looked on the missed calls log and you know what? Jamie called t oo. I never heard that one either."

  "So?"

  "So I'm thinking. The guys at these seminars. They're all jokers. Maybe one of t hem played a prank."

  "A prank."

  "Okay, during this seminar? I fell asleep. It was boring as hell. When I woke u p, my purse had been moved. Not a lot. But now that I think about it, it was d efinitely moved. I didn't think much about it at the time."

  "And now you think . . . ?"

  "That, yeah, they took it and did something with it and then put it back. I d on't know, I guess that's crazy too."

  Matt didn't know what to make of this, but Olivia's tone did not ring true.

  "When are you coming home?"

  "Friday."

  He switched hands. "I'll come up."

  "Don't you have work?"

  "Nothing that can't keep."

  "But," she said, and her voice dropped a little, "isn't tomorrow your, uh, Thursday at the museum?"

  He had almost forgotten about it.

  "You can't miss that."

  In three years he never had. For a long time Matt had told no one about his e very-other-Thursday rendezvous at the museum. People would never understand.

  There was a bond there, a draw built on necessity and secrecy. It was hard to s ay more. Those meetings were simply too important.

  But he still said, "I can put it off."

  "You shouldn't, Matt. You know that."

  "I can fly up right now--"

  "There's no need. I'll be home the day after tomorrow."

  "I don't want to wait."

  "I'm crazy busy with stuff here anyway. Look, I have to go. We'll talk about t his later, okay?"

  "Olivia?"

  "Friday," she said. "I love you."

  And then she hung up.

  Chapter 10

  "UNCLE MATT?"

  Paul and Ethan were safely ensconced in the backseat. It had taken Matt the b etter part of fifteen minutes to secure the car booster seats into place. Who t he hell had designed these things-- NASA?

  "What's up, partner?"

  "You know what McDonald's has right now?"

  "I already told you. We're not going to McDonald's."

  "Oh, I know. I'm just saying."

  "Uh huh."

  "You know what McDonald's has right now?"

  "No," Matt said.

  "You know the new Shrek movie?"

  "Yes."

  "They got Shrek toys," Paul said.

  "He means McDonald's does," Ethan chipped in.

  "Is that a fact?"

  "And they're free."

  "They're not free," Matt said.

  "They are so. It's in the Happy Meal."

  "Which are overpriced."

  "Overwhat?"

  "We're not going to McDonald's."

  "Oh, we know."

  "We were just saying."

  "They got free toys, is all."

  "From the new Shrek movie."

  "Remember when we saw the first Shrek movie, Uncle Matt?"

  "I remember," he said.

  "I like Donkey," Ethan said.

  "Me too," Matt agreed.

  "Donkey is the toy this week."

  "We're not going to McDonald's."

  "I'm just saying."

  " 'Cause Chinese is good too," Paul said.

  "Even though they don't got toys."

  "Yeah, I like spare ribs."

  "And dim sum."

  "Mom likes the string beans."

  "Ugh. You don't like string beans, do you, Uncle Matt?"

  "They're good for you," Matt said.

  Ethan turned to his brother. "That means no."

  Matt smiled, tried to push away the day. Paul and Ethan were good for that.

  They arrived at Cathay, an old-fashioned Chinese restaurant with the retro c lassics like chow mein and egg foo young, cracked vinyl booths, and a grumpy o ld woman at the front counter who watched you eat as if fearing you'd pocket t he utensils.

  The food was greasy, but that was as it should be. The boys ate a ton. At McDonald's, they picked. They managed maybe half a burger and a dozen fries.

  Here they cleaned the plate. Chinese restaurants would be well served by handing o ut movie tie-in toys.

  Ethan, as always, was animated. Paul was a bit more reserved. They had been r aised in pretty much the exact manner, the same gene pool, and yet they c ouldn't be more different.
Ethan was the cutup. He never sat still. He was m essy and lively and shunned affection. When Paul colored, he always stayed in t he lines. He got frustrated when he made a mistake. He was thoughtful, a good a thlete, and liked to cuddle.

  Nature waaay over nurture.

  They stopped at Dairy Queen on the ride home. Ethan ended up wearing more soft v anilla than he consumed. When he pulled into the driveway Matt was surprised to s ee that Marsha wasn't back yet. He took them inside-- he had a key-- and gave t hem a bath. It was eight o'clock.

  Matt put on an episode of The Fairly OddParents, which was pretty funny on an a dult level, and then convinced the boys using negotiating skills picked up in l egal pleadings across the state to get into bed. Ethan was afraid of the dark, s o Matt turned on the SpongeBob night-light.

  Matt checked his watch. Eight thirty. He didn't mind staying later, but he was g etting a little worried.

  He headed into the kitchen. The latest works of art by Paul and Ethan hung on t he refrigerator by magnets. There were photographs, too, in acrylic frames that n ever seemed to hold the photos in place. Most were halfway slipping out. Matt c arefully slid the images back where they belonged.

  Near the top of the fridge, too high for the children to reach (if not see?) t here were two photographs of Bernie. Matt stopped and stared at his brother.

  After a while he turned away and picked up the kitchen phone. He dialed Marsha's c ell.

  Marsha had caller ID and answered, "Matt? I was just about to call you."

  "Hey."

  "Are you at the house?"

  "We are. And the boys are bathed and in bed."

  "Wow, you're good."

  "I thank you."

  "No, I thank you."

  No one spoke for a moment.

  Matt asked, "Do you need me to stay awhile?"

  "If it's okay."

  "No problem. Olivia's still in Boston."

  "Thank you," she said, and there was something in her voice.

  He switched ears. "Uh, what time do you think you'll be getting--"

  "Matt?"

  "Yes."

  "I lied to you before."

  He said nothing.

  "I didn't have a school meeting."

  He waited.

  "I'm out on a date."

  Not sure what to say to that, Matt went with the reliable "Oh."

  "I should have told you before." She lowered her voice. "It's not a first date e ither."

  His eyes found his brother's in the photograph on the refrigerator. "Uh huh."

  "I've been seeing someone. It's been almost two months now. The boys don't know a nything about it, of course."

  "You don't have to explain to me."

  "Yeah, Matt. Yeah, I do."

  He said nothing.

  "Matt?"

  "I'm here."

  "Would you mind spending the night?"

  He closed his eyes. "No," he said. "I don't mind at all."

  "I'll be home before the boys wake up."

  "Okay."

  He heard a sniffle then. She was crying.

  "It's okay, Marsha."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

  "I love you, Matt."

  "I love you too."

  He hung up the phone. It was a good thing, Marsha going out. It was a very good t hing. But his eyes drifted back toward his brother. Unfair and wrong as it was, Matt couldn't help but think that his brother had never seemed more gone.

  Chapter 11

  EVERYONE SEEMS TO HAVE this terrifying dream where you are suddenly about to t ake the final exam in a class you haven't attended all semester. Matt did not.

  Instead, in a strangely similar vein, he dreamed that he was back in prison. He h ad no idea what he'd done to get back there. There was no memory of a crime or a trial, just the sense that he had somehow messed up and that this time he w ould never get out.

  He'd wake up with a start. He'd be sweating. There'd be tears in his eyes. His b ody would quake.

  Olivia had grown used to it. She would wrap her arms around him and whisper that i t was okay, that nothing could hurt him anymore. She had bad dreams of her own, h is lovely wife, but she never seemed to need or want that sort of comfort.

  He slept on the couch in the den. The upstairs guest room had a pullout q ueen-size bed that somehow felt too big when he was sleeping alone. Now, as he s tared up in the dark, feeling more alone than he had since Olivia walked into h is office, Matt actually feared sleep. He kept his eyes open. At four in the m orning Marsha's car pulled into the driveway.

  When he heard the key in the door, Matt closed his eyes and pretended to be a sleep on the couch. Marsha tiptoed over and kissed him on the forehead. The s mell of shampoo and soap wafted from her. She had showered, wherever she had b een. He wondered if she had showered alone. He wondered why he cared.

  She moved into the kitchen. Still feigning sleep, Matt slowly opened one eye.

  Marsha was making lunch for the boys. She spread jelly with a too-practiced h and. There were tears on her cheek. Matt kept still. He let her finish in peace a nd listened to her gentle footsteps pad up the stairs.

  At 7 A. M., Cingle called him.

  "I tried your home number," she said. "You weren't there."

  "I'm at my sister-in-law's."

  "Oh."

  "Just babysitting my nephews."

  "Did I ask?"

  He rubbed his face. "So what's up?"

  "You coming into the office?"

  "Yeah, a little later. Why?"

  "I found your follower, Charles Talley."

  He sat all the way up. "Where?"

  "Let's talk about this in person, okay?"

  "Why?"

  "I need to do a little more research."

  "On what?"

  "On Charles Talley. I'll meet you at your office at noon, okay?"

  He had his Thursday rendezvous at the museum anyway. "Yeah, okay."

  "And Matt?"

  "What?"

  "You said this was personal? Whatever it is with Talley?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you're in deep doo-doo."

  Matt was a member of the Newark Museum. He flashed his membership card but there w as no need. The guards at the door knew him by now. He nodded and entered. Very f ew people roamed the hall this time of the morning. Matt headed to the art g allery in the west wing. He passed the museum's newest piece, a colorful canvas b y Wosene Worke Kosrof, and took the steps to the second floor.

  She was the only one there.

  He could see her way down at the end of the corridor. She was standing where she a lways stood-- in front of the painting by Edward Hopper. Her head was tilted e ver so slightly to the left. She was a very attractive woman, nearing sixty, a lmost six feet tall, high cheekbones, the kind of blonde hair only the wealthy s eem to possess. As always she looked smart and tailored and polished.

  Her name was Sonya McGrath. She was the mother of Stephen McGrath, the boy Matt h ad killed.

  Sonya always waited by the Hopper. The painting was called Sheridan Theater and m anaged to catch pure desolation and despair in a picture of a movie theater. It w as amazing. There were famous images depicting the ravages of war, of death, of d estruction, but there was something in this seemingly simple Hopper, something i n this near-empty theater balcony that spoke to both of them in ways no other i mage ever had.

  Sonya McGrath heard him approach but she didn't turn away from the picture. Matt p assed Stan, the security guard who always worked this floor on Thursday m ornings. They exchanged a quick smile and nod. Matt wondered what Stan must t hink of his quiet trysts with this attractive older woman.

  He stood next to her and looked at the Hopper. It worked like a bizarre mirror.

  He saw them as the two isolated figures-- he Hopper's usher, she the lone patron.

  For a long time they didn't speak. Matt glanced at Sonya McGrath's profile. He h ad seen a photograph of her in the paper once, the
Sunday New York Times Style s ection. Sonya McGrath was something of a socialite. In the photograph, her s mile dazzled. He had never seen that smile in person-- wondered, in fact, if it c ould exist anywhere but on film.

  "You don't look so good," Sonya said.

  She was not looking at him-- had not, as far as he could tell, yet glanced his w ay-- but he nodded anyway. Sonya faced him full.

  Their relationship-- though the term "relationship" didn't seem to capture it--b egan a few years after Matt got out of prison. His phone would ring, he would p ick it up, and there would be no one there. No hang-up. No words. Matt thought t hat maybe he could hear breathing, but mostly there was pure silence.

  Somehow Matt knew who was on the other end.

  The fifth time she called, Matt took several deep breaths before working up the c ourage to speak. "I'm sorry," he said.

  There was a long silence. Then Sonya replied, "Tell me what really happened."

  "I did. In court."

  "Tell me again. Everything."

  He tried. He took a long time. She stayed silent. When he finished she hung up.

  The next day she called again. "I want to tell you about my son," she said w ithout preamble.

  And she did.

  Matt now knew more than he really wanted to know about Stephen McGrath. He was n o longer merely a kid who stepped into a fight, the log jammed onto the track t hat sent Matt Hunter's life off the rails. McGrath had two younger sisters who a dored him. He loved playing guitar. He was a little hippy-ish-- he got that, Sonya said with a trace of a laugh, from his mother. He was a great listener, t hat was what his friends always said. If they had a problem, they went to Stephen. He never needed to be the center of attention. He was content on the s idelines. He would laugh at your joke. He had gotten in trouble only once in h is life-- the police caught him and some buddies drinking behind the high s chool-- but he had never gotten into a fight, not even as a kid, and seemed d eathly afraid of physical violence.

  During that same phone call, Sonya asked him, "Did you know that Stephen didn't k now any of the boys in the fight?"

  "Yes."

  She started to cry then. "So why did he step in?"

  "I don't know."

  They first met in person here at the Newark Museum three years ago. They had c offee and barely spoke. A few months later, they stayed for lunch. It became a s teady thing, every other Thursday morning in front of the Hopper. Neither of t hem had ever missed one.

  At first they told no one. Sonya's husband and daughters would never understand.