by Harlan Coben
"Hello?"
"Matt?"
He frowned. It sounded like Midlife. "Ike, is that you?"
"Matt, I just got off the phone with Cingle."
"What?"
"I'm on the way to the county prosecutor's office now," Midlife said. "They want t o interrogate her."
"She called you?"
"Yeah, I guess, but I think that had more to do with you."
"What are you talking about?"
"She wanted to warn you."
"About what?"
"I wrote it down, hold on. Okay, first off, you asked her about a man named Max Darrow? He's been murdered. They found him shot dead in Newark."
Matt looked at Olivia. She said, "What is it?"
Midlife was still talking. "But worse, Charles Talley is dead. They found his b ody at the Howard Johnson's. They also found a set of bloody brass knuckles.
They're running DNA tests on them now. And within the hour, they'll have the p hotographs off your cell phone."
Matt said nothing.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Matt?"
He did. It didn't take long. They'd put it together like this: Matt, an ex-con w ho'd already served time for killing a man in a fight, gets these mocking p hotographs on his cell phone. His wife was clearly shacking up with Charles Talley. Matt used a private eye to find out where they were. He charged into the h otel late at night. There was a fight. There'd be at least one witness-- the guy a t the front desk. Probably a security video. They'd have physical evidence too.
His DNA is probably all over the dead man.
There would be holes in their case. Matt could show them the gray window and e xplain about the drought. He also didn't know what time Talley had been killed, b ut if Matt was lucky, the murder took place when he was in the ambulance or at t he hospital. Or maybe he'd have an alibi in the taxi driver. Or his wife.
Like that would hold up.
"Matt?"
"What is it?"
"The police are probably searching for you now."
He glanced out the window. A police car pulled up next to Lance's. "I think they a lready found me."
"You want me to arrange a peaceful surrender?"
A peaceful surrender. Trust the authorities to straighten it out. Do the l aw-abiding thing.
That worked so well before, didn't it?
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice . . .
And suppose he did come clean. Then what? They'd have to tell everything, i ncluding Olivia's past. Forget about the fact that Matt swore, swore, he'd n ever let himself go back to prison. Olivia had indeed committed a crime. She'd, a t best, helped dispose of a dead body. Not to mention the fact that Max Darrow, w ho had also been murdered, had been blackmailing her. How would that look?
"Ike?"
"Yes."
"If they know we communicated, you could get nailed for aiding and abetting."
"Nah, Matt, I really can't. I'm your attorney. I'm giving you the facts and e ncouraging you to surrender. But what you do . . . well, I can't control that.
I can only be shocked and outraged. You see?"
He did. He looked out the window again. Another squad car pulled up. He thought a bout being back in prison. In the window reflection, he saw Stephen McGrath's g host. Stephen winked at him. Matt felt the tightness in his chest.
"Thanks, Ike."
"Good luck, pal."
Midlife hung up the phone. Matt turned to Olivia. "What is it?" she asked.
"We have to get out of here."
Chapter 42
LANCE BANNER APPROACHED Marsha Hunter's front door.
Two tired uniforms were with him now. Both men had facial stubble nestled in t hat cusp between needing a shave and trendy, the end of an uneventful Livingston night shift. They were young guys, fairly new on the force. They w alked in silence. He could hear them breathing hard. Both men had put on weight r ecently. Lance was not sure why that happened, why the new recruits always g ained weight during their first year with the force, but he'd be hard-pressed t o find examples where that didn't happen.
Lance was conflicted here. He was having second thoughts about his run-in with Matt yesterday. Whatever his past crime, whatever he may have become, Hunter had n ot deserved being subject to Banner's clumsy and stupid harassment. And it had b een stupid, no question about it, intimidating a purported interloper like some r edneck sheriff in a bad movie.
Last night Matt Hunter had scoffed at Lance's seemingly Pollyanna-ish attempt to k eep evil out of his fair town. But Matt got it wrong. Lance wasn't naive. He u nderstood that there was no protective force field around the fertile suburban s prawl. That was the point. You work hard to make a life for yourself. You meet u p with like-minded people and build a great community. Then you fight to keep i t. You see a potential problem, you don't let it fester. You remove it. You're p roactive. That was what he'd been doing with Matt Hunter. That was what men l ike Lance Banner did for their hometowns. They were the soldiers, the front l ine, the few who took night duty so that the others, including Lance's own f amily, could sleep soundly.
So when his fellow cops started talking about doing something, when Lance's own w ife, Wendy, who had gone to school with Matt Hunter's younger sister and t hought she was a "Queen Bitch," started getting on his case about a convicted k iller moving into their neighborhood, when one of the town councilmen had o ffered up the sternest of suburban worries--"Lance, do you realize what it'll do t o property values?"-- he had acted.
And now he wasn't sure if he regretted it or not.
He thought about his conversation with Loren Muse yesterday. She'd asked him a bout young Matt Hunter. Had Lance seen any early signs of psychosis there? The a nswer was a pretty firm no. Hunter had been soft. Lance remembered him crying a t a Little League game when he dropped a fly ball. His father had comforted him w hile Lance marveled at what a big baby the kid was. But-- and this might seem t he opposite of Loren's study on early signs of trouble-- men can indeed change.
It was not all decided by age five or whatever Loren had told him.
The catch was, the change was always, always, for the worse.
If you discover a young psychotic, he will never turn himself around and become p roductive. Never. But you can find plenty of guys, nice guys who grew up with t he right values, quality guys who respected the law and loved thy neighbor, g entle guys who found violence abhorrent and wanted to stay on the straight and n arrow-- you find lots of guys like this who end up doing terrible things.
Who knew why? Sometimes it was, as in Hunter's case, just a question of bad l uck, but then again it's all about luck, isn't it? Your upbringing, your genes, y our life experience, conditions, whatever-- they're all a crapshoot. Matt Hunter h ad been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That didn't matter anymore. You c ould see it in his eyes. You could see it in the way Hunter walked, the early g ray in his hair, the way he blinked, the tightness in his smile.
Bad follows some people. It hooks into them and never lets them go.
And simple as it sounded, you don't want those people around you.
Lance knocked on Marsha Hunter's door. The two uniforms stood behind him in vee f ormation. The sun had begun its ascent. They listened for a sound.
Nothing.
He saw the doorbell. Marsha Hunter, he knew, had two young children. If Matt w asn't here, he'd feel bad about waking them, but that couldn't be helped. He p ressed the bell and heard the chime.
Still nothing.
Just for the heck of it, Lance tried the door, hoping it might be unlocked. It w asn't.
The officer on Lance's right started shifting his feet. "Kick it in?"
"Not yet. We don't even know if he's here."
He rang the bell again, keeping his finger pressed against it until it rang a t hird time too.
The other cop said, "Detective?"
"Give it a few more seconds," he said.
As if on cue, the foyer light snapped on. Lance tried to look th
rough the pebble g lass, but the view was too distorted. He kept his face pressed against it s earching for movement.
"Who is it?"
The female voice was tentative-- understandable under the circumstances.
"It's Detective Lance Banner, Livingston Police. Could you open the door, p lease?"
"Who?"
"Detective Lance Banner, Livingston Police. Please open the door."
"Just a minute."
They waited. Lance kept peering through the pebble glass. He could make out a h azy figure coming down the stairs now. Marsha Hunter, he assumed. Her steps w ere as tentative as her voice. He heard a bolt slide and a chain rattle and t hen the door was opened.
Marsha Hunter had a bathrobe tied tightly around her waist. The robe was old and t errycloth. It looked like it belonged to a man. Lance wondered for a brief s econd if it had been her late husband's. Her hair was mussed. She wore no m akeup, of course, and while Lance had always considered her an attractive w oman, she could have used the touches.
She looked at Lance, then at the two officers at his wing, then back to Lance.
"What do you want at this hour?"
"We're looking for Matt Hunter."
Her eyes narrowed. "I know you."
Lance said nothing.
"You coached my son last year in rec soccer. You have a boy Paul's age."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Not ma'am," she said, her voice sharp. "My name is Marsha Hunter."
"Yes, I know."
"We're your neighbors, for crying out loud." Marsha again took in the uniformed m en before returning her gaze to Lance. "You know I live alone with two young b oys," she said, "yet you wake us up like storm troopers?"
"We really need to talk to Matt Hunter."
"Mommy?"
Lance recognized the boy coming down the stairs. Marsha gave Lance a baleful eye b efore turning to her son. "Go to bed, Ethan."
"But, Mom . . ."
"I'll be up in a moment. Go back to bed." She turned back to Lance. "I'm s urprised you don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Matt doesn't live here," she said. "He lives in Irvington."
"His car is in your driveway."
"So?"
"So is he here?"
"What's going on?"
Another woman was at the top of the stairs.
"Who are you?" Lance asked.
"My name is Olivia Hunter."
"Olivia Hunter as in Mrs. Matt Hunter?"
"Excuse me?"
Marsha looked back at her sister-in-law. "He was just asking why your car is in t he driveway."
"At this hour?" Olivia Hunter said. "Why would you want to know that?"
"They're looking for Matt."
Lance Banner said, "Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Hunter?"
Olivia Hunter started to move down the stairs. Her steps, too, were deliberate.
Maybe that was the tip-off. Or maybe it was her clothes. She was, after all, w earing clothes. Regular clothes. Jeans and a sweatshirt. Not nightclothes. No r obe, no pajamas. At this hour.
That didn't make sense.
When Lance glanced back at Marsha Hunter, he saw it. A small tell on her face.
Damn, how could he have been so stupid? The turning on the light, the walking d own the stairs, the slow walk right now . . . it had all taken too long.
He spun to the uniformed cops. "Check around back. Hurry."
"Wait," Olivia shouted too loudly. "Why are your men going to the backyard?"
The cops started running-- one toward the right, one to the left. Lance looked at Marsha. She stared back at him defiantly.
That was when they heard a woman's scream.
"What's going on?" Olivia asked.
"That was Midlife," Matt said. "Charles Talley and Max Darrow are both dead."
"Oh, my God."
"And unless I'm mistaken," he continued, gesturing toward the window, "these g uys are here to arrest me for their murders."
Olivia closed her eyes, tried to ride it out. "What do you want to do?"
"I have to get out of here."
"You mean, we have to get out of here."
"No."
"I'm going with you, Matt."
"You're not the one they want. They have nothing on you. At worst they think you c heated on your husband. You just refuse to answer any questions. They can't h old you."
"So you're just going to run?"
"I have no choice."
"Where will you go?"
"I'll figure that out. But we can't communicate. They'll be watching the house, t apping the phone."
"We need a plan here, Matt."
"How about this," he said. "We meet up in Reno."
"What?"
"Tomorrow at midnight. The address you said-- 488 Center Lane Drive."
"You still think there's still a chance that my daughter. . . ."
"I doubt it," Matt said. "But I also doubt Darrow and Talley were doing this on t heir own."
Olivia hesitated.
"What?"
"How are you going to get across the country that fast?"
"I don't know. If I can't make it, we'll figure out something later. Look, it's n ot a great plan, but we don't have time for anything better."
Olivia took a step forward. He felt it again in his chest, the gentle thrum. She h ad never looked so beautiful or vulnerable. "Do we have time for you to say you s till love me?"
"I do love you. More than ever."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that," he said.
"Even after . . . ?"
"Even after."
She shook her head. "You're too good for me."
"Yeah, I'm a prince."
Olivia laughed through the sob. He put his arms around her.
"We'll get into this later, but right now we need to find your daughter."
Something she had said-- about this life being worth fighting over. It resonated i n him, even more than the revelations. He would fight. He would fight for both o f them.
Olivia nodded, wiped her tears. "Here. I only have twenty dollars."
He took it. They risked a glance out the window. Lance Banner was approaching t he front door, flanked by two cops. Olivia moved in front of him as if readying t o take a bullet.
"You sneak out back," Olivia said. "I'll wake up Marsha, tell her what's going o n. We'll try to stall them."
"I love you," he said.
She gave him the crooked smile. "Good to hear." They kissed hard and quick.
"Don't let anything happen to you," she said.
"I won't."
He headed downstairs and started toward the back door. Olivia was already in Marsha's room. It wasn't right to drag Marsha into this, but what choice did t hey have? From the kitchen he could see another police car pull up to the f ront.
There was a knock on the door.
No time. Matt had something of a plan. They were not far from the East Orange Water Reservation, which was basically a forest. Matt had gone through it c ountless times as a child. Once inside he'd be difficult to find. He'd be able t o work his way toward Short Hills Road and from there, well, suffice to say t hat he needed outside help.
He knew where to go.
His hand was on the back-door knob. Matt heard Lance Banner ring the bell. He t urned the knob and pushed open the door.
Someone was standing right there, already in the doorway. He nearly jumped out o f his skin.
"Matt?"
It was Kyra.
"Matt, what are--?"
He signaled her to stay quiet and beckoned her inside.
"What's going on?" Kyra whispered.
"What are you doing awake?"
"I--" She shrugged. "I saw police cars. What's going on?"
"It's a long story."
"That investigator who came by today. She asked me about you."
"I know."
They both heard Marsha shout: "Just a minute."
Kyra's eyes widened. "You're trying to run away?"
"It's a long story."
Her eyes met his. He wondered what Kyra was going to do here. He didn't want to i nvolve her. If she screamed, he would understand. She was just a kid. She had n o role in any of this, no real reason to trust him.
"Go," Kyra whispered.
He didn't wait or say thank you. He started outside. Kyra followed, veering the o ther way back toward her room above the garage. Matt saw the swing set he'd put u p with Bernie a lifetime ago. It'd been ridiculously hot the day they assembled i t. They'd both had their shirts off. Marsha had waited on the porch with beers.
Bernie had wanted to put in one of those ziplines, but Marsha had nixed that, c laiming, correctly in Matt's view, that they were dangerous.
What you remember.
The yard was too open-- there were no trees, no bushes, no rocks. Bernie had c leared out a lot of the brush with the anticipation of putting in a swimming p ool-- another dream, albeit a small one, that died with him. There were white b ases laid out in the shape of a baseball diamond and two small soccer goals. He s tarted to cross the yard. Kyra had gone back inside the garage.
Matt heard a commotion.
"Wait!" The voice belonged to Olivia. She was intentionally shouting so that he w ould hear. "Why are your men going to the backyard?"
There was no time to hesitate. He was out in the open. Make a mad run for it?
There was little choice. He sprinted into the neighbor's yard. Matt avoided the f lower beds, which were a strange thing to worry about at a time like this, but h e did it anyway. He risked a glance behind him.
A policeman had made the turn into the backyard.
Damn.
He hadn't been spotted. Not yet. He searched for a place to hide. The neighbors h ad a toolshed. Matt leaped behind it. He pressed his back against it, like he'd s een done in the movies. A pointless move. He checked his waistband.
The gun was there.
Matt risked a peek.
The cop was staring directly at him.
Or at least he appeared to be. Matt quickly pulled back. Had the cop seen him?
Hard to say. He waited for someone to yell, "Hey, he's right there, right in the n ext yard behind that toolshed!"
Nothing happened.
He wanted to take another look.
He couldn't risk it.
He stayed and waited.
Then he heard a voice-- another cop, he guessed: "Sam, you see some--?"
