by Harlan Coben
“Enough,” he said in a quiet voice.
“What’s enough?”
He closed the checkbook. “I won’t pay,” he said. “Tell Kathy I’ll do whatever she wants. I’ll stand by her no matter what the cost. This has gone on long enough. I can’t live like this. I am not an evil man. She’s a sick girl. She needs help. I want to help.”
Myron had not expected this. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“You want to help your former lover?”
His head shot up. “What did you say?”
Myron had been skating blindly on thin ice. His last comment, it seemed, had been something of a blowtorch.
“Did you say ‘lover’?”
Uh-oh.
“Kathy didn’t send you,” he continued. “She has nothing to do with you, does she?”
Myron said nothing.
“Who are you? What is your real name?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Who?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you?”
“A sports agent.”
“A what?”
“I represent athletes.”
“You—So what do you have to do with this?”
“I’m a friend,” Myron said. “I’m trying to find Kathy.”
“Is she alive?”
“I don’t know. But you seem to think so.”
Dean Gordon opened his bottom drawer, took out a cigarette, lit it.
“Bad for you,” Myron said.
“I quit smoking five years ago. Or so everyone thinks.”
“Another little secret?”
He smiled without humor. “So you were the one who sent me the magazine.”
Myron shook his head. “Nope.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out. But I know about it. And now I also know you’re hiding something about Kathy’s disappearance.”
He inhaled deeply and let loose a long stream of smoke. “I could deny it. I could deny everything we said here today.”
“You could,” Myron countered. “But of course I have the magazine. I have no reason to lie. And I also have a friend in Sheriff Jake Courter. But you’re right. In the end it would be my word against yours.”
Dean Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “No,” he said slowly, “it won’t come down to that. I meant what I said before. I want to help her. I need to help her.”
Myron was not sure what to think. The man looked in genuine pain, but Myron had seen performances that would put Olivier to shame. Was his guilt real? Was his sudden catharsis the result of having a conscience, or was it self-preservation? Myron didn’t know. He didn’t much care either, as long as he got to the truth.
“When was the last time you saw Kathy?” Myron asked.
“The night she vanished,” he said.
“She came to your house?”
He nodded. “It was late. I guess around eleven, eleven-thirty. I was in my study. My wife was upstairs in bed. The doorbell rang. Not once. Repeatedly, urgently. Interspersed with heavy door-pounding. It was Kathy.”
His voice was on autopilot, as if he were reading a fairy tale to a child. “She was crying. Or rather she was sobbing uncontrollably. So much so that she couldn’t speak. I brought her into my study. I poured her some brandy and wrapped an afghan around her shoulders. She looked”—he stopped, considered—“very small. Helpless. I sat down across from her and took her hand. She jerked it back. That was when the tears stopped. Not slowly, but all at once, as though a switch had been thrown. She became very still. Her face was completely blank, no emotion whatsoever. Then she started talking.”
He reached into the drawer for another cigarette. He put it in his mouth. The match lit on the fourth try.
“She started from the beginning,” he continued. “Her voice was remarkably steady. It never cracked or wavered—uncanny, when you consider the fact that she was hysterical just moments earlier. But her words belied her placid tone. She told me stories—” He stopped again, shook his head. “They were surprising, to say the least. I had known Kathy for almost a year. I considered her a thoughtful, sweet, proper young woman. I am not making moral judgments here. But she had always been what I considered old-fashioned. And here she was telling me stories that would make a sailor blush.
“She started by telling me that she used to be everything I always thought she was. The girl next door. Everyone’s favorite. But then she changed. She became, in her own words, ‘a free-wheeling slut.’ She started with some boys in her high school class. But she quickly moved onto bigger things. Adults, teachers, friends of her parents. Biracial, homosexual, two-on-ones, even orgies. She took pictures of her encounters. For posterity, she said with a sneer.”
“Did she mention any names?” Myron asked. “Of the teachers or adults or anyone?”
“No. No names.”
They fell into silence. Dean Gordon looked exhausted.
“What happened next?” Myron prompted.
He lifted his head slowly, as though it took great effort. “Her story began to change direction,” he said. “For the better. She said she realized that what she was doing was wrong and stupid. She began, she said, to work through her problems. That was when she met Christian and fell in love. She wanted to put it all behind her, but it wasn’t easy. The past wouldn’t just go away. She tried and tried, and then …” His voice trailed off.
“And then?” Myron prompted.
“Then Kathy just looked at me—I’ll never forget this—and she said, ‘I was raped tonight.’ Just like that. Out of nowhere. I was stunned, of course. There were six of them, she said. Or seven, she wasn’t sure. A gang-rape in the locker room. I asked her when. She told me it had started less than an hour ago. She had gone to the locker room to meet someone. A blackmailer, she said. A former, uh, suitor, who had threatened to reveal her past. She was going to pay for his silence.”
The big cash withdrawal from her trust account, Myron thought.
“But when she got to the locker room, the blackmailer wasn’t alone. Several of his teammates were with him, including another past suitor. They didn’t hit her, she said. They didn’t beat her. And she didn’t fight. There were too many of them, and they were too strong.” He closed his eyes, his voice a whisper. “They took turns with her.”
Silence.
“As I said before, Kathy told me all this in the most dispassionate tone I had ever heard her use. Her eyes were clear, determined. She told me there was only one way to bury her past. Once and for all. She would have to confront it head-on. She’d have to push it out into the bright sunshine where it would wither and die like a medieval vampire. She said she knew what she had to do.”
More silence.
“What?” Myron asked.
“Prosecute the boys who raped her. Face up to her past and then put it behind her. Otherwise it would follow her around for the rest of her life.”
“What did you say?”
Dean Gordon winced at the question. He stamped out the cigarette. He glanced down at the bottom drawer but didn’t reach for another. “I told her to calm down.” He laughed at the memory. “Calm down. By now, the girl was so unemotional, so detached, that she could have been reading a telephone directory. And I told her to calm down. Jesus.”
“What else?”
“I told her that I thought she was still in shock. I meant that too. I told her that she should consider everything, weigh all her options, not rush into a decision that would undoubtably affect the rest of her life. I told her to think about what it would mean to have her past dragged out—to her family, to her friends, to her fiancé, to herself.”
“In other words,” Myron said, “you tried to talk her out of pressing charges.”
“Perhaps. But I never said what I was really thinking: A self-described free-wheelin
g slut who had gotten involved in pornography and wild sex was going to claim she was raped by a group of college boys, two of whom she admitted having past liaisons with. I wanted her to think about all that before she did something rash.”
“Don’t be so easy on yourself,” Myron said. “You didn’t give a damn about her. She came to you for help, and you thought about everything but her. You thought about your precious institution. You thought about the scandal. You thought about the football team on the eve of a national championship. You thought about your own career, how it would come out that she worked for you, how she felt comfortable visiting your house late at night. You’d be tied in. People would investigate you closer, maybe unearth your unusual marital arrangement.”
That prodded him upright. “What about my marital arrangement?”
“Does the phrase ‘once every two months’ mean anything to you?”
His mouth dropped open. “How …?” He stopped, almost smiled. “You are a very well-informed young man.”
“All-knowing,” Myron corrected. “Godlike.”
“I won’t comment on my marriage, but I would be less than honest if I did not admit that those selfish considerations crossed my mind. But I was also concerned for Kathy. A mistake like this—”
“A rape, Dean. Not a mistake. Kathy was raped. She didn’t make a ‘mistake.’ She wasn’t the victim of an indiscretion. A bunch of football players pinned her down in a locker room and took turns with her against her will.”
“You’re simplifying the situation.”
“You’re the one who simplified the situation. You just put Kathy last.”
“That’s not true.”
Myron shook his head. No time for this now. “So what happened after you bestowed your stellar counsel upon Kathy?”
He tried to shrug but couldn’t pull it off. “She looked at me funny, as though I had betrayed her when all I was trying to do was help. Or maybe she saw in my words the same thing you did. I don’t know. She stood up then and said that she would be back tomorrow morning to press charges. Then she left. I never heard from her again until that magazine came in the mail. And the phone call a few nights ago.”
“What phone call?”
“A few nights ago, very late, I got a phone call. A female voice—maybe Kathy’s, maybe not—said, ‘Enjoy the magazine. Come and get me. I survived.’ ”
“ ‘Come and get me. I survived’?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“What did she mean?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“What did you think when you first heard about Kathy’s disappearance?”
“That she ran away. Decided it was all too much. I thought she’d come back when she was ready. The police thought that too, until they found her undergarments. Then they suspected violence. But I knew the undergarments were probably from the rape, not the disappearance. So in my mind I still considered her a runaway.”
“Didn’t the possibility that the rapists wanted to silence her cross your mind?”
“It crossed my mind, yes. But these boys weren’t capable of—”
“Rapists,” Myron corrected. “ ‘Boys’ who gang-raped a young girl who never did them any harm. You didn’t think they had the capability to commit murder?”
“If they wanted her dead, they would never have let her go,” the dean countered steadily. “That’s what I thought.”
“So you kept your mouth shut.”
He nodded. “That was a mistake. I know that now. I was hoping she had just run away for a few days to straighten herself out. When a week passed, I realized it was too late to say anything.”
“You chose to live with the lie.”
“Yes.”
“She was just a student, after all. She came to you for help during the hardest time of her life. And you turned her away.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted. “Don’t you think this has been tearing me apart for the past year and a half?”
“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”
“What the hell do you want from me, Bolitar?”
Myron stood. “Resign. Immediately.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll drag you down, and it’ll be uglier than you ever imagined. First thing tomorrow morning. Turn in your letter of resignation.”
He looked up, his fingers supporting his chin. Time passed. His face began to soften as though from a masseur’s touch. His eyes closed, and his shoulders slumped. Then he nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”
“This isn’t penitence. You don’t get off that easy.”
“I understand.”
“One last thing: Did Kathy mention any names at all?”
“Names?”
“Of the rapists?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“But you have a guess?”
“It’s not based on anything concrete.”
“Go on.”
“A few days after she disappeared, I noticed a certain student was tossing around a lot of money. A troublemaker. He bought a new BMW convertible that came to my attention because he drove it across the commons. Ripped up a lot of grass.”
“Who?”
“An ex-football player. He was kicked off the team for selling drugs. His name was Junior Horton. They call him—”
“Horty.”
Myron left without another word, hurrying to get out of the building. It was a beautiful day. Warm but not humid, the sun weakening in the late afternoon but not quite ready to set. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming cherry blossom trees. Myron wanted to spread out a blanket. He wanted to lie down and think about Kathy Culver.
No time.
The phone in his Ford Taurus was ringing when he unlocked the door. It was Esperanza.
“Dead end with Lucy,” she said. “Adam Culver wasn’t the guy who bought the pictures.”
Another theory blown to hell. He was about to start his car when he heard Jake Courter’s voice.
“Thought I might find you here.”
Myron looked out the open window. “What’s up, Jake?”
“We’re about to release Nancy Serat’s name to the press.”
Myron nodded. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Myron did not like his tone.
“We also have a suspect,” Jake continued. “We’ve brought him in for questioning.”
“Who?”
“Your client,” Jake said. “Christian Steele.”
Chapter 34
“What about Christian?” Myron asked.
“Nancy Serat had just rented that house a week ago,” Jake replied, “a day or two before she left for Cancún. She hadn’t even unpacked yet.”
“So?”
“So how come Christian Steele’s fingerprints—clean, fresh prints—are all over the place? On the front doorknob. On a drinking glass. On the fireplace mantel.”
Myron tried not to looked stunned. “Come on, Jake. You can’t make an arrest on something like that. The press will eat him alive.”
“Like I give a flying shit.”
“You have nothing.”
“We can place him at the scene.”
“So what? You can place Jessica at the scene. Gonna arrest her too?”
Jake unbuttoned his jacket, allowing his belly to expand. He was wearing a brown suit, circa 1972. In a word: lapels. No slave to fashion, that Jake. “Okay, smart-boy,” he said, “you want to tell me what your client was doing at Nancy Serat’s house?”
“We’ll ask him. He’ll talk to you. Christian’s a good kid, Jake. Don’t ruin him on speculation.”
“Yeah. I’d hate to ruin your commissions.”
“Low blow, Jake.”
“You’re not objective, Bolitar. The kid’s your most valuable client, your ticket to the bigs. You don’t want him to be guilty.”
Myron looked at him but said noth
ing.
“Leave your car here,” Jake said. “I’ll drive you to the station.”
It was only a mile away. When they pulled into the lot, Jake said, “The new DA is here. Young hotshot named Roland.”
Uh-oh. “Cary Roland?” Myron asked. “Curly hair?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a publicity hound,” Jake said. “Gets a hard-on watching himself on TV. He practically creamed when he heard Christian’s name.”
Myron could imagine. Old buddies, he and Cary Roland. This was not a good development. “Has he released Christian’s name?”
“Not yet,” Jake said. “Cary decided to put it off until eleven. Gets a live feed from all the networks that way.”
“And plenty of time to tighten the perm.”
“That too.”
Christian was sitting in a small room, no bigger than eight by eight. He sat in a chair behind a desk. No hot lights. No one else was in the room.
“Where’s Roland?” Myron asked.
“Behind the mirror.”
One-way glass, even in a rinky-dink station like this. Myron stepped into the room, looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie, and refrained from giving Roland the finger. Mr. Mature strikes again.
“Mr. Bolitar?”
Myron turned. Christian waved to him as if he’d spotted a familiar face in the stands.
“You okay?” Myron asked.
“I’m fine,” Christian said. “I just don’t understand what I’m doing here.”
A uniformed officer came in with a tape recorder. Myron turned to Jake. “Is he under arrest?”
Jake grinned. “I almost forgot, Bolitar. You’re a lawyer too. Nice to be dealing with a professional.”
“Is he under arrest?” Myron repeated.
“Not yet. We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”
The uniformed officer took care of the preliminaries. Then Jake started.
“My name is Sheriff Jake Courter, Mr. Steele. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, sir. You’re handling my fiancée’s disappearance.”
