by Harlan Coben
"Yes, Mr. McGuane."
McGuane had debated how to play this. He did not care for violence for violence's sake, but he never shrank from it either. It was a means to an end. The Ghost was right about that atheist-in-foxhole crap. The truth is, we are mere animals, organisms even, slightly more complex than your basic paramecium. You die, you're gone. It was pure megalomania to think we humans are somehow above death, that we, unlike any other creature, have the ability to transcend it. In life, sure, we are special, dominant, because we are the strongest and most ruthless. We rule. But in death, to believe that we are somehow special in God's eyes, that we can worm our way into his good graces by kissing his ass, well, and not to sound like a Communist here, but that's the sort of thinking that the rich have used to keep the poor in place since the beginning of man's rule.
The Ghost moved toward the door.
You take the edge any way you can get it. McGuane often trod along byways others considered taboo. You were never supposed to kill, for example, a fed or a D. A. or a cop. McGuane had killed all three. You were never supposed to attack, to use another example, powerful people who could make trouble and draw attention.
McGuane did not buy that one either.
When Joshua Ford opened the door, the Ghost had the iron baton ready.
It was the approximate length of a baseball bat, with a powerful spring that helped it snap with the force of a blackjack. If you were to hit someone on the head with any kind of force, it would crush the skull like an eggshell.
Joshua Ford entered with a rich-man's swagger. He smiled at McGuane.
"Mr. McGuane."
McGuane smiled back. "Mr. Ford."
Sensing someone to his right, Ford turned toward the Ghost, his hand outstretched for a customary shake. The Ghost had his eyes elsewhere.
He aimed the metal bar for the shin and hit it flush. Ford cried out and dropped to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. The Ghost hit him again, this time in the right shoulder. Ford felt his arm go dead. The Ghost smashed the baton against the rib cage. There was a cracking sound. Ford tried to roll into a ball.
From across the room, McGuane asked, "Where is he?"
Joshua Ford swallowed and croaked, "Who?"
Big mistake. The Ghost snapped the weapon down on the man's ankle.
Ford howled. McGuane looked behind him at the security monitor.
Cromwell was comfortably ensconced in the waiting room. He would hear nothing. Neither would anybody else.
The Ghost hit the lawyer again, finding the same spot on the ankle.
There was a crunching sound like a truck tire over a beer bottle. Ford put up a hand, pleading for mercy.
Over the years, McGuane had learned that it was best to strike before you interrogate. Most people, when presented with the threat of pain, will try to talk their way out of it. That goes double for men who are accustomed to using their mouths. They'll search for angles, for half-truths, for credible lies. They are rational, the assumption goes, and thus their opponents must be the same. Words can be used to defuse.
You need to strip them of that delusion.
The pain and fear that accompany a sudden physical assault are devastating to the psyche. Your cognitive reasoning your intelligentsia, if you will, your evolved man fades away, caves in. You are left with the Neanderthal, the primitive true-you who knows only to escape pain.
The Ghost looked over at McGuane. McGuane nodded. The Ghost stepped back and let McGuane move closer.
"He stopped in Vegas," McGuane explained. "That was his big mistake.
He visited a doctor there. We checked the nearby pay phones for out-of-state calls made an hour before and an hour after his visit.
There was only one call of interest. To you, Mr. Ford. He called you. And just to make sure, I had a man watch your office. The feds paid you a visit yesterday. So you see, it all adds up. Ken had to have a lawyer. He'd want someone tough and independent and not connected in any way to me. That would be you."
Joshua Ford said, "But "
McGuane held up his hand to stop him. Ford obeyed and closed his mouth. McGuane stepped back, looked at the Ghost, and said, "John."
The Ghost advanced and without hesitating, he whacked Ford on the side of the arm above the elbow. The elbow bent back the wrong way. Ford's face lost whatever color was left.
"If you deny or pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," McGuane said, "my friend here will stop the love taps and start to hurt you. Do you understand?"
Ford took a few seconds. When he finally looked up, McGuane was surprised by the steadiness of the man's gaze. Ford looked at the Ghost, then at McGuane. "Go to hell," Ford spat out.
The Ghost looked at McGuane. He arched an eyebrow, smiled, and said, "Brave."
"John ..."
But the Ghost ignored him. He whipped the iron bar across Ford's face.
There was a wet ripping sound as his head snapped to the side. Blood squirted across the room. Ford fell back and did not move. The Ghost lined up for another blow to the knee.
McGuane said, "Is he still conscious?"
That made the Ghost pause. He bent down. "Conscious," the Ghost reported, "but his breathing is sporadic." He stood back up. "Another blow and Mr. Ford might go nighty-night."
McGuane thought about that. "Mr. Ford?"
Ford looked up.
"Where is he?" McGuane asked again.
This time Ford shook his head.
McGuane walked over to the monitor. He swiveled it so that Joshua Ford could see the screen. Cromwell was sitting cross-legged, sipping coffee.
The Ghost pointed at the monitor. "He wears nice shoes. Are they Allen-Edmonds?"
Ford tried to sit up. He got his hands underneath him, tried to push, fell back.
"How old is he?" McGuane asked.
Ford did not reply.
The Ghost lifted the bar. "He asked you "
"Twenty-nine."
"Married?"
Ford nodded.
"Kiddies?"
"Two boys."
McGuane studied the monitor some more. "You're right, John. Those are nice shoes." He turned to Ford. "Tell me where Ken is, or he dies."
The Ghost carefully put down the metal bar. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Thuggee strangulation stick. The handle portion was made of mahogany. It was eight inches long and two inches in diameter.
The surface was octagonal. Deep grooves were cut into it, making it easier to grip. There was a braided rope attached to either end. The rope was made of horsehair.
"He's got nothing to do with this," Ford said.
"Listen to me closely," McGuane said. "I'm only going to say this once."
Ford waited.
"We never bluff," McGuane said.
The Ghost smiled. McGuane waited a beat, his eyes on Ford. Then he hit the intercom button. The security receptionist responded.
"Yes, Mr. McGuane."
"Bring Mr. Cromwell here."
"Yes, sir."
They both watched the monitor as a beefy security guard came to the door and waved toward Cromwell. Cromwell uncrossed his legs, put down his coffee, rose, straightened out his jacket. He followed the security guard out the door. Ford turned to McGuane. Their eyes met and locked.
"You're a stupid man," McGuane said.
The Ghost re gripped the wooden handle and waited.
The security guard opened the door. Raymond Cromwell entered with his smile at the ready. When he saw the blood and his boss crumbled on the floor, his face dropped like someone had short-circuited the muscles. "
What the ?"
The Ghost stepped behind Cromwell and kicked the back of both legs.
Cromwell let out a cry and dropped to his knees. The Ghost's moves were practiced, effortlessly graceful, like a grotesque ballet.
The rope dropped over the younger man's head. When it fully circled his neck, the Ghost jerked back violently while simultaneously putting his knee against Cromw
ell's spine. The rope tightened hard against Cromwell's waxy-smooth skin. The Ghost twisted the handle, effectively cutting off blood flow to the brain. Cromwell's eyes bulged. His hands pawed at the rope. The Ghost held on.
"Stop!" Ford shouted. "I'll talk!"
But there was no reply.
The Ghost kept his gaze on his victim. Cromwell's face was a horrid shade of purple.
"I said " Ford quickly turned to McGuane. McGuane stood at ease with his arms folded. The two men locked eyes. The quiet sounds, the awful gurgling struggle coming from Cromwell, echoed in the stillness.
Ford whispered, "Please."
But McGuane shook his head and repeated his earlier statement: "We never bluff."
The Ghost turned the handle one more time and held on.
Chapter Forty-One.
I had to tell my father about the security tape.
Squares dropped me off at a bus stop near the Meadowlands I had no idea what to do about what I'd just seen. Somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, while staring out at the decaying industrial plants, my brain slipped on the autopilot. It was the only way to keep moving.
Ken was indeed alive.
I had seen the proof. He had been living in New Mexico and using the name Owen Enfield. Part of me was ecstatic. There was a chance at redemption, a chance to be with my brother again, a chance dare I even think of it? to make this all right.
But then I thought about Sheila.
Her fingerprints had been found in my brother's house, along with two dead bodies. How did Sheila fit into all this? I had no idea or maybe I just didn't want to face the obvious. She had betrayed me when my mind would function, the only scenarios I could come up with involved betrayal of one form or another and if I dwelled on that for too long, if I really allowed myself to sink into the simple memories the way she tucked her feet under her when we talked on the couch, the way she pulled her hair back as though she were standing under a waterfall, the way she smelled in that terry-cloth robe when she came out of the shower, the way she wore my oversize sweatshirts on fall nights, the way she hummed in my ear when we danced, the way she could stop my breath with a look from across the room that it had all been some sort of elaborate lie ...
Autopilot.
So I plodded on with one thought in mind: closure. My brother and my lover had both left me without warning, gone before good-bye. I knew that I could never put any of this behind me until I knew the truth.
Squares had warned me about this in the beginning, about maybe not liking what I found, but maybe in the end, this was all necessary.
Maybe now, finally, it was my turn to be brave. Maybe now I would save Ken instead of the other way around.
So that was what I'd focus on: Ken was alive. He was innocent if I had been subconsciously harboring any doubts before, Pistillo had erased them. I could see and be with him again. I could I don't know avenge the past, let my mother rest in peace, something.
On this, the last day of our official mourning, my father was not at the house. Aunt Selma was in the kitchen. She told me that he'd taken a walk. Aunt Selma wore an apron. I wondered where she had gotten it.
We did not have one, I was certain of that. Had Selma brought it with her? She seemed always to be wearing an apron, even when she wasn't, if you know what I mean. I watched her cleaning out the sink. Selma, Sunny's quiet sister, labored quietly. I had always taken her for granted. I think most people did. Selma was just.. . there. She was one of those people who lived life below the radar, as though she were afraid of drawing the attention of the fates. She and Uncle Murray had no children. I did not know why, though I'd once overheard my parents talking about a stillborn. I stood and looked at her, as if for the first time, just looking at yet another human being struggling every day to do right.
"Thank you," I said to her.
Selma nodded.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her and appreciated her and wanted us, especially now that Mom was gone, to be closer, that I know Mom would have wanted that. But I couldn't. I hugged her instead. Selma stiffened at first, startled by my aberrant display of affection, but then she relaxed.
"It'll be okay," she told me.
I knew my father's favorite walking route. I crossed Coddington Terrace, carefully avoiding the Miller house. My father, I knew, did that too. He had changed the route years ago. I cut through both the Jarats' and Arnays' yards, and then took the path that crossed the Meadowbrook to the town's Little League fields. The fields were empty, the season over, and my father sat alone on the top row of the metal bleachers. I remembered how much he loved coaching, that white T-shirt with the three-quarter-length green sleeves, the word Senators across the front, the green cap with the S sitting too high on his head. He loved the dugout, hanging his arms casually off the dusty rafters, the sweat forming in the pits. He'd put his right foot on the first cinder step, the left on the concrete, and in one fluid smooth motion he'd take the cap off, do the forearm swipe of the brow, put the cap neatly back in place. His face glowed on those late-spring nights, especially when Ken played. He coached with Mr. Bertillo and Mr.
Horowitz, his two best friends, beer buddies, both dead of heart attacks before sixty, and I know that as I sat next to him now, he could still hear those clapping hands and that repetitive banter and smell that sweet Little League clay-dirt.
He looked at me and smiled. "Remember the year your momumped?"
"A little, I guess. What was I, four?"
"Yeah, something like that." He shook his head, still smiling, lost in the memory. "This was during the height of your mother's women's lib stage. She wore these slogan Tshirts that said A WOMAN'S PLACE is IN THE HOUSE AND SENATE, stuff like that. Keep in mind that this was a few years before girls were allowed to play Little League, okay? So somewhere along the way, your mom learned that there were no female umpires. She checked the rule book and saw that there was nothing forbidding that."
"So she signed up?"
"Yep."
"And?"
"Well, the elder statesmen threw a fit, but the rules were the rules.
So they let her jump. But there were a couple of problems."
"Like?"
"Like she was the worst umpire in the world." Dad smiled again, a smile I rarely saw anymore, a smile so firmly rooted in the past that it made me ache. "She barely knew the rules. Her eyesight, as you know, was terrible. I remember in her first game she stuck up her thumb and yelled "Safe." Whenever she made a call, she'd go through all these gyrations. Like something Bob Fosse choreographed."
We both chuckled and I could almost see him watching her, waving off her theatrics, half embarrassed, half thrilled.
"Didn't the coaches go nuts?"
"Sure, but you know what the league did?"
I shook my head.
"They teamed her up with Harvey Newhouse. You remember him?"
"His son was in my class. He played pro football, right?"
"For the Rams, yeah. Offensive tackle. Harvey must have been three hundred pounds. So he took behind the plate and your mom took the field and whenever a coach would get out of hand, Harvey would just glare at him and the coach sat back down."
We chuckled again and then fell gently into silence, both of us wondering how a spirit like that could be smothered away, even before the onset of the disease. He finally turned and looked at me. His eyes widened when he noticed the bruises.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"It's okay," I said.
"Did you get in a fight?"
"I'm fine, really. I need to talk to you about something."
He was quiet. I wondered how to approach this, but Dad took care of that.
"Show me," he said.
I looked at him.
"Your sister called this morning. She told me about the picture."
I still had it with me. I pulled it out. He took it in his palm, as though afraid that he might crush it. He looked down and said, "My God." His eyes began to glisten.
"You didn't know?" I said.
"No." He looked at the photograph again. "Your mother never said anything until, you know." I saw something cross his face. His wife, his life partner, had kept this from him, and it hurt.
"There's something else," I said.
He turned to me.
"Ken's been living in New Mexico." I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I'd learned. Dad took it in quietly and steadily, as if he'd found his sea legs.
When I'd finished, Dad said, "How long had he been living out there?"
"Just a few months. Why?"
"Your mother said he was coming back. She said he'd be back when he proved his innocence."
We sat in silence. I let my mind wander. Suppose, I thought, it went something like this: Eleven years ago, Ken was framed. He ran off and lived overseas in hiding or something, just like the news report. Years pass. He comes back home.
Why?
Was it, like my mother had said, to prove his innocence? That made sense, I guess, but why now? I didn't know, but whatever the reason, Ken did indeed return and it backfired on him. Someone found out.
Who?
The answer seemed obvious: whoever murdered Julie. That person, be it a he or she, would need to silence Ken. And then what? No idea. There were still pieces missing.
"Dad?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever suspect Ken was alive?"
He took his time. "It was easier to think he was dead."
"That's not an answer."
He let his gaze roam again. "Ken loved you so much, Will."
I let that hang in the air.
"But he wasn't all good."
"I know that," I said.
He let that settle in. "When Julie was murdered," my father said, "Ken was already in trouble."
"What do you mean?"
"He came home to hide."
"From what?"
"I don't know."
I thought about it. I again remembered that he had not been home in at least two years and that he'd seemed on edge, even as he asked me about Julie. I just didn't know what that all meant.
Dad said, "Do you remember Phil McGuane?"
I nodded. Ken's old friend from high school, the "class leader" who was now reputed to be "connected." "I heard he moved into the Bonannos' old place."
"Yes."
During my childhood, the Bonannos, famed old-time mafiosi, had lived in Livingston's biggest estate, the one with the big iron gate and the driveway guarded by two stone lions. Rumor had it as you may have surmised, suburbia is rife with rumors that there were bodies buried on the property and that the fence could electrocute and if a kid tried to sneak through the woods out back, he'd get shot in the head. I doubt any of those stories were true, but the police finally arrested Old Man Bonanno when he was ninety-one.
