Gone for Good (2002)

by Harlan Coben

  "So how did it work?"

  "I called Sonay and told her our problem. She told me that Quick Go was run by two brothers, Ian and Noah Muller. She called them, told them what she wanted, and ..." Squares shrugged.

  I shook my head. "You are amazing."

  "Yes. Yes, I am."

  Quick Go offices were housed in a warehouse off Route 3 in the heart of northern New Jersey's swamps. New Jersey gets goofed on a lot, mostly because our most-traveled byroads cut through the butt-ugliest sections of the so-called Garden State. I am one of those who staunchly defend my home state. Most of New Jersey is surprisingly gorgeous, but our critics do score points on two fronts. One, our cities are beyond decay. Trenton, Newark, Atlantic City, take your pick. They get and deserve little respect. Take Newark as a case in point. I have friends who grew up in Quincy, Massachusetts. They always say they are from Boston. I have friends who grew up in Bryn Mawr. They always say they are from Philadelphia. I grew up less than nine miles from the heart of Newark.

  I have never once said or heard anyone I know say that they were from Newark.

  Two and I don't care what others say there is an odor in the North Jersey marshlands. It is often faint but nonetheless unmistakable. It is not pleasant. It does not smell like nature. It smells like smoke and chemicals and a leaking septic tank. That was the odor that greeted us as we stepped out of the car at the Quick Go warehouse.

  Squares said, "Did you fart?"

  I looked at him.

  "Hey, just trying to break the tension."

  We headed into the warehouse. The Muller brothers were worth close to a hundred million dollars each, yet they shared a small office that sat in the middle of a hangarlike room. Their desks, which looked like something bought at an elementary school closeout, were pushed together facing each other. Their chairs were pre-ergonomics shellacked-wood.

  There were no computers or fax machines or photocopiers, just the desks, tall metal filing cabinets, and two phones. All four walls were glassed. The brothers liked to look out at the cargo boxes and forklifts. They did not much care who looked in.

  The brothers looked alike and were dressed the same. They wore what my father called "charcoal slacks" with white button-downs over V-neck Ts.

  The shirts were buttoned low enough that their gray chest hair jutted out like steel wool. The brothers rose and aimed their widest smiles at Squares.

  "You must be Ms. Sonay's guru," one said. "Yogi Squares."

  Squares replied with a serene, wise-man head nod.

  They both rushed over and shook his hand. I half expected them to take a knee.

  "We had them overnight the tapes," the taller of the brothers said, clearly looking for approval. Squares deigned another nod at him. They led us across the cement floor. I heard the beep-beep of vehicles in reverse. Garagelike doors were opened and trucks were loaded. The brothers greeted every worker, and the workers responded.

  We entered a windowless room with a Mr. Coffee on the counter. A TV with a coat-hanger antenna and VCR sat on one of those metal carts I had not seen since the days when the A-V kid would wheel them into my elementary school class.

  The taller brother turned on the TV. Pure static blew forth. He stuck a tape in the VCR. "This tape covers twelve hours," he said. "You told me the guy was in the store around three o'clock, right?"

  "That's what we were told," Squares said.

  "I have it set at two forty-five. The tape moves pretty quickly since it only captures an image every three seconds. Oh, and the fast forward doesn't work, sorry. We don't have a remote control either, so just press the Play button right here whenever you're ready. We figured you'd want privacy so we'll leave. Take your time."

  "We may need to keep the tape," Squares said.

  "Not a problem. We can make copies."

  "Thank you."

  One brother shook Squares's hand again. The other I'm not making this up bowed. Then we were left alone. I approached the VCR and pressed Play. The static disappeared. So did the sound. I played with the volume button on the TV, but, of course, there was no sound.

  The images were in black and white. There was a clock on the bottom of the screen. The camera pointed at the cash register from above. A young woman with long blond hair worked it. Her moving in jerky, every-three-second clips made me dizzy.

  "How are we going to know this Owen Enfield?" Squares asked.

  "We look for a forty-year-old guy with a crew cut, I guess."

  Watching now, I realized that this task might be easier than I'd first thought. The customers were all elderly and in golf-club garb. I wondered if Stonepointe catered mostly to retirees. I made a mental note to ask Yvonne Sterno.

  At 3:08.15, we spotted him. His back anyway. He wore shorts and a collared shortsleeve shirt. We could not see his face, but he had a crew cut. He headed past the register and down the last aisle. We waited. At 3:09.2.4, our potential Owen Enfield turned the corner, heading back toward the long-haired blonde at the cash register. He carried a half-gallon of what looked like milk and a loaf of bread. I put my hand near the pause button so I could stop it and get a better look.

  But there was no need.

  The Vandyke beard might throw you off. So, too, the close-cropped gray hair. If I had casually stumbled across this tape, or if I had walked past him on a busy street, I might not have noticed. But I was anything but casual right now. I was concentrating. And I knew. I hit the pause button anyway: 3:09.51.

  Any doubts were erased. I stood there, unmoving. I did not know if I should celebrate or cry. I turned toward Squares. His eyes were on me instead of the screen. I nodded at him, confirming what he already suspected.

  Owen Enfield was my brother, Ken.

  Chapter Forty.

  The intercom buzzed.

  "Mr. McGuane?" the receptionist, part of his security force, asked.

  "Yes."

  "Joshua Ford and Raymond Cromwell are here."

  Joshua Ford was the senior partner at Stanford, Cummings and Ford, a firm that employed more than three hundred attorneys. Raymond Cromwell would thus be the note-taking, extra-hour-billing underling. Philip watched them both on the monitor. Ford was a big guy, six-four, two-twenty. He had a reputation for being tough, aggressive, nasty, and fitting that profile, he worked his face and mouth as though he were chomping on either a cigar or human leg. Cromwell, in contrast, was young, soft, manicured, and waxy-smooth.

  McGuane looked over at the Ghost. The Ghost smiled, and McGuane felt another cold gust. Again he wondered about the intelligence of bringing Asselta in on this. In the end, he had decided that it would be okay. The Ghost had a stake in this too.

  Besides, the Ghost was good at this.

  Still keeping his eyes on that skin-crawling smile, McGuane said, "Please send in Mr. Ford alone. Make sure that Mr. Cromwell is comfortable in the waiting room."

  "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 Cromwell'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.r />
  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.