Gone for Good (2002)

by Harlan Coben

  I saw now where he was heading with this. "So if McGuane knew that Ken had become an informant "

  "Dead meat," he finished for me. "Your brother understood the risk. We were keeping tabs, but one night he just ran off."

  "Because McGuane found out?"

  "That's what we think, yes. He ended up at your house. We don't know why. Our theory is that he thought it was a safe place to hide, mostly because McGuane would never suspect he'd put his family in danger."

  "And then?"

  "By now you must have guessed that Asselta was working for McGuane too."

  "If you say so," I said.

  He ignored that. "Asselta had a lot to lose here too. You mentioned Laura Emerson, the other sorority sister who was killed. Your brother told us that Asselta murdered her. She was strangled, which is Asselta's favorite method of execution. According to Ken, Laura Emerson had found out about the drug trade at Haverton and was set to report it."

  I made a face. "And they killed her for that?"

  "Yeah, they killed her for that. What do you think they'd do, buy her an ice cream? These are monsters, Will. Get that through your thick head."

  I remembered Phil McGuane coming over and playing Risk. He always won.

  He was quiet and observant, the sort of kid who makes you wonder about still waters and all that. He was class president, I think. I was impressed by him. The Ghost had been openly psychotic. I could see him doing anything. But McGuane?

  "Somehow they learned where your brother was hiding. Maybe the Ghost followed Julie home from college, we don't know. Either way, he catches up to your brother at the Miller house. Our theory is that he tried to kill them both. You said you saw someone that night. We believe you. We also believe that the man you saw was probably Asselta. His fingerprints were found at the scene. Ken was wounded in the assault that explains the blood but somehow he got away. The Ghost was left with the body of Julie Miller. So what would be the natural thing to do? Make it look like Ken did it. What better way to discredit him or even scare him away?"

  He stopped and started nibbling on another cookie. He would not look at me. I knew that he could be lying, but his words had the ring of truth. I tried to calm myself, let what he was telling me sink in. I kept my eyes on him. He kept his gaze on the cookie. Now it was my turn to fight back the rage.

  "So all this time" I stopped, swallowed, tried again "so all this time, you knew that Ken didn't kill Julie."

  "No, not at all."

  "But you just said "

  "A theory, Will. It was just a theory. It's just as likely that he killed her."

  "You don't believe that."

  "Don't tell me what I believe."

  "What could possibly be Ken's motive for killing Julie?"

  "Your brother was a bad guy. Make no mistake about that."

  "That's not a motive." I shook my head. "Why? If you knew Ken probably didn't kill her, why did you always insist he had?"

  He chose not to reply. But maybe he didn't have to. The answer was suddenly obvious. I glanced at the snapshots on the refrigerator. They explained so much.

  "Because you wanted Ken back at any cost," I said, answering my own question. "Ken was the only one who could give you McGuane. If he was hiding as a material witness, the world wouldn't really care. There would be no press coverage. There would be no major manhunt. But if Ken murdered a young woman in her family basement the story of suburbia gone wrong the media attention would be massive. And those headlines, you figured, would make it harder for him to hide."

  He kept studying his hands.

  "I'm right, aren't I?"

  Pistillo slowly looked at me. "Your brother made a deal with us," he said coldly. "When he ran, he broke that deal."

  "So that made it okay to lie?"

  "It made it okay to track him down by any means necessary. "

  I was actually shaking. "And his family be damned?"

  "Don't put that on me."

  "Do you know what you did to us?"

  "You know something, Will? I don't give a damn. You think you suffered? Look in my sister's eyes. Look at her!"

  "That doesn't make it right "

  He slammed his hand on the table. "Don't tell me about right and wrong. My sister was an innocent victim."

  "So was my mother."

  "No!" He pounded the table, this time with his fist, and pointed a finger at me. "There's a big difference between them, so get it straight. Vic was a murdered cop. He didn't have a choice. He couldn't stop his family's suffering. Your brother, on the other hand, chose to run. That was his decision. If that somehow hurt your family, blame him."

  "But you made him run," I said. "Someone was trying to kill him and you top that off by making him think he'll be arrested for murder. You forced his hand. You pushed him farther underground."

  "That was his doing, not mine."

  "You wanted to help your family, and in the process you sacrificed mine."

  Pistillo snapped then, knocking the glass across the table. The iced tea splashed on me. The glass fell to the floor and shattered. He rose and looked down at me. "Don't you dare compare what your family went through with what my sister went through. Don't you dare."

  I met his eye. Arguing with him would be useless and I still did not know if he was telling the truth or twisting it for his own purposes.

  Either way, I wanted to learn more. Antagonizing him would do me no good. There was more to this story. He was not done yet. There was still too much unanswered.

  The door opened. Claudia Fisher leaned her head in to check on the commotion. Pistillo put up a hand to tell her it was fine. He settled back into his chair. Fisher waited a beat and then left us alone.

  Pistillo was still breathing heavily.

  "So what happened next?" I asked him.

  He looked up. "You haven't guessed?"

  "No."

  "It was a stroke of luck actually. One of our agents was vacationing in Stockholm. A fluke thing."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Our agent," he said. "He spotted your brother on the street."

  I blinked. "Wait a second. When was this?"

  Pistillo did a quick calculation in his head. "Four months ago."

  I was still confused. "And Ken got away?"

  "Hell no. The agent didn't take any chances. He tackled your brother right then and there."

  Pistillo folded his hands and leaned toward me. "We caught him," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "We caught your brother and brought him back."

  Chapter Forty-Five.

  Philip McGuane poured the brandy.

  The body of the young lawyer Cromwell was gone now. Joshua Ford lay out like a bear rug. He was alive and even conscious, but he was not moving.

  McGuane handed the Ghost a snifter. The two men sat together. McGuane took a deep sip. The Ghost cupped his glass and smiled.

  "What?" McGuane asked.

  "Fine brandy."

  "Yes."

  The Ghost stared at the liquor. "I was just remembering how we used to hang out in the woods behind Riker Hill and drink the cheapest beer we could find. Do you remember that, Philip?"

  "Schlitz and Old Milwaukee," McGuane said.

  "Yeah."

  "Ken had that friend at Economy Wine and Liquor. He never ID'ed him."

  "Good times," the Ghost said.

  "This" McGuane raised his glass "is better."

  "You think so?" The Ghost took a sip. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Are you familiar with the philosophy that every choice you make splits the world into alternate universes?"

  "I am."

  "I often wonder if there are ones where we turn out differently or, conversely, were we destined to be here no matter what?"

  McGuane smirked. "You're not growing soft on me, are you, John?

  "Not likely," the Ghost said. "But in moments of candor, I cannot help but wonder if it had to be this way."

  "You like hurting people, John."

 
"I do."

  "You've always enjoyed it."

  The Ghost thought about that. "No, not always. But of course, the larger question is why?"

  "Why do you like hurting people?"

  "Not just hurting them. I enjoy killing them painfully. I choose strangulation because it is a horrible way to die. No quick bullet. No sudden knife slash. You literally gasp for your last breath. You feel the life-nourishing oxygen being denied you. I do that to them, up close, watching them struggle for a breath that never comes."

  "My, my." McGuane put down his snifter. "You must be a barrel of laughs at parties, John."

  "Oh indeed," he agreed. Then growing serious again, the Ghost said, "But why, Philip, do I get a rush from that? What happened to me, to my moral compass, that I feel my most alive while snuffing out someone's breath?"

  "You're not going to blame your daddy, are you, John?"

  "No, that would be too pat." He put down his drink and faced McGuane.

  "Would you have killed me, Philip? If I hadn't taken out the two men at the cemetery, would you have killed me?"

  McGuane opted for the truth. "I don't know," he said. "Probably."

  "And you're my best friend," the Ghost said.

  "You're probably mine."

  The Ghost smiled. "We were something, weren't we, Philip?"

  McGuane did not reply.

  "I met Ken when I was four," the Ghost continued. "All the kids in the neighborhood were warned to stay away from our house. The Asseltas were a bad influence that's what they were told. You know the deal."

  "Ido,"McGuanesaid.

  "But for Ken, that was a draw. He used to love to explore our house. I remember when we found my old man's gun. We were six, I think. I remember holding it. The feeling of power. It mesmerized us. We used the gun to terrify Richard Werner I don't think you know him, he moved away in the third grade. We kidnapped him once and tied him up. He cried and wet his pants."

  "And you loved it."

  The Ghost nodded slowly. "Perhaps."

  "I have a question," McGuane said.

  "I'm listening."

  "If your father owned a gun, why use a kitchen knife on Daniel Skinner?"

  The Ghost shook his head. "I don't want to talk about that."

  "You never have."

  "That's right."

  "Why?"

  He did not answer the question directly. "My old man found out about us playing with the gun," he said. "He beat me pretty good."

  "He did that a lot."

  "Yes."

  "Have you ever sought revenge on him?" McGuane asked.

  "On my father? No. He was too pitiful to hate. He never got over my mother walking out on us. He always thought she'd come back. He used to prepare for it. When he drank, he'd sit alone on the couch and talk to her and laugh with her and then he'd start sobbing. She broke his heart. I've hurt men, Philip. I've seen men beg to die. But I don't think I ever heard anything as pitiful as my father sobbing for my mother."

  From the floor, Joshua Ford made a low groan. They both ignored him.

  "Where is your father now?" McGuane asked.

  "Cheyenne, Wyoming. He dried out. He found a good woman. He's a religious nut now. Traded alcohol for God one addiction for another."

  "You ever talk to him?

  The Ghost's voice was soft. "No."

  They drank in silence.

  "What about you, Philip? You weren't poor. Your parents weren't abusive."

  "Just parents," McGuane agreed.

  "I know your uncle was mobbed up. He got you into the business. But you could have gone straight. Why didn't you?"

  McGuane chuckled.

  "What?"

  "We're more different than I thought."

  "How's that?"

  "You regret it," McGuane said. "You do it, you get a thrill from it, you're good at it. But you see yourself as evil." He sat up suddenly.

  "My God."

  "What?"

  "You're more dangerous than I thought, John."

  "How so?"

  "You're not back for Ken," McGuane said. And then, his voice dropping:

  "You're back for that little girl, aren't you?"

  The Ghost took a deep sip. He chose not to answer.

  "Those choices and alternate universes you were talking about," McGuane went on. "You think if Ken died that night, it would all be different."

  "It would indeed be an alternate universe," the Ghost said.

  "But maybe not a better one," McGuane countered. Then he added, "So what now?"

  "We'll need Will's cooperation. He's the only one who can draw Ken out."

  "He won't help."

  The Ghost frowned. "You, of alt people, know better." "His father?"

  McGuane asked. "No."

  "His sister?"

  "She's too far away," the Ghost said. "But you have an idea?" "Think," the Ghost said.

  McGuane did. And when he saw it, his face broke into a smile. "Katy Miller."

  Chapter Forty-Six.

  Pistillo kept his eyes on me, waiting for my reaction to his bombshell.

  But I recovered fast. Maybe this was beginning to make sense.

  "You captured my brother?"

  "Yes."

  "And you extradited him back to the United States?"

  "Yes."

  "So how come it wasn't in the papers?" I asked.

  "We kept it under wraps," Pistillo said.

  "Because you were afraid McGuane would find out?"

  "For the most part."

  "What else?"

  He shook his head.

  "You still wanted McGuane," I said.

  "Yes."

  "And my brother could still deliver."

  "He could help."

  "So you cut another deal with him."

  "We pretty much reinstated the old one."

  I saw a clearing in the haze. "And you put him in the witness protection program?"

  Pistillo nodded. "Originally we kept him in a hotel under protective custody. But by then a lot of what your brother had was old. He would still be a key witness probably the most important we'd have but we needed more time. We couldn't keep him in a hotel forever, and he didn't want to stay. Ken hired a big-time lawyer, and we worked out a deal. We found him a place in New Mexico. He had to report to one of our agents on a daily basis. We would call him to testify when we needed him. Any break in that deal, and the charges, including the murder charge from Julie Miller, could be reinstated."

  "So what went wrong?"

  "McGuane found out about it."

  "How?"

  "We don't know. A leak maybe. Whatever, McGuane sent out two goons to kill your brother."

  "The two dead men at the house," I said.

  "Yes."

  "Who killed them?"

  "We think your brother. They underestimated him. He killed them and ran again."

  "And now you want Ken back again."

  His gaze wandered over to the photographs on the refrigerator door.

  "Yes."

  "But I don't know where he is."

  "I know that now. Look, maybe we screwed up here. I don't know. But Ken needs to come in. We'll protect him, around-the-clock surveillance, a safe house, whatever he wants. That's the carrot. The stick is that his prison sentence is subject to his cooperation."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "He'll reach out to you eventually."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  He sighed and stared at the glass.

  "What makes you so sure?" I asked again.

  "Because," Pistillo said, "Ken called you already."

  A block of lead formed in my chest.

  "There were two calls placed from a pay phone near your brother's house in Albuquerque to your apartment," he went on. "One was made about a week before the two goons were killed. The other, right after."

  I should have been shocked, but I wasn't. Maybe it finally fit, only I didn't like how.

  "You didn't know
about the calls, did you, Will?"

  I swallowed and thought about who, besides me, might answer the phone if Ken had indeed called.

  Sheila.

  "No," I said. "I didn't know about them."

  He nodded. "We didn't know that when we first approached you. It was natural to figure you were the one who answered the phone."

  I looked at him. "How does Sheila Rogers fit into this?"

  "Her fingerprints were found at the murder scene."

  "I know that."

  "So let me ask you, Will. We knew your brother had called you. We knew your girlfriend had visited Ken's house in New Mexico. If you were us, what would you have concluded?"

  "That I was somehow involved."

  "Right. We figured that Sheila was your go-between or something, that you'd been helping your brother out. And when Ken ran off, we figured you two knew where he was."

  "But now you know better."

  "That's correct."

  "So what do you suspect now?"

  "The same thing you do, Will." His voice was soft, and damn him I heard pity in it. "That Sheila Rogers used you. That she worked for McGuane. That she's the one who tipped him off about your brother. And that when the hit went wrong, McGuane had her killed."

  Sheila. Her betrayal pierced me deep, struck bone. To defend her now, to think I had been anything more to her than a dupe, would be to turn a blind eye in the worst way. You would have to be naive beyond Pollyanna, to have rose-tinted glasses melded onto your face, to not be able to see the truth.

  "I'm telling you all this, Will, because I was afraid you were about to do something stupid."

  "Like talk to the press," I said.

  "Yes and because I want you to understand. Your brother had two choices. Either McGuane and the Ghost find him and kill him, or we find him and protect him."

  "Right," I said. "And you guys have done a bang-up job of that so far."

  "We're still his best option," he countered. "And don't think McGuane will stop with your brother. Do you really think that attack on Katy Miller was a coincidence? For all your sakes, we need your cooperation."

  I said nothing. I could not trust him. I knew that. I could not trust anyone. That was all I had learned here. But Pistillo was especially dangerous. He had spent eleven years looking into his sister's shattered face. That kind of thing twists you. I knew about stuff like that, about wanting to the point of distortion. Pistillo had made it clear that he would stop at nothing to get McGuane. He would sacrifice my brother. He had jailed me. And most of all, he had destroyed my family. I thought about my sister running off to Seattle.