by Harlan Coben
Yours truly.
After we hit the one-week mark, the police and FBI presence started fading. Tickner and Regan no longer came by very much. They checked their watches more often. They excused themselves for phone calls involving other cases. I understood that, of course. There had been no new leads. Things were quieting down. Part of me welcomed the respite.
And then, on the ninth day, everything changed.
At ten o'clock, I began to get undressed and ready for bed. I was alone. I love my family and friends, but they began to realize that I needed some time by myself. They had all left before dinner. I ordered delivery from Hunan Garden and, per Mom's earlier instructions, ate for strength.
I looked at the bedside alarm clock. That's how I knew that the time was exactly 10:18 P. M. I glanced at the window, just a casual land sweep. In the dark, I almost missed it--nothing consciously registered anyway--but something snagged my gaze. I stopped and looked again.
There, standing on my walk like a stone, staring at my house, was a woman. I assume that she was staring. I did not know for certain. Her face was lost in the shadows. She had long hair--that much I could see in the silhouette--and she wore a long coat. Her hands were jammed into her pockets.
She just stood there.
I was not sure what to make of it. We were in the news, of course. Reporters stopped by at all hours. I looked up and down the street. No cars, no news vans, nothing. She had come on foot. Again that was not unusual. I live in a suburban neighborhood. People take walks all the time, usually with a dog or spouse or both, but it was hardly earth shattering for a woman to be walking alone.
Then why had she stopped?
Morbid curiosity, I figured.
She looked tall from here, but that was pretty much a guess. I wondered what to do. An uneasy feeling slithered up my back. I grabbed my sweatshirt and threw it over my pajama top. Ditto with a pair of sweatpants and the bottoms. I looked out the window again. The woman stiffened.
She had seen me.
The woman turned and began to hurry away. My chest felt tight. I tried to open the window. It was stuck. I hit the sides to loosen it and tried again. It grudgingly gave me an inch. I lowered my mouth to the opening.
"Wait!"
She picked up the pace.
"Please, hold up a second."
She broke into a run. Damn. I turned away and sprinted after her toward the door. I had no idea where my slippers were and there was no time for shoes. I ran outside. The grass tickled my feet. I sprinted in the direction she had gone. I tried to follow, but I lost her.
When I got back inside my house, I called Regan and told him what had happened. It sounded stupid even as I said it. A woman had been standing in front of my house. Big deal. Regan, too, sounded thoroughly unimpressed. I convinced myself that it was nothing, just a nosy neighbor. I climbed back into bed, flipped the television, and eventually I closed my eyes.
The night, however, was not over.
It was four in the morning when my phone rang. I was in the state I now refer to as sleep. I never fall into true slumber anymore. I hang above it with my eyes shut. The nights struggle by like the days. The separation between the two is the flimsiest of curtains. At night, my body manages to rest, but my mind refuses to shut down.
With my eyes closed, I was replaying the morning of the attack for the umpteenth time, hoping to stir a new memory. I started where I am now: in the bedroom. I remembered my alarm clock going off. Lenny and I were going to play racquetball that morning. We'd started playing every Wednesday about a year before, and so far, we had progressed to the point where our games had improved from "pitiful" to "almost remedial." Monica was awake and in the shower. I was scheduled for surgery at 11:00 A . M. I got up and looked in on Tara. I headed back to the bedroom. Monica was out of shower now and putting on her jeans. I went down to the kitchen, still in my pajamas, opened the cabinet to the right of the Westinghouse refrigerator, chose the raspberry granola bar over the blueberry (I had actually told this detail to Regan recently, as if it might be relevant), and bent over the sink while I ate. . . .
Barn, that was it. Nothing until the hospital.
The phone rang a second time. My eyes opened.
My hand found the phone. I picked it up and said, "Hello?"
"It's Detective Regan. I'm with Agent Tickner. We'll be over in two minutes."
I swallowed. "What is it?"
"Two minutes."
He hung up.
I got out of bed. I glanced out the window, half expecting to see that woman again. No one was there. My jeans from yesterday were crumpled on the floor. I slid them on. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and made my way down the stairs. I opened the front door and peered out. A police car turned the corner. Regan was driving. Tickner was in the passenger seat. I don't think that I had ever seen them arrive in the same vehicle.
This, I knew, would not be good news.
The two men stepped out of the car. Nausea swept over me. I had prepared myself for this visit since the ransom had gone wrong. I'd even gone so far as to rehearse in my mind how it would all happen--how they would deliver the hammer blow and how I would nod and thank them and excuse myself. I practiced my reaction. I knew precisely how it would all go down.
But now, as I watched Regan and Tickner head toward me, those defenses fled. Panic set in. My body began to shiver. I could barely stand. My knees wobbled, and I leaned against the door frame. The two men moved in step. I was reminded of an old war movie, the scene where the officers come to the mother's house with solemn faces. I shook my head, wishing them away.
When they reached the door, the two men pushed inside.
"We have something to show you," Regan said.
I turned and followed. Regan flicked on a lamp, but it didn't provide much light. Tickner moved to the couch. He opened his laptop computer. The monitor sprang to life, bathing him in an LCD-blue.
"We had a break," Regan explained.
I moved closer.
"Your father-in-law gave us a list of the serial numbers on the ransom bills, remember?"
"Yes."
"One of those bills was used at a bank yesterday afternoon. Agent Tickner is bringing up a video feed right now."
"From the bank?" I asked.
"Yes. We downloaded the video onto his laptop. Twelve hours ago, someone brought a hundred-dollar bill to this bank in order to get smaller notes. We want you to take a look at the video."
I sat next to Tickner. He pressed a button. The video started up immediately. I expected black-and-white or poor, grainy quality. This feed had neither. The angle was shot from above in almost too-brilliant color. A bald man was talking to a teller. There was no sound.
"I don't recognize him," I said.
"Wait."
The bald man said something to the teller. They appeared to be sharing a good-natured chuckle. He picked up a slip of paper and waved a goodbye. The teller gave a small wave back. The next person in line approached the booth. I heard myself groan.
It was my sister, Stacy.
The numb I had longed for suddenly flooded me. I don't know why. Perhaps because two polar emotions pulled at me simultaneously. One, dread. My own sister had done this. My own sister, whom I loved dearly, had betrayed me. But, two, hope--we now had hope. We had a lead. And if it was Stacy, I could not believe that she would harm Tara.
"Is that your sister?" Regan asked, pointing his ringer at her image.
"Yes." I looked at him. "Where was this taken?"
"The Catskills," he said. "A town called--"
"Montague," I finished for him.
Tickner and Regan looked at each other. "How do you know that?"
But I was already heading for the door. "I know where she is."
Chapter 7
MlJ grandfather had loved to hunt. I always found this strange because he was such a gentle, soft-spoken soul. He never talked about his passion. He didn't hang deer heads over the fireplace mantel. He did not ke
ep trophy pictures or souvenir antlers or whatever else hunters liked to do with carcasses. He did not hunt with friends or family members. Hunting was a solitary activity for my grandfather; he did not explain, defend, or share it with others.
In 1956, Grandpa purchased a small cabin in the hunting woods of Montague, New York. The cost, or so I am told, was under three thousand dollars. I doubt that it would fetch much more today. There was only one bedroom. The structure managed to be rustic without any of the charm associated with that term. It was almost impossible to find-- the dirt road stopped two hundred yards before the cabin. You had to hike along a root-infested trail the rest of the way.
When he died four years ago, my grandmother inherited it. At least, that is what I assumed. No one really thought about it much. My grandparents had retired to Florida almost a decade before. My grandmother was in the murky throes of Alzheimer's now. The old cabin, I guessed, was part of her estate. In terms of taxes and whatever expenses, it was probably deep in arrears.
When we were children, my sister and I spent one weekend each summer with our grandparents at the cabin. I did not like it. Nature to me was boredom occasionally broken up by an onslaught of mosquito bites. There was no TV. We went to bed too early and in too much darkness. During the day, the deep silence was too often shattered by the charming echo of shotgun blasts. We spent most of our time taking walks, an activity I find tedious to this very day. One year, my mother packed me only khaki-colored clothes. I spent two days terrified that a hunter would mistake me for a deer.
Stacy, on the other hand, found solace out there. Even as a young child, she seemed to revel in the escape from our suburban rat-maze of school and extracurricular activities, of sport teams and popularity. She would wander for hours. She would pick leaves off the trees and collect inchworms in a jar. She would shuffle her feet across carpets of fallen pine needles.
I explained about the cabin to Tickner and Regan as we sped up Route 87. Tickner radioed the police department in Montague. I still remembered how to find the cabin, but describing it was harder. I did my best. Regan kept his foot on the gas pedal. It was four-thirty in the morning. There was no traffic and no need for the siren. We reached Exit 16 on the New York Thruway and sped past the Woodbury Common Outlet Center.
The woods were a blur. We were not far now. I told him where to turn off. The car wound up and down back roads that had not changed one iota in the past three decades.
Fifteen minutes later, we were there.
Stacy.
My sister had never been very attractive. That may have been part of her problem. Yes, that sounds like nonsense. It is silly, really. But I lay it out for you anyway. No one asked Stacy to any prom. Boys never called. She had very few friends. Of course, there are many adolescents with such hardships. Adolescence is always a war; no one gets out unscathed. And yes, my father's illness was a tremendous burden on us. But that doesn't explain it.
In the end, after all the theories and psychoanalyzing, after all the combing through her childhood traumas, I think what went wrong with my sister was more basic. She had some kind of chemical imbalance in her brain. Too much of one compound flowing here, not enough of another flowing there. We did not recognize the warning signs soon enough. Stacy was depressed in an era when such behavior was mistaken for sullen. Or maybe, yet again, I use this sort of convoluted rationale to justify my own indifference to her. Stacy was just my weird younger sister. I had my own problems, thank you very much.
I had the selfishness of a teenager, a truly redundant description if ever I've heard one.
Either way, be the origins of my sister's unhappiness physiological, psychological, or the deluxe combo plan, Stacy's destructive journey was over.
My little sister was dead.
We found her on the floor, curled up in a tight fetal position. That was how she had slept when she was a child, her knees up to her chest, her chin tucked. But even though there was not a mark on her, I could see that she was not sleeping. I bent down. Stacy's eyes were open. She stared straight at me, unblinking, questioning. She still looked so very lost. That wasn't supposed to be. Death was supposed to bring solitude. Death was supposed to bring the peace she had found so elusive in life. Why, I wondered, did Stacy still look so damn lost?
A hypodermic needle lay on the floor by her side, her companion in death as in life. Drugs, of course. Intentional or otherwise, I did not yet know. I had no time to dwell on it either. The police fanned out. I wrested my eyes away from her.
Tara.
The place was a mess. Raccoons had found their way in and made a little home for themselves. The couch where my grandfather had taken his naps, always with his arms folded, was torn up. The stuffing had bled onto the floor. Springs popped up looking for someone to stab. The entire place smelled like urine and dead animals.
I stopped and listened for the sound of a crying baby. There was none. Nothing in here. Only one other room. I dived into the bedroom behind a policeman. The room was dark. I hit the light switch. Nothing happened. Flashlights sliced through the black like saber swords. My eyes scanned the room. When I saw it, I nearly cried out.
There was a playpen.
It was one of those modern Pack "N Plays with the mesh sides that fold up for easy transport. Monica and I have one. I don't know anyone with a baby who doesn't. The product tag dangled off the side. It had to be new.
Tears came to my eyes. The flashlight cut past the Pack 'N Play, giving it a strobe-light effect. It appeared to be empty. My heart sank. I ran over anyway, in case the light had caused an optical illusion, in case Tara was nestled so sweetly that she--I don't know--barely made a bump.
But there was only a blanket inside.
A soft voice--a voice from a whispery, inescapable nightmare-- floated across the room: "Oh Christ."
I swiveled my head toward the sound. The voice came again, weaker this time. "In here," a policeman said. "In the closet."
Tickner and Regan were already there. They both looked inside. Even in the dim glow, I saw their faces lose color.
My feet stumbled forward. I crossed the room, nearly falling, grabbing the closet doorknob at the last moment to regain my balance. I looked through the doorway and saw it. And then, as I looked down at the frayed fabric, I could actually feel my insides implode and crumble into ash.
There, lying on the floor, torn and discarded, was a pink one-piece outfit with black penguins. eighteen months late r Chapter 8
Lydid SdVV the widow sitting alone at Starbucks.
The widow was on a stool seat, gazing absently at the gentle trickle of pedestrians. Her coffee was near the window, the steam forming a circle on the glass. Lydia watched her for a moment. The devastation was still there--the battle-scarred, thousand-yard stare, the posture of the defeated, the hair with no sheen, the shake in the hands.
Lydia ordered a grande skim latte with an extra shot of espresso. The barista, a too-skinny black-clad youth with a goatee, gave her the shot "on the house." Men, even ones this young, did stuff like that for Lydia. She lowered her sunglasses and thanked him. He nearly wet himself.
Lydia moved toward the condiment table, knowing he was checking out her ass. Again she was used to it. She added a packet of Equal to her drink. The Starbucks was fairly empty--there were plenty of seats--but Lydia slid up on the stool immediately next to the widow. Sensing her, the widow startled out of her reverie.
"Wendy?" Lydia said.
Wendy Burnet, the widow, turned toward the soft voice.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Lydta said.
Lydia smiled at her. She had, she knew, a warm smile. She wore a tailored gray suit on her petite, tight frame. The skirt was slit fairly high. Business sexy. Her eyes had that shiny-wet thing going, her nose small and slightly upturned. Her hair was auburn ringlets, but she could-- and often did--change that.
Wendy Burnet stared just long enough for Lydia to wonder if she'd been recognized. Lydia had seen that stare plenty of times b
efore, that unsure I-know-you-from-somewhere expression, even though she had not been on TV since she turned thirteen. Some people would even comment, "Hey, you know who you look like?" but Lydia--she had been billed as Larissa Dane back then--would shrug it away.
But alas, this hesitation was not like that. Wendy Burnet was still shell-shocked from the horrible death of her beloved. It simply took her a while to register and assimilate unfamiliar data. She was probably wondering how to react, if she should pretend she knew Lydia or not.
After another few seconds, Wendy Burnet went for the noncommittal. "Thank you."
"Poor Jimmy," Lydia followed up. "Such an awful way to go."
Wendy fumbled for the paper coffee cup and downed a healthy sip. Lydia checked out the little boxes on the side of the cup and saw that the Widow Wendy had ordered a grande latte too, though she'd chosen half decaf and soy milk. Lydia slid a little closer to her.
"You don't know who I am, do you?"
Wendy gave her a weak got-me smile. "I'm sorry."
"No need to be. I don't think we ever met."
Wendy waited for Lydia to introduce herself. When she didn't, Wendy said, "You knew my husband then?"
"Oh yes."
"Are you in the insurance business too?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
Wendy frowned. Lydia sipped her beverage. The awkwardness grew, at least for Wendy. Lydia was fine with it. When it became too much, Wendy rose to leave.
"Well," she said, "it was nice meeting you."
"I ..." Lydia began, hesitating until she was sure that she had Wendy's full attention, "I was the last person to see Jimmy alive."
Wendy froze. Lydia took another sip and closed her eyes, "Nice and strong," she said, gesturing toward the cup. "I love the coffee here, don't you?"
"Did you say . . . ?"
