No Second Chance

by Harlan Coben

  "My God," I said. "No wonder she hired a private investigator. She wanted to know if I was cheating on her. She probably told him about your call, about our past."

  She said nothing.

  "You still haven't answered the question, Rachel. What were you doing in front of the hospital?"

  "I came to New Jersey to see my mother," she began. There was a hitch in her voice now. "I told you that she has a condo now in West Orange."

  "So? Are you trying me to tell me she was a patient there?"

  "No." She went quiet again. I drove. I almost flipped on the radio, just out of habit, just to do something. "Do I really have to say this?"

  "I think so, yeah," I said. But I knew. I understood exactly.

  Her voice was stripped off all passion. "My husband is dead. My job is gone. I've lost everything. I'd been talking to Cheryl a lot. I could tell from what she said that you and your wife were having problems." She turned to me full. "Come on, Marc. You know we never got over each other. So that day I went to the hospital to face you. I don't know what I expected. Was I really naive enough to think you'd sweep me into your arms? Maybe, I don't know. So I hung around and tried to work up the courage. I even went up to your floor. But in the end, I couldn't go through with it--not because of Monica or Tara. I wish I could say I was that noble. I wasn't."

  "So why then?"

  "I walked away because I thought you'd reject me and I wasn't sure I could handle that."

  We fell into silence then. I had no idea what to say. I don't even know how I felt.

  "You're angry," she said.

  "I don't know."

  We drove some more. I wanted so very much to do the right thing. I thought about it. We both stared straight ahead. The tension pressed against the windows. Finally I said, "It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is rinding Tara."

  I glanced at Rachel. I saw a tear on her cheek. The sign was up ahead now--small, discreet, nearly indiscernible. It read simply: hunters ville. Rachel brushed the tear away and sat up. "Then let's concentrate on that."

  Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo was at his desk, writing. He was large, barrel chested, big shouldered, and bald, the sort of old timer that makes you think of dock workers and city-saloon fights-- power without the show muscle. Pistillo was probably on the wrong side of sixty. Rumor had it that he'd be retiring soon.

  Special Agent Claudia Fisher showed Tickner into the office and closed the door as she left. Tickner took his sunglasses off. He stood with his hands behind his back. He was not invited to sit. There was no greeting, no handshake, no salute, or anything such.

  Without looking up, Pistillo said, "I understand you've been asking about the tragic death of Special Agent Jerry Camp."

  Alarm bells rang in Tickner's head. Whoa, that was fast. He'd only started his inquiries a few hours ago. "Yes, sir."

  More scribbling. "He taught you at Quantico, isn't that right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He was a great teacher."

  "One of the best, sir."

  "The best, Agent."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Your inquiries into his death," Pistillo went on, "do they have anything to do with your past relationship with Special Agent Camp?"

  "No, sir."

  Pistillo stopped writing. He put down the pen and folded his rock breaking hands on his desk. "Then why are you asking about it?"

  Tickner looked for the traps and pitfalls he knew lurked in his answer. "His wife's name has arisen in another case I'm working on."

  "That would be the Seidman murder-kidnapping case?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Pistillo frowned. His forehead crinkled. "You think there's a connection between the accidental shooting death of Jerry Camp and the Tara Seidman kidnapping?"

  Careful, Tickner thought. Careful. "It's an avenue I need to explore."

  "No, Agent Tickner, it is not."

  Tickner stayed still.

  "If you can tie Rachel Mills to the Seidman murder-kidnapping, do it. Find evidence that connects her to the case. But you don't need Camp's death to do that."

  "They could be related," Tickner said.

  "No," Pistillo said in a voice that left little room for doubt, "they're not."

  "But I need to look--"

  "Agent Tickner?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've looked into the file already," Pistillo said. "More than that, I helped investigate the death of Jerry Camp personally. He was my friend. Do you understand?"

  Tickner did not reply.

  "I am completely satisfied that his shooting was a tragic accident. That means you, Agent Tickner"--Pistillo pointed a meaty finger at Tickner's chest--"are completely satisfied too. Do I make myself clear?"

  The two men stared at each other. Tickner was not a foolish man. He liked working for the bureau. He wanted to rise up the ladder. It would not pay to upset someone as powerful as Pistillo. So in the end, Tickner was the first to look away.

  "Yes, sir."

  Pistillo relaxed. He picked up his pen. "Tara Seidman has been missing for over a year now. Is there any proof she is still alive?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then the case doesn't belong to us anymore." He started writing now, making no bones about the fact that this was a dismissal. "Let the locals handle it."

  New Jersey is our most densely populated state. That doesn't surprise people. New Jersey has cities, suburbs, and plenty of industry.

  That doesn't surprise people either. New Jersey is called the Garden State and has plenty of rural areas. That surprises people.

  Even before we hit the border of Huntersville, signs of life--human life, that is--had already started fading away. There were few houses. We had passed one general store straight out of Mayberry RFD, but that was boarded up. During the next three miles we hit six different roads. I saw no houses. I passed no cars.

  We were in the thick of the woods. I made my final turn and the car climbed up the side of a mountain. A deer--the fourth I'd seen by my count--sprinted out of the road, far enough up so I wasn't in any danger of hitting it. I was beginning to suspect that the name Huntersville was to be taken literally.

  "It'll be on the left," Rachel said.

  A few seconds later, I could see the mailbox. I began to slow, searching for a house or building of some kind. I saw nothing but trees.

  "Keep driving," Rachel said.

  I understood. We couldn't just pull into the driveway and announce ourselves. I found a small indentation off the road about a quarter of a mile up. I parked and turned off the engine. My heart started to triphammer. It was six in the morning. Dawn was here.

  "Do you know how to use a gun?" Rachel asked me.

  "I used to fire my dad's at the range."

  She jammed a weapon into my hand. I stared down at it as if I'd just discovered an extra finger. Rachel had her gun out too. "Where did you get this?" I asked.

  "At your house. Off the dead guy."

  "Jesus."

  She shrugged as if to say, Hey, you never know. I looked at the gun again and suddenly a thought hit me: Was this the weapon used to shoot me? To kill Monica? I stopped there. There was no time for this squeamish nonsense. Rachel was already out the door. I followed. We started into the woods. There was no path. We made our own. Rachel took the lead. She tucked her weapon into the back of her pants. For some reason, I didn't do the same. I wanted to hold the gun. Faded orange signs tacked to trees warned trespassers to stay away. They had the word NO in giant font and a surprising amount of finer print, over explaining what seemed to me to be pretty obvious.

  We angled closer to where we thought the driveway was. When we spotted it, we had our guiding star. We stayed near the unpaved stretch and continued on our way. A few minutes later, Rachel stopped. I nearly bumped into her. She pointed ahead.

  A structure.

  It looked like a barn of some sort. We were more careful now. We kept low. We darted from tree to tree and tried to stay out of s
ight. We did not speak. After a bit, I started hearing music. Country, I think, but I'm no expert. Up ahead, I spotted a clearing. There was indeed a barn that appeared to be in mid-demolition. There was another structure too-- a ranch or maybe extended trailer.

  We moved a little closer, right to the end of the woods. We pressed ourselves against trees and peeked out. There was a tractor in the yard. I saw an old Trans Am up on cement blocks. Directly in front of the ranch was a white, overly sporty car--some might call it a "hot rod," I guess--with a thick black stripe up the hood. It looked like a Camaro.

  The woods had ended, but we were still at least fifty feet from the ranch house. The grass was high, knee level. Rachel took out her gun. I still held mine. She dropped to the ground and began to commando crawl. I did the same. On television commando-crawling looks pretty easy. You simply crawl with your butt down. And for about ten feet, it is pretty easy. Then it gets a lot harder. My elbows ached. The grass kept getting caught up in my nose and mouth. I do not suffer from hay fever or allergies, but we were kicking up something. Gnats and the like rose vengefully as we disturbed their slumber. The music was louder now. The singer--a man hitting nary a note--complained about his poor, poor heart.

  Rachel stopped. I crawled to her right and pulled up even. "You okay?" she whispered.

  I nodded, but I was panting.

  "We may have to do something once we get there," she said. "I can't have you exhausted. We can slow down if you need to."

  I shook her off and started moving. I was not going to slow down. Slowing down was simply not on the menu. We were getting closer. I could see the Camaro more clearly now. There were black mud flaps with the silver silhouette of a shapely girl behind the rear tires. There were bumper stickers on the back. One read: GUNS don't kill people , BUT THEY SURE MAKE IT EASIER.

  Rachel and I were near the end of the grass, almost exposed, when the dog started barking. We both froze.

  There are several varieties of dog barks. The yap of an annoying toy dog. The call of a friendly golden retriever. The warning of a basically harmless pet. And then there is that guttural, junkyard, rip-out-the thorax bark that makes the blood thin.

  This bark fit into the last category.

  I was not particularly scared of the dog. I had a gun. It'd be easier, I guess, to use it on a dog than a human being. What did frighten me, of course, was that the barking would be heard by the ranch's occupant. So we waited. A minute or two later, the dog stopped. We kept our eyes on the ranch door. I was not sure what we would do if someone came out. Suppose we were spotted. We couldn't shoot. We still didn't know anything. The fact that a call had been made from the residence of Verne Dayton to the cell phone of a dead man did not add up to much. We didn't know if my daughter was here or not.

  We knew, in fact, nothing.

  There were hubcaps in the yard. The rising sun gleamed off them. I spotted a bunch of green boxes. And something about them held my gaze. Forgetting caution, I started moving closer.

  "Wait," Rachel whispered.

  But I couldn't. I needed to get a better look at those boxes. Something about them . . . but I couldn't put my finger on it. I crawled to the tractor and then hid behind it. I peered out toward the boxes again. Now I saw it. The boxes were indeed green. They also had a graphic featuring a smiling baby.

  Diapers.

  Rachel was next to me now. I swallowed. A big box of diapers. The kind you buy in bulk at a price club. Rachel saw it too. She put her hand on my arm, warning me to stay calm. We got back down on the ground. She signaled that we were going to make our way to a side window. I nodded that I understood. There was a long fiddle solo blaring from the stereo now.

  We were both on our stomachs when I felt something cold against the back of my neck. I slid my eyes toward Rachel. There was a rifle barrel there too, pressed against the base of her skull.

  A voice said, "Drop your weapons!"

  It was a man. Rachel's right hand was bent in front of her face. The gun was in it. She let it go. A work boot stepped forward and kicked it away. I tried to discern the odds. One man. I could see that now. One man with two rifles. I could conceivably make a move here. No way I'd make it in time, but it might free up Rachel. I met her eyes and saw panic in them. She knew what I was thinking. The rifle suddenly dug deeper into my skull, pushing my face into the dirt.

  "Don't try it, Chief. I can splatter two sets of brains as easy as one." My mind scurried, but it kept hitting dead ends. So I let the gun drop from my hand and watched this man kick away our hope.

  Chapter 36

  "Down on your stomachs!"

  "I'm an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Rachel said.

  "Shut the hell up."

  With our faces still in the dirt, he had us both put our hands on top of our head, fingers laced. He put a knee in my spine. I grimaced. Using his body for leverage, the man pulled my arms back, nearly popping my shoulders out of their sockets. My wrists were expertly bound together with nylon flex cuffs. They felt like those ridiculously complicated plastic ties they use to package toys so they can't be shoplifted.

  "Put your feet together."

  Another cuff fastened my ankles together. He pushed down on my back to get up. Then he moved over to Rachel. I was going to say something stupidly chivalric like Leave her alone! but I knew that this would be, at best, futile. I kept still.

  "I'm a federal agent," Rachel said.

  "I heard you the first time."

  He put a knee in her back and pulled her hands together. She grunted in pain.

  "Hey," I said.

  The man ignored me. I turned and took my first real look at him, and it was like I'd been dropped into a time warp. No doubt about it-- the Camaro belonged to him. His hair was eighties-hockey-player long, maybe permed, the color a strange offshoot of orange-blond, tucked back behind his ears and styled into the kind of mullet cut I hadn't seen since a Night Ranger music video. He had a cheesy blond mustache tha t could have been a milk stain. His T-shirt read university of smith and wesson. His jeans were unnaturally dark blue and looked stiff.

  After he bound Rachel's hands, he said, "Get up, missy. You and me are taking a walk."

  Rachel tried to make her voice stern. "You're not listening," she said, her hair falling down over her eyes. "I'm Rachel Mills--"

  "And I'm Verne Dayton. So what?"

  "I'm a federal agent."

  "Your ID says retired." Verne Dayton smiled. He wasn't toothless, but he wasn't exactly an orthodontic poster boy either. His right incisor was totally turned in like a door off its hinge. "Kinda young to be retired, don't you think?"

  "I still work special cases. They know I'm here."

  "Really? Don't tell me. There's a bunch of agents waiting down yonder and if they don't hear from you in three minutes, they're all gonna come storming in. That about it, Rachel?"

  She stopped. He had read her bluff. She had nowhere else to go.

  "Get up," he said again, this time pulling on her arms.

  Rachel stumbled to her feet. "Where are you taking her?" I asked.

  He did not reply. They started walking toward the barn. "Hey!" I called out, my voice booming with impotence. "Hey, come back!" But they kept walking. Rachel struggled, but her hands were tied behind her back. Every time she moved too much, he lifted the hands up, forcing her to bend forward. Eventually she complied and just walked.

  Fear lit my nerves. In a frenzy, I looked for something, anything, that would get me free. Our guns? No, he had picked them up already. And even if he hadn't, what would I do? Fire with my teeth? I debated rolling over onto my back, but I wasn't sure how that would help yet. So now what? I started moving inchworm-style toward the tractor. I looked for a blade or anything that I might use to cut myself free.

  In the distance, I heard the barn door creak open. My head swerved in time to see them disappear inside. The door closed behind them. The sound echoed into silence. The music--it must have been a CD or tape-- had stopp
ed. It was quiet now. And Rachel was gone from sight.

  I had to get my hands free.

  I started crawling forward, lifting my butt, pushing off with my legs.

  I made it to the tractor. I searched for some kind of blade or sharp edge. Nothing. My eyes darted to the barn.

  "Rachel!" I shouted.

  My voice echoed through the stillness. That was the only reply. My heart started doing flip-flops.

  Oh God, now what?

  I rolled onto my back and sat up. Pushing with my legs, I pressed against the tractor. I had a clear view of the barn. I don't know what the hell that did for me. There was still no movement, no sound. My eyes darted all over the place, desperately hunting for something that could bring salvation. But there was nothing.

  I thought about going for the Camaro. A gun nut like this probably had two, three concealed weapons on him at all times. There might be something in there. But again, even if I managed to get there in time, how would I open the door? How would I search for a gun? How would I fire it when I found one?

  No, I had to get this cuff off me first.

  I looked on the ground for ... I don't even know. A sharp rock. A broken beer bottle. Something. I wondered how much time had passed since they disappeared. I wondered what he was doing to Rachel. My throat felt as if it might close up.

  "Rachel!"

  I heard the desperation in the echo. It scared me. But again there was no reply.

  What was going on in there?

  I looked again for some kind of edge on the tractor, something I could use to break free. There was rust. Lots of rust. Would that work? If I rubbed the cuff against a rusty corner, would it eventually cut through? I doubted it, but there was nothing else.

  I managed to get on my knees. I leaned my wrists against the rusted corner and moved up and down like a bear using a tree to scratch his back. My arms slipped. The rust bit into my skin, and the sting ran up my arm. I looked back over at the barn, listened hard, still heard nothing.

  I kept going.

  The problem was, I was doing this by feel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn't see my wrists. Was this having any effect at all? I h ad no idea. But it was all 1 had to work with. So 1 continued moving up and down, trying to break free by pulling my arms apart like Hercules in a B movie.

  I don't know how long I kept it up. Probably no more than two or three minutes, though it felt like a lot longer. The cuff did not break or even loosen. What finally made me stop was a sound. The barn door had opened. For a moment, I saw nothing. Then the Hick with the Hair came out. Alone. He started walking toward me.