No Second Chance

by Harlan Coben

  "Where is she?"

  Without speaking, Verne Dayton bent down and checked my cuffs. I could smell him now. He smelled of dried grass and work sweat. He was studying my hands. I glanced back. There was blood on the ground. My blood, no doubt. An idea suddenly came to me.

  I reared back and aimed a head butt in his direction..

  I know how devastating a proper head-butt can be. I had performed surgeries on faces crushed by such blows.

  This would not be the case here.

  My body position was awkward. My hands and feet were both bound. I was on my knees. I was twisting behind me. My skull didn't land on the nose or softer part of his face. It caught him on the forehead. There was a hollow klunk like something out of a Three Stooges soundtrack. Verne Dayton rolled back, cursing'. I was totally off balance now, in free fall with nothing but my face to cushion my landing. My right cheek took the brunt of it, rattling my teeth. But I was beyond pain. I slid my eyes in his direction. He sat shaking out the cobwebs. There was a small laceration on his forehead.

  Now or never.

  Still tied up, I flailed toward him. But I was too slow.

  Verne Dayton leaned back and raised a work boot. When I was close enough, he stomped my face as if he were beating back a brushfire. I fell back. He backpedaled to a safe distance and grabbed the rifle.

  "Don't move!" His fingers checked the gash on his head. He looked at the blood in disbelief. "You out of your mind?"

  I was flat on my back, my breaths coming in deep heaves. I didn't think anything was broken, but then again, I wasn't sure it was going to matter. He walked over to me and kicked me hard in the ribs. I rolled over. He grabbed my arms and started dragging me. I tried to get m y feet under me. He was strong as hell. The steps to the trailer didn't slow him down. He pulled me up them, shouldered the door open, and tossed me in like bag of peat moss.

  I landed with a thud. Verne Dayton stepped inside and closed the door. My eyes took in the room. It was half what you'd expect, half not. The expected: There were guns mounted on the wall, antique muskets, hunter's rifle. There was the obligatory deer head, a framed NRA membership made out to Verne Dayton, a quilted American flag. The unexpected: The place was spotless and what some might call tastefully furnished. I spotted a playpen in the corner, but it wasn't cluttered. The toys were in one of those fiberglass chests with different color drawers. The drawers were categorized and labeled.

  He sat down and looked at me. I was still on my stomach. Verne Dayton toyed with his hair a little, pushing back the strands, tucking the long sides behind his ears. His face was thin. Everything about him screamed yokel.

  "You the one beat her up?" he said.

  For a moment I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I remembered that he'd seen Rachel's injuries. "No."

  "That get you off, huh? Beating up a woman?"

  "What did you do with her?"

  He took out a revolver, opened the chamber, slid a bullet into it. He spun it to a close and pointed it at my knee. "Who sent you?"

  "No one."

  "You want to get capped?"

  I'd had enough. I rolled onto my back, waiting to hear him pull the trigger. But he didn't shoot. He let me move, keeping the gun on me. I sat up and stared him down. That seemed to confuse him. He took a step back.

  "Where's my daughter?" I said.

  "Huh?" He tilted his head. "You trying to be funny?"

  I looked into his eyes and I saw it. This was no act. He had no idea what I was talking about.

  "You come here with guns," he said, his face reddening. "You want to kill me? My wife? My kids?" Verne raised the gun to my face. "Give me one good reason I don't blow you both away and bury you in the woods?"

  Kids. He said kids. Something about this whole setup suddenly wasn't making sense. I decided to take a chance. "Listen to me," I said. "My name is Marc Seidman. Eighteen months ago, my wife was murdered and my daughter abducted."

  "What are you babbling about?"

  "Please, just let me explain."

  "Wait a second." Verne's eyes narrowed. He rubbed his chin. "I remember you. From the television. You were shot too, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So why do you want to steal my guns?"

  I closed my eyes. "I'm not here to steal your guns," I said. "I'm here"--I wasn't sure how to say this--"I'm here to find my daughter."

  It took this a second to register. Then his mouth dropped open. "You think I had something to do with that?"

  "I don't know."

  "You better start explaining."

  So I did. I told him all of it. The story sounded insane in my ears, but Verne listened. He gave me his full attention. Toward the end, I said, "The man who did this. Or was somehow involved. I don't know anymore. We got his cell phone. He only had one incoming call. It came from here."

  Verne thought about it. "This man. What's his name?"

  "We don't know."

  "I call a lot of people, Marc."

  "We know the call was made sometime last night."

  Verne shook his head. "Nope, no way."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I wasn't home last night. I was on the road, making a delivery. I only got home about half an hour before you got here. Spotted you when Munch--that's my dog--started the low growl. The bark, that don't mean much. It's the low growl tells me someone's there."

  "Wait a second. No one was here last night?"

  He shrugged. "Well, my wife and boys. But the boys are six and three. I don't think they were calling anyone. And I know Kat. She wouldn't be making any calls that late either."

  "Kat?" I said.

  "My wife. Kat. It's short for Katarina. She's from Serbia."

  "Get you a beer, Marc?"

  I surprised myself by saying, "That would be nice, Verne."

  Verne Dayton had cut off the plastic cuffs. I rubbed my wrists. Rachel was next to me. He hadn't harmed her. He'd just wanted us separated, in part, he said, because he thought that I'd beaten her up and forced her to help me. Verne had a valuable gun collection--many of them still in working condition--and people were a little too interested in them. He'd figured that was the case with us.

  "A Bud, okay?"

  "Sure."

  "You, Rachel?"

  "No thanks."

  "Soft drink? Some ice water maybe?"

  "Water would be great, thanks."

  Verne smiled, which wasn't the most pleasant sight. "No problem." I rubbed my wrists again. He spotted it and grinned. "We used those in the Gulf War. Kept them Iraqis under control, I can tell you."

  He disappeared into the kitchen. I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. Verne came back with two Buds and a glass of water. He passed out the drinks. He raised the bottle for us to clink. I did. He sat down.

  "I got two kids of my own. Boys. Verne Junior and Perry. If something ever happened to them ..." Verne whistled low and shook his head. "I don't know how you even get out of bed in the morning."

  "I think about finding her," I said.

  Verne nodded hard at that. "I can relate, I guess. Long as a man ain't fooling himself, you know what I mean?" He looked over at Rachel. "You absolutely sure the phone number is mine?"

  Rachel took out the cell phone. She pressed some digits and then showed him the small screen. Using his mouth, Verne extracted a Winston from the pack. He shook his head. "I don't understand it."

  "We're hoping your wife can help."

  He nodded slowly. "She wrote a note, says she went food shopping. Kat likes to do that early in the morning. At the twenty-four-hour A and P." He stopped. I think Verne was torn here. He wanted to be able to help, but he didn't want to hear that his wife had called a strange man at midnight. He raised his head. "Rachel, how about I get you some fresh bandages?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You sure?"

  "Really, thank you." She held the glass of water with both hands. "Verne, do you mind if I ask you how you and Katarina met?"

  "Online," he said. "Y
ou know, one of those Web sites for foreign brides. Cherry Orchid, it's called. They used to call it mail order. I don't think they do that anymore. Anyway, you go to the site. You look at these pictures of women from all over--Eastern Europe, Russia, the Philippines, wherever. They list measurements, a little bio, likes and dislikes, that kinda thing. You see one that strikes your fancy, you can buy her address. They got package deals too, if you want to write to more than one."

  Rachel and I gave each other a quick glance. "How long ago was this?"

  "Seven years ago. We started sending each other e-mails and stuff. Kat was living on a farm in Serbia. Her parents had nothing. She used to walk four miles to get computer access. I wanted to call too, you know, talk on the phone. But they didn't even have one. She had to call me. Then one day, she says she's coming over. To meet me."

  Verne put his hands up, as if to silence an interruption. "Now see, this is where the girls usually hit you up for some money, you know, dollars to buy a plane ticket and stuff. So I was ready for that. But Kat didn't. She came over on her own. I drove up to New York City. We met. We were married three weeks later. Verne Junior came in a year. Perry three years after that."

  He took a deep sip of his beer. I did the same. The coldness felt wonderful sliding down my throat.

  "Look, I know what you're thinking," Verne said. "But it ain't like that. Kat and me, we're real happy. I was married before to a grade-A American ball-buster. All she did was whine and complain. I wasn't making enough money for her. She wanted to stay at home and do nothing. Ask her to do a load of laundry, she'd go all ballistic on me with that feminazi crap. Always tearing me down, telling me I'm a loser. With Kat, it ain't like that. Do I like the fact that she makes a nice house and home? Sure, okay, that's important to me. If I'm working outside and it's hot, Kat'll fetch me a beer without giving me a Ms. magazine lecture. Is there anything wrong with that?"

  Neither of us replied.

  "Look, I want you to think about it, okay? Why are any two people attracted to each other? Looks maybe? Money? Because you have an important job? We all join up because we want to get something out of it. Give and take, am I right? I wanted a loving wife who'd help me raise children and take care of a home. I wanted a partner too, someone, I don't know, who'd just be nice to me. I get that. Kat, she wanted out of a terrible life. I mean, they were so poor, dirt was a luxury. She and me, we got it good here. In January, we took the kids and went down to Disney World. We like hiking and canoeing. Verne Junior and Perry, they're good kids. Hey, maybe I'm simple. Hell, I'm definitely simple. I like my guns, my hunting and fishing--and most of all, my family."

  Verne lowered his head. His mullet hair dropped like a curtain blocking his face. He started ripping the label off the beer. "Some places-- probably most, I don't know--marriages are arranged. That's the way it's always been. The parents decide. They force them. Well, no one forced Kat and me. She could walk away anytime. Me too. But it's been seven years now. I'm happy. So is she."

  Then he shrugged his shoulders. "At least, I thought she was."

  We drank in silence.

  "Verne?" I said.

  "Yeah?"

  "You're an interesting man."

  He laughed, but I could see the fear. He took a swig of beer to hide it. He'd carved out a life for himself. A nice life. It's funny. I am not a very good judge of people. My initial impressions are usually wrong. I see this gun-toting redneck with his hair and his bumper stickers and his monster-truck-rally 'tude. I hear he has a mail-order bride from Serbia. How can you not judge? But the more I listened to him, the more I liked him. I must be at least as alien to him. I'd crept up on his house with a gun. Yet as soon as I had started telling my story, Verne had acted. He knew that we were telling the truth.

  We heard the car pull up. Verne moved to the window and looked out. There was a small, sad smile on his face. His family was pulling into the drive. He cherished them. Intruders had come to his home with guns, and he had done what he could to protect it. And now, maybe, in my attempt to bring my family together, I might tear apart his.

  "Look! Daddy's home!"

  That had to be Katarina. The accent was unmistakably foreign, something in the Balkan-East European-Russian family. I am not linguis t enough to know which. 1 heard the happy squeals of little children. Verne's smile widened a bit. He stepped out onto the porch. Rachel and I stayed where we were. We could hear running feet on the steps. The greeting lasted a minute or two. I stared at my hands. I heard Verne say something about presents in the truck. The kids sprinted for them.

  The door opened. Verne entered with his arm around his wife.

  "Marc, Rachel, this here's my wife, Kat."

  She was lovely. She wore her long hair straight down. Her yellow sundress left her shoulders exposed. Her skin was pure white, her eyes blue ice. She had that certain bearing so that I could have told, even if I hadn't known, that she was foreign. Or maybe I was projecting. I tried to guess her age. She could pass for mid-twenties, but the age lines around the eyes told me I was probably a decade off. "Hi," I said.

  We both stood and shook her hand. It was dainty, but there was steel in the grip. Katarina held on to the hostess smile, but it wasn't easy. Her eyes stayed on Rachel, on the wounds. The sight, I guess, was rather shocking. I was almost getting used to it.

  Still smiling, Katarina turned to Verne as if to ask a question. He said, "I'm trying to help them out."

  "Help them?" she repeated.

  The children had located the presents and were hooting and hollering. Verne and Katarina didn't seem to hear. They were looking at each other. He held her hand. "That man over there"--he gestured with his chin toward me--"somebody murdered his wife and took away his little girl."

  She put a hand to her mouth.

  "They're here trying to find his daughter."

  Katarina did not move. Verne turned to Rachel and nodded a go ahead.

  "Mrs. Dayton," Rachel began, "did you make a phone call last night?"

  Katarina's head jerked as though she'd just been startled. She looked at me first, as if I were some kind of circus oddity. Then she turned her attention to Rachel. "I don't understand."

  "We have a phone record," Rachel said. "Last night at midnight, someone placed a call from this house to a certain cell phone. We assume it was you."

  "No, that's not possible." Katarina's eyes started shifting as if seeking out an escape route. Verne still held her hand. He tried to meet her gaze, but she kept avoiding it. "Oh wait," she said. "Maybe I know."

  We waited.

  "Last night, when I was sleeping, the phone rang." She tried the smile again, but it was having trouble staying anchored. "I don't know what time it was. Very late. I thought maybe it was you, Verne." She looked at him and now the smile held. He smiled back. "But when I answered it, there was no one there. So I remembered something I saw on the television. Star, six, nine. You hit those numbers and it dials the number. So I did that. A man answered. It wasn't Verne, so I hung up."

  She looked at us expectantly. Rachel and I exchanged a glance. Verne was still smiling, but I saw his shoulders drop. He let go of her hand and half collapsed onto the couch.

  Katarina started toward the kitchen. "You need another beer, Verne?"

  "No, darling, I don't. I want you to sit here next to me."

  She was hesitant but she listened. She sat with her spine still ramrod. Verne, too, sat up tall and again took her hand.

  "I want you to listen to me, okay?"

  She nodded. The children were wailing with delight outside. Corny to say, but there are few sounds like the unimpeded laughter of children. Katarina looked at Verne with an intensity that almost made me turn away.

  "You know how much we love our boys, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Imagine if someone took them away from us. Imagine if that happened more than a year ago. Think about it. Imagine if someone stole, say, Perry and for more than a year, we didn't know where he was." He poi
nted to me. "That man over there. He doesn't know what happened to his little girl."

  Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  "We have to help him, Kat. Whatever you know. Whatever you done. I don't care. If there are secrets, you tell them now. We wipe the slate clean. I can forgive just about anything. But I don't think I can forgive if you don't help that man and his little girl."

  She lowered her head and said nothing.

  Rachel ratcheted up a notch. "If you're trying to protect the man you called, don't bother. He's dead. Someone shot him a few hours after you called."

  Katarina's head stayed down. I rose and started pacing. From outside, there was another squeal of laughter. I walked over to the window and looked out. Verne Junior--the boy looked to be about six--shouted, "Ready or not, here I come!" It wouldn't be too hard to find him. I couldn't see Perry, but the hiding child's laughter was clearly coming from behind the Camaro. Verne Junior pretended to look elsewhere but not for very long. He sneaked up on the Camaro and yelled, "Boo!"

  Perry popped out still laughing and ran. When I saw the boy's face, I felt my world, already teetering, take another hit. See, I recognized Perry.

  He was the little boy I'd seen in the car last night.

  Chapter 37

  Tickner pdrked in front of the Seidman house. They hadn't put up the yellow crime-scene tape yet, but he counted six squad cars and two news vans. He wondered if it'd be a good idea to approach, what with the cameras rolling. Pistillo, his boss's boss, had made it pretty clear where he stood. In the end, Tickner figured that it was safe enough to stay. If he was caught on camera, he could always opt for the truth: He had come to let the locals know that he was off the case.

  Tickner found Regan in the backyard with the body. "Who is he?"

  "No ID," Regan said. "We'll send in the prints, see what we come up with."

  They both looked down.

  "He matches that sketch Seidman gave us last year," Tickner said.

  "Yup."

  "So what does that mean?"

  Regan shrugged.

  "What have you learned so far?"

  "Neighbors heard shots first. That was followed by screeching tires. They saw a BMW Mini driving across the grass. More shots. They spotted Seidman. One neighbor said he might have seen a woman with him."