by Harlan Coben
Madelaine was in shutdown mode. Probably hurt by his interrogation technique. Using his brawny body to get his way. Myron had never done that before. He liked it. Better than pistol-whipping a suspect, anyway.
He turned and left. Madelaine was probably watching his ass. He put a little wiggle in his step and hurried across campus.
Chapter 32
Jessica found Getaway Realty in the Bergen County Yellow Pages Their office was a converted cottage next to a McDonald's off Route 17 on the New Jersey side of the New York-New Jersey border. The drive was only twenty minutes, but it felt as if she'd arrived in the rural past She actually saw a feed store.
Only one person was in the office.
"Well, hello there," the man said with a too-wide smile. He was mid-fifties, bald, with a long, scraggly gray beard, like a college professor's. He wore a flannel shirt, black tie, Levi's jeans, and red Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers.
"I'm Tom Corbett, president of Getaway Realty." He handed her a card. "What can I do for you today?"
"I'm Dr. Adam Culver's daughter," she said. "He wrote a check to your office on May twenty-fifth for $649."
"Yeah, so?"
"He passed away recently. I'd like to know what it was for."
Corbett took a step back. "I'm awfully sorry to hear that," he said "Nice man, your father."
"Thank you. Can you tell me why he came to you?"
He thought a moment, shrugged. "Don't see why not. He rented a cabin."
"Near here?"
"Five, six miles. In the woods."
"For how long?"
"A month. Starting May twenty-fifth. Still has it for a few more weeks, if you'd like to use it."
"What kind of cabin?" she asked.
"What kind? Well, it's pretty small. One bedroom, one bathroom with shower stall, living room, kitchenette."
This made no sense. "Do you think you could give me the directions and a spare key?"
He thought that one over too, chewing on the inside of his mouth. "It's a bit remote," he said. "Kinda hard to find, darling."
Aside from babe and honey-bun, there were few things Jessica enjoyed being called more than darling. But now was not the time to explain her sentiments. She bit her lip and held back.
"The cottage's away from it all," Tom continued. "Way away, if you know what I mean. A little hunting, a little fishing, but mostly just peace and quiet." He picked up a key chain as heavy as a barbell. "I'll drive you."
"Thank you."
He drove a Toyota LandCruiser and chatted the whole way, as though she were a client. "Here's our local grocery store."
It was an enormous A&P Superstore.
She was surprised when he turned onto an unpaved road. They were heading straight into the woods.
"Nice, ain't it? Real pretty."
"Uh-huh."
Green foliage surrounded them. Jessica was not much of the outdoor sort. To her, the great outdoors meant bugs and humidity and dirt and no running water and no bathroom. Man had evolved for millions of years to escape the woods. Why rush back? But more important, her father had felt the same. He hated the woods.
Why would he rent a cabin out here?
Tom pointed to a gully up ahead. "Two years ago, guy got killed by a hunter over there. Accident. The hunter thought he was a deer, shot him in the head."
"Uh-huh."
"Couple of dead bodies been found in the woods. Three in the past two years, I think. Found one girl just a couple months back. Runaway, they guessed. Hard to tell 'cause she was all decayed and stuff."
"You're a hell of a salesman, Tom."
He laughed. "Yeah, well, I can tell when someone ain't a buyer."
Jessica, of course, knew all about the bodies. The police hadn't caught the killer, but the general consensus was that the psychopath had gotten hold of one more young girl, one that had not yet been found: Kathy Culver.
Could Kathy's fate have been that simple and that horrible? Had she been another victim of a random psychopath, just as everyone thought?
No, Jessica told herself. Too many holes.
"When I was a kid growing up around here," Tom said, "these woods were filled with legends. Guy with a hook hand lived in here, the old-timers said, used to kidnap bad little boys and gut them with his hook."
"Charming."
"Sometimes I wonder if he moved on to young ladies."
Jessica said nothing.
"Used to call him Dr. Hook," he continued.
"What?"
"Dr. Hook. That's what we all called him."
"Isn't that a singer?" she asked.
"A what?"
"Never mind."
They drove another mile away from civilization. "That's the house," Tom said. "Up there behind the trees."
It was a small wooden cabin with a big front porch.
"Rustic, ain't it?"
Decrepit would have been a better adjective. Jessica checked the porch, but there were no toothless hillbillies playing dueling banjos.
"Did my father say why he wanted to rent this cabin?"
"Just said he needed someplace to get away from it all in these woods."
It still made no sense. Dad was going to be gone at a medical examiners' conference for a week out of the month, anyway. And Adam Culver was not the get-away-from-it-all type. He dealt with the dead. On vacations he wanted to be in Vegas or Atlantic City or someplace with lots of people and action. Now he was renting the Waltons' cabin.
Tom used the key to unlock the door. He pushed it open and said, "After you."
Jessica stepped into the living room. And stopped short.
Tom came in behind her. His voice was a whisper. "What the hell is this?" he asked.
Chapter 33
Dean Gordon's office was in Compton Hall. The building was only three stories high but wide. Greek columns out front screamed House of Learning. Brick exterior. White double doors. Directly inside was a bulletin board filled with old notices. Meetings of the usual campus groups: the African American Change Committee, the Gay-Lesbian Alliance, the Liberators of Palestine, the Coalition to Stop the Domination of Womyn (never spelled women, for the sexism the name implies), the South African Freedom Fighters--all taking the summer off. College fun days.
There was no one inside the huge lobby. The motif was marble. Marble floors, banisters, columns. The walls were covered with huge portraits of men in graduation robes, most of whom would flip if they could read the bulletin board. All the lights were on. Myron's footsteps clacked and reverberated in the still room. He wanted to shout "Echo," but was far too adult.
The dean of students' office suite was at the end of the left corridor. The door was locked. Myron knocked hard. "Dean Gordon?"
Shuffling behind the dark-paneled doors. Several seconds later, the door opened. Dean Gordon was wearing tortoiseshell glasses. He had wispy hair, conservatively cut, a handsome face with clear brown eyes. His features were gentle, as though the facial bones had been rounded off to soften his appearance. He looked kind, trustworthy. Myron hated that.
"I'm sorry," the dean said. "The office is closed until tomorrow morning."
"We need to talk."
Confusion crossed his face. "Do I know you?"
"I don't think so."
"You're not a student here."
"Hardly."
"May I ask who you are?"
Myron looked at him steadily. "You know who I am. And you know what I want to talk about."
"I don't have the slightest idea to what you are referring, but I am really quite busy--"
"Read any good magazines lately?"
Dean Gordon's whole body twitched. "What did you say?"
"I guess I could come back when the office was crowded. Maybe bring some reading material for the school's trustees, though I understand they only read the articles."
No response.
Myron smiled--knowingly. At least, he hoped that was how it looked. Myron had no idea what part the dean played in th
is little mystery. He had to step tentatively here.
The dean coughed into his fist. Not a real cough or throat-clear. Just something to stall, give him a chance to think. Finally he said, "Please come in."
He disappeared back into his office. No sucking vacuum this time, but Myron still followed. They passed a few chairs in the waiting room, a secretary's desk. The typewriter was hidden by a khaki-colored dust cover. Camouflaged in the event of war.
Dean Gordon's office was cookie-cut university executive. Lots of wood. Diplomas. Old sketches of the Reston University chapel. Lucite blocks with clippings or awards on the desk. Bookshelves with all nonfiction titles. The books hadn't been touched. They were props, creating the mood of tradition, professionalism, competence. The prerequisite picture of the family. Madelaine and a girl who looked about twelve or thirteen years old. Myron picked up the photograph.
"Nice family," he said. Nice wife.
"Thank you. Please have a seat."
Myron sat. "Say, where did Kathy work?"
The dean stopped in midseat. "Pardon me?"
"Where was her desk?"
"Whose?"
"Kathy Culver's."
Dean Gordon lowered himself the rest of the way, slowly, as into a hot tub of water. "She shared a desk with another student in the room next door."
Myron said, "Convenient."
Dean Gordon's eyebrows frowned. "I'm sorry. I missed your name."
"Deluise. Dom Deluise."
The dean allowed himself a small brittle smile. He looked tight enough to pop a wine cork with his butt. No doubt being sent the magazine had put the screws in. No doubt Jake's visit yesterday had tightened them a little. "What, Mr. Deluise, can I do for you?"
"I think you know." Again the knowing smile. Combined with the honest blue eyes. If Dean Gordon were female, he'd be naked by now.
"I'm afraid I don't have the slightest idea," the dean said.
Myron continued the knowing smile. He felt like an idiot or a morning network weatherman, if there was a difference. This was an old trick he was trying. Pretend you know more than you do. Get him talking. Play it by ear. Impromptu.
The dean folded his hands and put them on his desk. Trying to look as if he were in control. "This whole conversation is very strange. Perhaps you could explain why you're here."
"I thought we should chat."
"About?"
"Your English department, for starters. Do you still make students read Beowulf?"
"Please, whatever your name is, I don't have time for games."
"Neither do I." Myron took out his copy of Nips and tossed it on the desk. The magazine was starting to look creased and worn from all the handling, as if it belonged to a hormonal adolescent.
The dean barely glanced at it. "What is this?"
"Now who's playing games?"
Dean Gordon leaned back, his fingers fiddling with his chin. "Who are you?" he asked. "Really."
"It's not. important. I am merely a messenger."
"Messenger for who?"
"For whom," Myron corrected. "Prepositional phrase. And you a college dean."
"I don't need any smart talk, young man."
Myron looked at him. "Get real."
The dean sucked in air as if he were about to plunge underwater. "What do you want?"
"Isn't the pleasure of your company enough?"
"This is not a joking matter."
"No, it's not."
"So kindly stop playing games. What do you want with me?"
Myron tried the knowing smile again. Dean Gordon looked puzzled for a brief moment but then returned the smile. It too was knowing.
"Or should I say," the dean added, "how much?"
He seemed more in control now. He had dealt with the blow and was carrying on. A problem had arisen. But there was a solution. There always was in his world.
Money.
He took out a checkbook from his top drawer. "Well?"
"Not that simple," Myron said.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you think someone should pay?"
He shrugged. "Let's talk figures."
"Don't you think this is worth something more than just money?"
He looked bewildered, as though Myron had just denied the existence of gravity. "I don't understand what you mean."
"What about justice?" Myron asked. "Kathy is owed. Big-time."
"I agree. And I am willing to pay. But what good is revenge going to do her now? You are the messenger, are you not?"
"I am."
"Then go back and tell Kathy to take the money."
Myron's heart collapsed. This man, a man who was clearly involved in what had happened that night, believed Myron was a messenger for a living, breathing Kathy Culver. Tread gently, fair Myron. Ever gently.
But how to play this.
"Kathy is not happy with you," he tried.
"I meant her no harm."
Myron put his hand on his chest and lifted his head dramatically. "Be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou com'st in such a questionable shape."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Myron shrugged. "I like to work Shakespeare into conversations. Makes me sound smart, don't you think?"
The dean made a face. "Can we return to the matter at hand?"
"Sure."
"You say Kathy does not want money."
"Yup."
"What then does she want?"
Good question. "She wants the truth to come out." Noncommittal, vague, open-ended.
"What truth?"
"Stop playing dumb," Myron snapped, feigning annoyance. "You weren't about to write a check to her favorite charity, were you?"
"But I didn't do anything," he half-whined. "Kathy took off that night. I haven't seen her since. How was I supposed to know what to think or do?"
Myron gave him a skeptical look. He did that because he had no idea what else to do. He was now playing Jake's game, the keep-silent-and-hope-he-ties-his-own-noose game. This worked especially well with political types. They're born with a defective chromosome that will not allow for prolonged silence.
"She has to understand," he continued. "I did my best. She disappeared. What was I supposed to do? Go to the police? Was that what she wanted? I didn't know anymore. I was thinking of her. She might have changed her mind. I didn't know. I was trying to consider her interests."
The skeptical look came easier after that last sentence. Myron only wished he knew what the hell the dean was talking about. They sat there staring at one another. Then something happened to Dean Gordon's face. Myron wasn't sure exactly what it was, but his whole demeanor seemed to slump. His eyes grew twisted, pained. He shook his head.
"Enough," he said in a quiet voice.
"What's enough?"
He closed the checkbook. "I won't pay," he said. "Tell Kathy I'll do whatever she wants. I'll stand by her no matter what the cost. This has gone on long enough. I can't live like this. I am not an evil man. She's a sick girl. She needs help. I want to help."
Myron had not expected this. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes. Very much."
"You want to help your former lover?"
His head shot up. "What did you say?"
Myron had been skating blindly on thin ice. His last comment, it seemed, had been something of a blowtorch.
"Did you say 'lover'?"
Uh-oh.
"Kathy didn't send you," he continued. "She has nothing to do with you, does she?"
Myron said nothing.
"Who are you? What is your real name?"
"Myron Bolitar."
"Who?"
"Myron Bolitar."
"Are you a police officer?"
"No."
"Then what exactly are you?"
"A sports agent."
"A what?"
"I represent athletes."
"You-- So what do you have to do with this?"
"I'm a friend," Myron said. "I'm trying to find Kathy."
/>
"Is she alive?"
"I don't know. But you seem to think so."
Dean Gordon opened his bottom drawer, took out a cigarette, lit it.
"Bad for you," Myron said.
"I quit smoking five years ago. Or so everyone thinks."
"Another little secret?"
He smiled without humor. "So you were the one who sent me the magazine."
Myron shook his head. "Nope."
"Then who?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to figure that out. But I know about it. And now I also know you're hiding something about Kathy's disappearance."
He inhaled deeply and let loose a long stream of smoke. "I could deny it. I could deny everything we said here today."
"You could," Myron countered. "But of course I have the magazine. I have no reason to lie. And I also have a friend in Sheriff Jake Courter. But you're right. In the end it would be my word against yours."
Dean Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "No," he said slowly, "it won't come down to that. I meant what I said before. I want to help her. I need to help her."
Myron was not sure what to think. The man looked in genuine pain, but Myron had seen performances that would put Olivier to shame. Was his guilt real? Was his sudden catharsis the result of having a conscience, or was it self-preservation? Myron didn't know. He didn't much care either, as long as he got to the truth.
"When was the last time you saw Kathy?" Myron asked.
"The night she vanished," he said.
"She came to your house?"
He nodded. "It was late. I guess around eleven, eleven-thirty. I was in my study. My wife was upstairs in bed. The doorbell rang. Not once. Repeatedly, urgently. Interspersed with heavy door-pounding. It was Kathy."
His voice was on autopilot, as if he were reading a fairy tale to a child. "She was crying. Or rather she was sobbing uncontrollably. So much so that she couldn't speak. I brought her into my study. I poured her some brandy and wrapped an afghan around her shoulders. She looked"--he stopped, considered--"very small. Helpless. I sat down across from her and took her hand. She jerked it back. That was when the tears stopped. Not slowly, but all at once, as though a switch had been thrown. She became very still. Her face was completely blank, no emotion whatsoever. Then she started talking."
He reached into the drawer for another cigarette. He put it in his mouth. The match lit on the fourth try.
"She started from the beginning," he continued. "Her voice was remarkably steady. It never cracked or wavered--uncanny, when you consider the fact that she was hysterical just moments earlier. But her words belied her placid tone. She told me stories--" He stopped again, shook his head. "They were surprising, to say the least. I had known Kathy for almost a year. I considered her a thoughtful, sweet, proper young woman. I am not making moral judgments here. But she had always been what I considered old-fashioned. And here she was telling me stories that would make a sailor blush.
