by Harlan Coben
Chapter 35
Myron filled Jake in. Then he drove Christian home. On the way he filled Christian in too. On everything. Christian wanted to know. Myron wanted to spare him, but he knew he didn't have the right to keep things from him.
Christian did not interrupt with questions. In fact, he said nothing. On the field he was famous for his composure under any situation. Right now, Christian had on his best game face.
When Myron finished, neither spoke for several minutes. Then Myron said, "Are you okay?"
Christian nodded. His face was pale. "Thank you for being up-front with me," he said.
"Kathy loved you," Myron said. "Very much. Don't forget that."
He nodded again. "We have to find her."
"I'm trying."
Christian shifted in the car seat so he could face Myron. "When I was being wooed by all these big agencies, the whole process felt--I don't know--so impersonal. It was all about money. Still is, I know that. I'm not being naive here, but you were different. I instinctively knew I could trust you. I guess what I'm trying to say is, you've become more than just an agent to me. I'm glad I chose you."
"Me too," Myron said. "This might not the best time to ask, but how did you hear about me in the first place?"
"Someone gave you a glowing recommendation."
"Who?"
Christian smiled. "You don't know?"
"A client?"
"No."
Myron shook his head. "I have no idea."
Christian settled back in his seat. "Jessica," he said. "She told me your life history. About your playing days, your injury, what you went through, how you worked for the FBI, how you went back to school. She said you were the best person she knew."
"Jessica doesn't get out much."
They fell back into silence. The New Jersey Turnpike had a center-lane closure, slowing them down to a crawl. Should have taken the western spur. Myron was about to change lanes when Christian said something that almost made him slam on the brakes.
"My mother once posed in the nude."
Myron thought he'd heard wrong. "What?"
"When I was a little kid. I don't know if they were ever printed in a magazine or anything. I doubt it. She wasn't very attractive by then. She was twenty-five but looked sixty. She worked as a prostitute in New York. On the streets. I don't know who my father was. She figured he was one of the guys at a bachelor party, but she had no idea which one."
Myron sneaked a glance at him. Christian stared straight ahead. The game face was still on.
"I thought your mother and father raised you in Kansas," Myron said carefully.
Christian shook his head. "Those were my grandparents. My mom died when I was seven. They legally adopted me. We had the same last name, so I just pretended they were my real parents."
Myron said, "I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They were wonderful parents. I guess they made a lot of mistakes with my mom, the way she ended up and all. But they were kind and loving to me. I miss them a lot."
The silence was heavier now. They drove past the Meadowlands. Myron paid the toll at the end of the turnpike and followed the signs to the George Washington Bridge. Christian had bought a place two miles before the bridge, six miles from Titans Stadium. A set of three hundred prefab condos loftily labeled Cross Creek Pointe, one of those New Jersey housing developments that looked like something out of Poltergeist.
As they cruised to a stop, the car phone rang. Myron picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?"
It was Jessica.
"In Englewood."
"Take Route four west to seventeen north," she said quickly. "I'll meet you in the Pathmark parking lot in Ramsey."
"What's going on?"
"Just meet me there. Now."
Chapter 36
The moment Myron saw Jessica standing in the dusky glow of the Pathmark fluorescent parking lights, looking achingly beautiful in a pair of hip-hugging blue jeans and a red blouse open at the throat, he knew there was trouble. Big trouble.
"Very bad?" he asked her.
She opened the car door and slid in next to him. "Worse."
He couldn't help it. He couldn't stop thinking of how beautiful she was. She looked a little pale, her eyes a bit too sunken. She did not have crow's-feet quite yet, but new lines had etched their way into her face. Had they been there yesterday or the day she visited his office? He wasn't sure. But he thought she had never looked so devastating. The imperfections, if you wanted to call them that, just made her more real and hence more desirable. Myron had thought Dean-nessa Madelaine was attractive, but she was nary a penlight next to Jessica's blinding beacon.
"Want to tell me about it?"
She shook her head. "I'd rather just show you." She started giving directions. When they reached a road appropriately called Red Dirt Path, she said, "My father rented a cabin out here."
"In these woods?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Two weeks ago. He had it for the month. According to the realtor, he wanted some peace and quiet. A place to get away from it all."
"Doesn't sound much like your father," Myron said.
"Not like him at all," she agreed.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the cabin. Myron had a hard time believing that Adam Culver, a man he had gotten to know fairly well during his time with Jessica, would want to vacation out here. The man liked to gamble. He liked the ponies, the roulette wheel, the blackjack table. He liked action. His idea of a quiet time was a Tony Bennett concert at the Sands.
Jessica got out of the car. Myron followed. Her posture was arrow-perfect. So was the walk, something Myron had always loved to watch in the past. But there was an unmistakable teeter in her step, as though her legs were not sure they could sustain the lovely torso over the long haul.
Their footsteps creaked on the steps of the wooden porch. Myron spotted plenty of dry rot. Jessica unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
"Take a look," she said.
He did. He said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him.
"I checked his charge card," she said. "He spent over three thousand dollars at a place in the city called Eye-Spy."
Myron knew the store. This was definitely their handiwork. Three videocameras were sprawled across the couch. Panasonic. All with mounting material, so they could be hung up somewhere. There were also three small television monitors. Also Panasonic. The kind you might see at a high-rise's security station. Two VCRs. Toshiba. Lots of cables and wires and stuff like that.
But that stuff wasn't the most bothersome thing he saw. Alone, those electronic goods could have meant one of several things. But two other items--items that drew Myron's eye and held it like a baby near a shiny coin--changed everything. They were the added catalyst. They completed a mixture that was far too noxious to be ignored.
Propped against the wall was a rifle. And on the floor next to it, a set of handcuffs.
Jessica said, "What the hell was he doing?"
He knew what she was thinking. The dead girls found near here. The television images of their battered, decayed bodies hovered above them like the most haunting of ghosts.
"When did he buy this stuff?" Myron asked.
"Two weeks ago." Her eyes were clear, controlled. "Listen, I've had time to think about this. Even if our worst fears are true, it doesn't explain anything. What about the picture in the magazine? Or Kathy's handwriting on that envelope? Or the phone calls? Or for that matter his murder?"
Myron looked at her. He knew she was seeking an explanation--any explanation but the one that stared them straight in the face. "Are you okay?" he asked.
She crossed her arms under her breasts, a hand on each elbow, as if she were hugging herself. "I feel," she said, "unanchored."
"Can you take more?"
Her hands dropped to her sides. "Why? What is it?"
He hesitated.
She exploded. "Goddam
n it, don't coddle me!"
"Jess--"
"You know I hate that protect-the-little-lady bullshit of yours! Tell me what the hell is going on!"
"Kathy was gang-raped by some of Christian's teammates on the night she disappeared."
Jessica looked as if she'd just been slapped with an open hand. Myron reached out. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Just tell me what happened. Everything."
He did. Her clear, controlled eyes went blank, lifeless. She remained uncharacteristically silent.
"Bastards," she managed. "The goddamn bastards."
He nodded.
"One of them killed her," she said. "Or all of them. To shut her up."
"It's possible."
She paused, thinking. Then the eyes came back to life. "Suppose," she began slowly, "that my father learned about the rape."
Myron nodded.
"What would he do?" she continued. "How would you react--if it was your daughter?"
"I'd be enraged," Myron replied.
"Would you be able to control yourself?"
"Kathy is not my daughter," he said. "And I'm still not sure I can control myself."
Jessica nodded. "So maybe, just maybe, that explains this whole setup. The electronics, the cuffs, the rifle. Maybe he was using this hideaway, deep in the woods, so he could grab a rapist and exact a little private justice."
"Kathy was gang-raped. There were six of them. This place looks built for one."
"But," she continued with the hint of an eerie smile, "suppose my father was in the exact same position we are in now."
"I don't follow."
"Suppose he knew the name of only one rapist. Maybe this Horton guy. What might he do then? What might you do then?"
"I might," Myron said, "kidnap him and make him tell."
"Exactly."
"But it's a hell of a reach. Why would I videotape it? Why would I need cameras and monitors?"
"Tape the confession, make sure no one comes down the road, I don't know. You have a better scenario?"
He did not. "Have you gone through the rest of the house yet?"
"I didn't have a chance. The realtor brought me here. He practically burst a blood vessel when he saw this stuff."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I knew all this was here. That my father was a private investigator working undercover."
Myron made a face.
"Hey, it was the best I could come up with."
"And he bought that?"
"I think so."
Myron shook his head. "I thought you were a writer."
"I'm not good with spur-of-the-moment. I'm a lot better with the written than the oral."
"Based on past experience," he said, "I'd have to disagree."
"Nice time," she said, "for a come-on."
He shrugged. "Just trying to keep things loose."
She almost smiled.
"Let's look around," he said.
There wasn't much to search. The living room had no drawers or closets. Everything was in plain view--the electronic equipment, the handcuffs, the rifle. The kitchenette held no surprises. Same with the bathroom. That left the bedroom.
It was small. The size of a guest bedroom at a beach house. The double bed took up almost the entire room. There were reading lights on either side of the bed, attached to the wall because there was no room for night tables. No dressers either. The bed was made with flannel sheets. They checked the closet.
Bingo.
Black pants, black T-shirt, black sweatshirt. And worst of all, a black ski mask.
"Ski mask in June?" Myron said.
"He might have needed it to kidnap Horton," she tried. But her tone would not make the leap.
Myron dropped to the floor and looked underneath the bed. He saw a plastic bag. He stretched out his hand, grabbed it, and dragged it along the dust-blanketed floor toward him. The bag was red. The initials BCME were emblazoned across the front.
"Bergen County Medical Examiner," Jessica explained.
It looked like one of those old Lord and Taylor's bags, the kind that snapped closed on the top. Myron pulled it back. The bag opened with a pop. He pulled out a pair of gray no-frills sweat pants with a drawstring. Then he reached back in and withdrew a yellow pullover with the letter T in red. Both were covered with caked-on dirt.
"Recognize these?" he asked.
"Just the yellow sweater," she said. "It's my dad's old varsity sweater from Tarlow High School."
"Funny thing to hide under a bed up here."
Jessica's eyes lit up. "Nancy's message! Jesus Christ, she said my dad told her all about Kathy's yellow sweater."
"Whoa, slow down a second. What did Nancy say exactly?"
"She said--and I quote verbatim--'He told me all about that favorite yellow sweater he gave Kathy. Such a sweet story.' Those were her exact words. My father never wore it. Kathy did. Like a nightshirt or kick-around-the-house shirt."
"Did your dad give it to her?"
"Yes."
"So how did he get it back?"
"I don't know. I imagine it was in her personal belongings at school."
"Which doesn't explain why he asked Nancy Serat about it. Or why it's hidden under his bed."
They stood in silence.
"We're missing something here," she said.
"Maybe your father saw something in these clothes we can't see yet."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Myron admitted. "But these clothes were clearly significant to him. Maybe he found them somewhere unusual. Or maybe the police found them."
"But Kathy was wearing blue the night she left. That's been established."
Myron remembered the testimony of the sorority sisters and the photograph. But then again ...
"One way to check on that."
"How?"
He ran out to the car. Darkness had finally laid claim on the long summer day. He turned on the phone, hoping they weren't too far out of a calling area. Three of those little bars lit up. Enough for the phone to work. He tried Dean Gordon's office. It rang twenty times. No answer. He tried the dean's house. It was picked up on the third ring.
Dean Gordon said, "Hello?"
"What was Kathy wearing when she came to your house?" No need for identification or pleasantries.
"Wearing? A blouse and skirt of some kind."
"What color?"
"Blue. I think the blouse was ripped a bit."
Myron hung up.
Jessica said, "Back to square one."
Maybe, Myron thought. But the flash of an image seared across his mind. He couldn't grasp it, couldn't even make out what it was exactly. But it had been there, and it would come back.
"Let's go," she said softly, taking his hand. The car light provided enough illumination to see the look in her eyes. They were beautiful eyes, so light colored they were almost yellow. "I want to get away from here."
He closed the car door, feeling suddenly choked up. The car light went out, basking them in darkness. He couldn't see her face anymore. "Where do you want to go?"
From the darkness he heard her voice. "Someplace," she said, "where we can be alone."
Chapter 37
They found a high-rise Hilton in Mahwah.
Myron checked them in to the best available suite. Jessica stood next to him. The hotel concierge swung his line of vision from Myron to Jessica, eyeing her lustily and Myron jealously. A formal affair was in full swing in the lobby. Men in tuxes, women in long gowns. But every man stared agog at Jessica, who was dressed in jeans and a button-down red blouse.
Myron was used to it. When they were first together, he had taken an almost perverse pleasure in seeing men stare, the familiar you-look-but-I-touch-ha-ha school of macho sneering. But then he started seeing things in the looks that weren't there, and the even more familiar male insecurity burrowed through his rationality.
Jessica was practiced at this. She knew how to ignore the looks without looking c
old, bothered, or interested.
Their room was on the sixth floor. They had barely closed the door when they kissed. Jessica's tongue circled and gently darted, making his whole body spasm helplessly. He began to unbutton her blouse. His mouth went dry. He actually gasped when he saw her again. Breathlessness made him heady. He cupped a warm breast, feeling the delicious weight in his hand. She moaned into his mouth.
They moved to the bed.
Their lovemaking had always been intense, all-consuming, but this was somehow more animalistic, needier, and yet more tender.
Later, much later, Jessica sat up, kissed him gently on the cheek. "That," she said, "was awesome."
Myron shrugged. "Not bad."
"Not bad?"
"For me. For you it was awesome."
She swung her legs out of bed and slipped into a hotel robe. "I did enjoy myself," she said.
"Sounded like it."
"I was a tad noisy, huh?"
"The Who in concert is a tad noisy. You were loud."
She stood above the bed, smiling. The robe was tied loosely, showing plenty of cleavage and legs that were so long, they were almost intimidating. "I didn't hear you complain."
"How could you," Myron said, "over all your screaming?"
"What time is it?"
"Midnight." He reached for the phone. "Hungry?"
She gave him a look he felt in his toes. Well, not exactly his toes. "Famished," she said.
"For food, Jess. Food."
"Oh."
"Ever learn about the male's 'time for recovery' in health class?"
"Must have been absent that day."
"The three R's. Replenishment, restoration, recuperation." He looked at the menu. "Damn."
"What?"
"No oysters."
"Myron?"
"Yes."
"There's a hot tub in the bathroom."
"Jess ..."
She looked at him with who-me innocence. "We can soak until the food comes. Recuperate. One of the three R's."
"Just soak?"
"Just soak."
She had said soak. He was sure of it. Soak. Not soap. But that was how it started. She soaped him back to life. Myron tried to fight it, almost afraid of how good it felt. But he couldn't. Jess toyed with him, pushed him to the edge, let him teeter, then pulled him back. Myron was helpless. Words like heaven, ecstasy, paradise, ambrosia floated through his mind.
Total surrender.
With a whispered "Now," she let him go. His nerve endings surged and sang. The white-hot explosion was so powerful, his ears popped. The bright light hurt his eyes.
"Awesome," he managed.
She lay back, smiling. "Not bad."
