by Harlan Coben
There was a laptop in the room off the bedroom. I signed on to the Internet and searched for Save the Angels. The Web site came up. On the top was a banner that read SAVE THE ANGELS and in smaller print, CHRISTIAN SOLUTIONS. The language spoke of life and love and God. It talked about replacing the word "choice" with the word "solutions." There were testimonials from women who had gone with the "adoption solution" rather than "murder." There were couples who'd had infertility issues talking about how the government wanted to "cruelly experiment" on their "preborns" while Save the Angels could help a frozen embryo "realize its ultimate purpose--life" through the Christian solution of helping another infertile couple.
I had heard such arguments before, remembered Mario Contuzzi briefly addressing them. He said that the group seemed somewhat right-wing but not extreme. I tended to agree. I kept surfing. There was a mission statement about sharing God's love and saving "preborn children." There was a statement of faith that began with a belief in the Bible, that it is "the complete, inspired word of God without error," and moved into the sanctity of life. There were buttons to click on adoption care, on rights, on upcoming events, on resources for birth mothers.
I clicked the FAQ section, seeing how they answered the hows and whys, supporting unwed mothers, matching infertile couples to frozen embryos, forms to fill out, costs, how you can donate, how you can join the Save the Angels team. It was all pretty impressive. The Picture Gallery was next. I clicked on page one. There were pictures of two rather glorious mansions that were used for unwed mothers. One looked like something you'd see on a Georgian plantation, all white with marble columns and enormous weeping willow trees surrounding it. The other home looked like the perfect bed-and-breakfast--a picturesque, almost overly done Victorian home with turrets, towers, stained-glass windows, a lemonade porch, and a blue-gray mansard roof. The captions stressed the confidentiality of both the location and the inhabitants--no names, no address--while the postcardlike photographs almost made you long to be knocked up.
I clicked on Gallery page two--and that was when I had my goofy-ornery-nonlinear-catalyst moment.
There were photographs of babies. The images were beautiful and adorable and heartbreaking, the sort of pictures designed to elicit wonder and awe in anyone with a pulse.
My ornery mind likes to play the contrast game. You watch a terrible stand-up comic, you think of how great Chris Rock is. You watch a movie that tries to scare you with excessive Technicolor gore, you think of how Hitchcock kept you riveted, even in black and white. Right now, as I stared at the "saved angels," I thought about how perfect these images were compared with those creepy Victorian photographs I had seen in that cheesy storefront earlier in the day. That reminded me of what else I had learned there, the HHK, the possibility of that meaning Ho-Ho-Kus, and how Esperanza had come up with that.
Again the human brain--billions of random synapses cracking, popping, mixing, twisting, and sparking. You can't really get a grip on it, but here was how it must have gone inside my head: Official Photography, HHK, Esperanza, how we first met, her wrestling days, FLOW, the acronym for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling.
Suddenly it all came together. Well, maybe not all of it. But some. Enough so that I knew where I would be headed the next morning:
To that cheesy storefront in Ho-Ho-Kus. To the Official Photography of Albin Laramie, or, as it might be known if you were jotting down an acronym, OPAL.
THE man behind the counter at the Official Photography of Albin Laramie had to be Albin. He wore a cape. A shiny cape. Like he was Batman or Zorro. The facial hair looked Etch-A-Sketched, his hair was a tangled yet calculated mess, and his whole persona screamed that he was not merely an artist, but an "artiste!" He was talking on the phone and scowling when I entered.
I started toward him. He signaled me to wait with a finger. "He doesn't get it, Leopold. What can I tell you? The man doesn't get angles or texture or coloring. He has no eye."
He held up his finger again for me to wait another minute. I did. When he hung up the phone, he sighed theatrically. "May I help you?"
"Hi," I said. "My name is Bernie Worley."
"And I," he said, hand to heart, "am Albin Laramie."
He made this pronouncement with great pride and flair. It reminded me of Mandy Patinkin in The Princess Bride; I half expected him to tell me that I had killed his father, prepare to die.
I gave him the world-weary smile. "My wife asked me to pick up some photographs."
"Do you have your claim stub?"
"I lost it."
Albin frowned.
"But I have the order number, if that will help."
"It may." He pulled over a keyboard, got his fingers ready, turned back to me. "Well?"
"Four-seven-one-two."
He looked at me as though I were the dumbest thing on God's green earth. "That's not an order number."
"Oh. Are you sure?"
"That's a session number."
"A session number?"
He pushed the cape back with both hands like a bird might before spreading its wings. "As in photo session."
The phone rang and he turned away as though dismissing me. I was losing him. I took a step back and did my own theatrics. I blinked and made my mouth into a perfect O. Myron Bolitar, Awestruck Ingenue. He was watching me with curiosity now. I circled the store and kept the awestruck look on my face.
"Is there a problem?" he asked me.
"Your work," I said. "It's breathtaking."
He preened. You don't often see an adult man preen in real life. For the next ten minutes or so I snowed him with a bit more about his work, asking him about inspiration and letting him prattle on about hue and tone and style and lighting and other stuff.
"Marge and I have a baby," I said, shaking my head in admiration at the hideous Victorian monstrosity that made an otherwise cute baby look like my uncle Morty with a case of shingles. "We should set up a time to bring her in."
Albin continued to preen in his cape. Preening, I thought, was meant for a man in a cape. We discussed price, which was absolutely ridiculous and would require a second mortgage. I played along. Finally, I said, "Look, that's the number my wife gave me. The session number. She said that if I saw those photographs it would simply blow me away. Do you think I could see the shots from session four-seven-one-two?"
If it struck him as odd that I had originally come in claiming to pick up photographs and now wanted to look at pictures from a session, the note hadn't sounded over the din of true genius.
"Yes, of course, it's on the computer here. I must tell you. I don't like digital photography. For your little girl, I want to use a classic box camera. There is such a texture to the work."
"That'd be super."
"Still, I use the digital for Web storage." He began typing and hit return. "Well, these aren't baby pictures, that's for sure. Here you are."
Albin turned the monitor toward me. A bunch of thumbnails loaded onto the screen. I felt my chest tighten even before he clicked on one, making the image large enough to fill the entire monitor. No doubt about it.
It was the blond girl.
I tried to play it cool. "I'll need a copy of that."
"What size?"
"Whatever, eight-by-ten would be great."
"It will be ready a week from Tuesday."
"I need it now."
"Impossible."
"Your computer is hooked up into the color printer over there," I said.
"Yes, but that hardly produces photo quality."
No time to explain. I took out my wallet. "I'll give you two hundred dollars for a computer printout of that picture."
His eyes narrowed, but only for a second. It was finally dawning on him that something was up, but he was a photographer, not a lawyer or doctor. There was no confidentiality agreement here. I handed him the two hundred dollars. He started for the printer. I noticed a link that said Personal Info. I clicked it as he pulled the photograph from the printer.
"Pardon me?" Albin said.
I backed off, but I had seen enough. The girl's name was only listed as a first: Carrie. Her address?
Right next door. Care of the Save the Angels Foundation.
ALBIN did not know Carrie's last name. When I pressed him, he let me know he took pictures for Save the Angels, that was all. They gave him first names only. I took the printout and went next door. Save the Angels was still locked up. No surprise. I found Minerva, my favorite receptionist, at Bruno and Associates and showed her the picture of the blond Carrie.
"Do you know her?"
Minerva looked up at me.
"She's missing," I said. "I'm trying to find her."
"Are you like a private eye?"
"I am." It was easier than explaining.
"Cool."
"Yeah. Her first name is Carrie. Do you recognize her?"
"She worked there."
"At Save the Angels?"
"Well, not worked. She was one of the interns. Was here for a few weeks last summer."
"Can you tell me anything about her?"
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
I said nothing.
"I never knew her name. She wasn't very nice. None of their interns were, truthfully. Plenty of love for God, I guess, but not real people. Anyway, our offices share a bathroom down the hall. I would say hi. She would look through me. You know what I mean?"
I thanked Minerva and headed back to suite 3B. I stood in front of it and stared at the door for Save the Angels. Again: the mind. I started letting the pieces tumble through ye olde brain cavity like socks in a dryer. I thought about the Web site I had surfed through last night, about the very name of this organization. I looked down at the photograph in my hand. The blond hair. The beautiful face. The blue eyes with that gold ring around each pupil, and yet I saw exactly what Minerva meant.
No mistake.
Sometimes you see strong genetic similarities in a face, like the gold ring around the pupil--and sometimes you also see something more like an echo. That was what I saw on this girl's face. An echo.
An echo, I was certain, of her mother.
I looked again at the door. I looked again at the photograph. And as the realization sank in, I felt the coldness seep into my bones.
Berleand hadn't lied.
My cell phone rang. It was Win.
"The DNA test on those bones has been completed."
"Don't tell me," I said. "It's a match for Terese as mother. Jones was telling the truth."
"Yes."
I stared at the picture some more.
"Myron?"
"I think I get it now," I said. "I think I know what's going on."
33
I drove back to New York City--more specifically, to the offices of CryoHope.
This can't be.
That was the thought that kept rambling through my mind. I didn't know if I hoped that I was right or wrong--but like I said, truth has a certain smell to it. And as far as the "can't be" aspect, I again bring up the Sherlock Holmes axiom: When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
I was tempted to call Special Agent Jones. I had the girl's picture now. This Carrie was probably a terrorist or a sympathizer or maybe--best-case scenario--she was being held against her will. But it was too early for that. I could talk to Terese, run this possibility by her, but that, too, felt premature.
I needed to know for sure before I got Terese's hopes up--or down.
CryoHope had valet parking. I gave the keys to the man and started inside. Immediately after Rick Collins found out that he had Huntington's disease, he had come here. It made sense on the surface. CryoHope was a leader in cutting-edge research with stem cells. It was natural to think that he had visited here in hopes of finding that something might save him from his genetic fate.
But that hadn't been it.
I remembered the name of the doctor from the brochure. "I want to see Dr. Sloan," I said to the receptionist.
"Your name?"
"Myron Bolitar. Tell him it's about Rick Collins. And a girl named Carrie."
WHEN I came back out, Win was waiting by the front door, leaning against the wall with the ease of Dino at the Sands. His limo was outside, but he stayed with me.
"So?" he said.
I told him everything. He listened without interrupting or asking any follow-up questions. When I was done, he said, "Next step?"
"I tell Terese."
"Any thoughts on how she'll react?"
"None."
"You could wait. Do more research."
"On what?"
He picked up the photograph. "The girl."
"We will. But I need to tell Terese now."
My cell phone chirped. The caller ID showed me Unknown Number. I flipped on the speakerphone setting and said, "Hello?"
"Miss me?"
It was Berleand. "You didn't call me back," I said.
"You were supposed to stay out of it. Calling you back may have encouraged you to rejoin the investigation."
"So why are you calling now?"
"Because you have a very big problem," he said.
"I'm listening."
"Am I on speakerphone?"
"Yes."
"Is Win there with you?"
Win said, "I am."
"So what's the problem?" I asked.
"We've been picking up some dangerous chatter coming out of Paterson, New Jersey. Terese's name was mentioned."
"Terese's," I said, "but not mine?"
"It may have been alluded to. This is chatter. It isn't always clear."
"But you think they know about us?"
"It seems likely, yes."
"Any idea how?"
"None. The agents involved with Jones, the ones who took you into custody, are the best. None of them would have talked."
"One must have," I said.
"Are you sure about that?"
I ran it through my head. I thought about who else was there that day in London, who might have told other jihadists that I had killed their leader Mohammad Matar. I glanced at Win. He held up the photograph of Carrie and arched an eyebrow.
When you eliminate the impossible . . .
Win said, "Call your parents. We'll move them to the Lockwood compound in Palm Beach. We'll add the best security for Esperanza--maybe Zorra is available or that Carl guy from Philadelphia. Is your brother still on dig in Peru?"
I nodded.
"He should be safe then."
I knew that Win would stay with Terese and me. Win started making calls. I picked up the phone, taking it off speaker. "Berleand?"
"Yes."
"Jones implied that you might have been lying about that DNA test in Paris."
Berleand said nothing.
"I know you were telling the truth," I said.
"How?"
But I had already said too much. "I have some calls to make. I'll call you back."
I hung up and called my parents. I was hoping my father would answer, so naturally my mother picked up.
"Mom, it's me."
"Hello, darling." Mom sounded tired. "I'm just back from the doctor."
"Are you okay?"
"You can read about it on my blog tonight," Mom said.
"Hold up, you just got back from the doctor, right?"
Mom sighed. "I just said that, didn't I?"
"Right, so I'm asking about your health."
"That's going to be my blog topic. If you want to know more, read it."
"You won't tell me?"
"Don't take it personally, sweetie. This way I don't have to repeat myself when someone else asks."
"So you blog about it instead?"
"It increases traffic to my site. See, now you're interested, am I right? So I'll get more hits."
My mother, ladies and gentlemen.
"I didn't even know you had a blog."
"Oh, sure, I'm very now, very today, very hip. I'm on MyFa
ce too."
I heard my father in the background shout out, "It's MySpace, Ellen."
"What?"
"It's called MySpace."
"I thought it was MyFace."
"That's Facebook. You have one of those too. And MySpace."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Listen to Mr. Billy Gates back there. Knows everything about the Internet all of a sudden."
"And your mother is fine," Dad yelled out.
"Don't tell him," she whined. "Now he won't click my blog."
"Mom, this is important. Can I talk to Dad for a minute?"
Dad came on. I explained quickly and with as little detail as possible. Again Dad got it. He didn't question or argue. I had just finished explaining about how we'd get someone to pick them up and take them to the compound when my call waiting beeped in another call. It was Terese.
I finished up with my father and switched over.
"I'm about two minutes from you," I said to Terese. "Stay inside until I get there."
Silence.
"Terese?"
"She called."
I heard the sob in her voice.
"Who called?"
"Miriam. I just got off the phone with her."
34
I met her at the door.
"Tell me what happened."
Her whole body shook. She moved close to me and I held her and closed my eyes. This conversation, I knew, would be devastating. I got it now. I got why Rick Collins told her to be prepared. I got why he warned that what he would say would change her entire life.
"My phone rang. I picked it up and a girl on the other end said, 'Mommy?' "
I tried to imagine the moment, hearing that word from your own child, believing it was someone you loved more than anything else in the world and that you had a hand in killing.
"What else did she say?"
"They were holding her hostage."
"Who?"
"Terrorists. She said not to tell anyone."
I said nothing.
"A man with a thick accent took the phone away from her then. He said he'd call back with demands."
I just held her.
"Myron?"
We managed to find our way to the couch. She looked at me with hope and--I know how this will sound--love. My heart was cracking in my chest as I handed her the photograph.
"This is the blond girl I saw in Paris and London," I said.
She studied the picture for a full minute without speaking. Then: "I don't understand."
