Six Years

by Harlan Coben

Cheesy but it worked.

  Benedict and I were getting properly oiled. I threw my arm loosely around him and leaned in close. "You know what we should do?" I asked him.

  Benedict made a face. "Sober up?"

  "Ha! Good one. No, no. We should set up a rousing tournament of condom roulette. Single elimination. I'm thinking sixty-four teams. Like our own March Madness."

  "We aren't in Barsolotti's, Jake. This place doesn't have a condom vending machine."

  "It doesn't?"

  "No."

  "Shame."

  "Yeah," Benedict said. Then he whispered, "Pair of red-hot spank-worthy honeys at three o'clock."

  I was about to turn to my left, then to my right, and suddenly the concept of three o'clock made no sense to me. "Wait," I said, "where's my twelve o'clock again?"

  Benedict sighed. "You're facing twelve o'clock."

  "So three o'clock would be . . . ?"

  "Just turn to your right, Jake."

  You may have guessed that I do not handle spirits well. This surprises people. When they see someone my size, they expect me to drink smaller folks under the table. I can't. I hold my liquor about as well as a freshman coed at her first mixer.

  "Well?"

  I knew the type before my eyes even had a chance to settle on them. There sat two blondes who looked good-to-great in low Library Bar light and ordinary-to-frightful in the light of the morning sun. Benedict slid toward them and started chatting them up. Benedict could chat up a file cabinet. The two women looked past him and at me. Benedict signaled for me to join them.

  Why the hell not?

  You made a promise.

  Damn straight I did. Thanks for the reminder. Might as well keep it and try to score me a honey, right? I weaved my way toward them.

  "Ladies, meet the legendary Professor Jacob Fisher."

  "Wow," one of the blondes said, "he's a big boy," and--because Benedict couldn't help but be obvious--he winked and said, "You got no idea, sweetheart."

  I bit back the sigh, said hello, and sat. Benedict "macked" on them with pickup lines, specifically handpicked for this bar: "It's a library so it's perfectly okay to check you out." "Will I be fined if I keep you out late?" The blondes loved it. I tried to join in, but I have never been great with superficial banter. Natalie's face kept appearing. I kept pushing it away. We ordered more drinks. And more.

  After a while we all stumbled to couches near the former children's section. My head lolled back, and I may have passed out for a bit. When I woke up, one of the blondes started talking to me. I introduced myself.

  "My name is Windy," she said.

  "Wendy?"

  "No, Windy. With an i instead of an e." She said this as though she had said it a million times before, which, I guessed, she had.

  "Like the song?" I asked.

  She looked surprised. "You know the song? You don't look old enough."

  "'Everyone knows it's Windy,'" I sang. Then: "My dad loved the Association."

  "Wow. My dad too. That's how I got the name."

  It turned into, surprisingly enough, a real conversation. Windy was thirty-one years old and worked as a bank teller, but she was getting her degree in pediatric nursing, her dream job, at the community college down the road. She took care of her handicapped brother.

  "Alex has cerebral palsy," Windy said, showing me the picture of her brother in a wheelchair. The boy's face was radiant. I stared at it, as if somehow the goodness could come out of the picture and be a part of me. Windy saw it, nodded, and said in the softest voice: "He's the light of my life."

  An hour passed. Maybe two. Windy and I chatted. During nights like these, there is always a time when you know if you are going to, ahem, close the sale (or, to stay within the library metaphors, if you are going to get your library card punched) or not. We were at that time now, and it was clear that the answer was yes.

  The ladies left to powder their noses. I felt overly mellow from drink. Part of me wondered whether I'd be able to perform. Most of me didn't really care.

  "You know what I like about both of them?" Benedict pointed to a shelf of books. "They're stacked. Get it? Library, books, stacked?"

  I groaned out loud. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Amusing," Benedict said. "By the way, where were you last night?"

  "I didn't tell you?"

  "No."

  "I went up to Vermont," I said. "To Natalie's old retreat."

  He turned toward me. "Whatever for?"

  It was an odd thing, but when Benedict talked after drinking too much, a hint of a British accent came through. I assumed that it was from his prep school days. The more he drank, the more pronounced the accent.

  "To get answers," I said.

  "And did you get any?"

  "Yep."

  "Do tell."

  "One"--I stuck a finger in the air--"no one knows who Natalie is. Two"--another finger--"no one knows who I am. Three"--you get the point with the fingers--"there is no record at the chapel Natalie ever got married. Four, the minister I saw conducting the wedding swears it never happened. Five, the lady who owned the coffee shop we used to go to and who first pointed Natalie out to me had no idea who I was and didn't remember either Natalie or me."

  I put my hand down.

  "Oh, and Natalie's art retreat?" I said. "The Creative Recharge Colony? It's not there and everyone swears it never existed and that it's always been a family-run farm. In short, I think I'm losing my mind."

  Benedict turned away and started sipping his beer.

  "What?" I said.

  "Nothing."

  I gave him a little shove. "No, come on. What is it?"

  Benedict kept his head lowered. "Six years ago, when you went up to that retreat, you were in pretty bad shape."

  "Maybe a little. So?"

  "Your father had died. You felt alone. Your dissertation wasn't going well. You were upset and on edge. You were angry about Trainor getting off with nary a slap."

  "What's your point?"

  "Nothing," he said. "Forget it."

  "Don't give me that. What?"

  My head was really swimming now. I should have stopped several glasses ago. I remembered once when I had too much to drink my freshman year and I started walking back to my dorm. I never quite arrived. When I woke up, I was lying on top of a bush. I remembered staring up at the stars in the night sky and wondering why the ground felt so prickly. I had that sway now, like I was on a boat in a rough sea.

  "Natalie," Benedict said.

  "What about her?"

  He turned those glass-magnified eyes toward me. "How come I never met her?"

  My vision was getting a little fuzzy. "What?"

  "Natalie. How come I never met her?"

  "Because we were in Vermont the whole time."

  "You never came to campus?"

  "Just once. We went to Judie's."

  "So how come you didn't bring her by to meet me?"

  I shrugged with a little too much gusto. "I don't know. Maybe you were away?"

  "I was here all that summer."

  Silence. I tried to remember. Had I tried to introduce her to Benedict?

  "I'm your best friend, right?" he said.

  "Right."

  "And if you married her, I would have been the best man."

  "You know it."

  "So don't you find it bizarre that I never met her?" he asked.

  "When you put it that way . . ." I frowned. "Wait, are you trying to make a point here?"

  "No," he said quietly. "It's just odd is all."

  "Odd how?"

  He said nothing.

  "Odd like I-made-her-up odd? Is that what you mean?"

  "No. I'm just saying."

  "Saying what?"

  "That summer. You needed something to hold on to."

  "And I found it. And lost it."

  "Okay, fine, drop it."

  But, no, that would not do. Not right now. Not with my anger and the drink talking. "And speakin
g of which," I said, "how come I never met the love of your life?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Oh man, I was drunk. "The picture in your wallet. How come I never met her?"

  It looked as though I'd slapped him across the face. "Leave it alone, Jake."

  "I'm just saying."

  "Leave. It. Alone."

  I opened my mouth, closed it. The ladies reappeared. Benedict gave his head a shake and suddenly the smile was back on it.

  "Which one do you want?" Benedict asked me.

  I looked at him. "For real?"

  "Yes."

  "Windy," I said.

  "Which one is that?"

  "Seriously?"

  "I'm not good with names," Benedict said.

  "Windy is the one I've been talking to all night."

  "In other words," Benedict said, "you want the hotter one. Fine, whatever."

  I went back to Windy's place. We took it slow until we took it fast. It wasn't full-on bliss, but it was awfully sweet. It was around 3:00 A.M. when Windy walked me to the door.

  Not sure what to say, I stupidly went with "Uh, thank you."

  "Uh, you're welcome?"

  We kissed lightly on the lips. It wasn't something that would last, we both knew that, but it was a small, quick delight, and sometimes in this world, there was nothing wrong with that.

  I stumbled back across campus. There were students still out. I tried to stay in the shadows, but Barry, the student who visits my office weekly, spotted me and cried out, "Taking the walk of shame, Teach?"

  Caught.

  I gave him a good-hearted wave and continued serpentine-style to my humble abode.

  A sudden head rush hit me as I entered. I stayed still, waiting for my legs to come back to me. When the dizziness receded, I headed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of ice water. I drank it in big gulps and poured another. I would be hurting tomorrow, no question about it.

  Exhaustion weighed down my bones. I stepped into my bedroom and flicked on the light. There, sitting on the edge of my bed, was the man with the maroon baseball cap. I jumped back, startled.

  The man gave me a friendly wave. "Hey, Jake. Sheesh, look at you. Have you been out carousing?"

  For a second, no more, I just stood there. The man smiled at me as though this were the most natural encounter in the history of the world. He even touched the front of his cap at me, as though he were a professional golfer acknowledging the gallery.

  "Who the hell are you?" I asked.

  "That's not really relevant, Jake."

  "Like hell it isn't. Who are you?"

  The man sighed, let down, it seemed, by my seemingly irrational insistence on knowing his identity. "Let's just say I'm a friend."

  "You were in the cafe. In Vermont."

  "Guilty."

  "And you followed me back here. You were in that van."

  "Guilty again. Man, you smell like cheap booze and cheaper sex. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

  I tried to keep from swaying. "What do you want?"

  "I want us to take a ride."

  "Where?"

  "Where?" He arched an eyebrow. "Let's not play games here, Jake. You know where."

  "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about," I said. "How did you get in here anyway?"

  The man almost rolled his eyes at that one. "Oh, right, Jake, that's what we want to waste time discussing--how I managed to get past that piece-of-crap excuse for a lock on your back door. You'd be better off sealing it closed with Scotch tape."

  I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Bob. Okay, Jake? Since you don't seem to be able to get past this name issue, my name is Bob. You're Jake, I'm Bob. Now can we get moving, please?"

  The man stood. I braced myself, ready to relive my bouncer days. There was no way I was letting this guy out of here without an explanation. If the man was intimidated, he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it.

  "Are we ready to go now," he asked me, "or do you want to waste more time?"

  "Go where?"

  Bob frowned as though I were putting him on. "Come on, Jake. Where do you think?" He gestured toward the door behind me. "To see Natalie, of course. We better hurry."

  Chapter 14

  The van was parked in the faculty lot behind Moore dormitory.

  The campus was still now. The music had ceased, replaced by the incessant chirping of crickets. I could see the silhouettes of a few students in the distance, but for the most part, 3:00 A.M. seemed to be the witching hour.

  Bob and I walked side by side, two buddies out for a night stroll. The drink was still canoodling with certain brain synapses, but the combination of night air and surprise visitor was sobering me up pretty rapidly. As we neared the now-familiar Chevy van, the back door slid open. A man stepped out.

  I didn't like this.

  The man was tall and thin with cheekbones that could dice tomatoes and perfectly coiffed hair. He looked like a male model, right down to that vaguely knowing scowl. During my years as a bouncer, I developed something of a sixth sense for trouble. It just happens after you work a job like that long enough. A man walks by you and the danger comes off in hot waves, like those squiggly lines in a cartoon. This guy gave off hot danger-waves like an exploding supernova.

  I pulled up. "Who's this?"

  "Again with the names?" Bob said. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he added, "Otto. Jake, meet my friend Otto."

  "Otto and Bob," I said.

  "Yes."

  "Two palindromes."

  "You college professors and your fancy words." We had reached the van. Otto stepped to the side to let me in, but I didn't move. "Get in," Bob said.

  I shook my head. "My mommy told me not to get in cars with strangers."

  "Yo, Teach!"

  My eyes flew open as I turned toward the voice. Barry was semi-running toward us. He had clearly imbibed, and so the steps made him look like a marionette with twisted strings. "Yo, Teach, a quick question if I--?"

  Barry never finished his sentence. Without warning or hesitation, Otto stepped forward, reared back, and punched Barry square in the face. I stood there for a moment, shocked by the suddenness of it. Barry went horizontal in the air. He landed on the asphalt with a hard thud, his head lolling back. His eyes were closed. Blood streamed from his nose.

  I dropped to one knee. "Barry?"

  He didn't move.

  Otto took out a gun.

  I positioned my body to the left a bit, so I could shield Barry from Otto's gun.

  "Otto won't shoot you," Bob said in the same calm voice. "He'll just start shooting students until you get in the van."

  I cradled Barry's head. I could see that he was breathing. I was about to check his pulse when I heard a voice cry out.

  "Barry?" It was another student. "Where are you, bro?"

  Fear seized me as Otto raised his gun. I debated making a move, but as though reading my mind, Otto took a step farther away from me.

  Another student yelled, "I think he's over there--by that van. Barry?"

  Otto aimed the gun toward the voice. Bob looked at me and gave a half shrug.

  "Okay!" I whisper-shouted. "I'm going! Don't shoot anyone."

  I quickly rolled into the back of the van. The seats had all been cleared out. There was a bench against one side--that was it for seating. Otto lowered the gun and slid in next to me. Bob took the driver's seat. Barry was still out cold. The students were getting closer as we pulled away. I heard one cry out, "What the . . . oh my God! Barry?"

  If Bob and Otto were worried about someone spotting the license plate, they didn't show it. Bob drove the van at an aggravatingly slow speed. I didn't want that. I wanted Bob to hit the gas. I wanted him to hurry. I wanted to get Otto and Bob as far away from the students as possible.

  I turned to Otto. "Why the hell did you hit him like that?"

  Otto looked back at me with eyes that sent a chill straight thro
ugh my heart. They were lifeless eyes, not the slightest hint of light behind them. It was as though I were looking into the eyes of an inanimate object--the eyes of an end table, maybe, or a cardboard box.

  From the front seat, Bob said, "Toss your wallet and phone into the front passenger seat, please."

  I did as he asked. I took a quick inventory of the back of the van and didn't like what I saw. The carpeting had been ripped out, revealing a bare metal floor. There was a rusty toolbox by Otto's feet. I had no idea what was in it. There was a bar welded into the van wall across from me. I swallowed hard when I saw the handcuffs. One loop of the handcuff was fastened to the bar. The other handcuff loop was open, waiting perhaps for a wrist.

  Otto kept the gun on me.

  When we hit the highway, Bob began to steer casually with his palms, like my father used to when we'd head to the hardware store for a weekend home project. "Jake?" Bob called to me.

  "Yes."

  "Where to?"

  "Huh?" I said.

  "It's simple, Jake," Bob said. "You're going to tell us where Natalie is."

  "Me?"

  "Yep."

  "I don't have the slightest idea where she is. I thought you said--"

  That was when Otto sucker punched me deep in the gut. The air rushed from my lungs. I folded at the waist like a suitcase. My knees dropped hard to the metal floor of the van. If you have ever had the wind knocked out of you, you know how it completely paralyzes you. You feel as though you're going to suffocate. All you can do is curl up in a ball and pray for oxygen to return.

  Bob's voice: "Where is she?"

  I couldn't give an answer, even if I had one. My breath was gone. I tried to ride it out, tried to remember that if I didn't struggle, the air would return, but it was as though someone was holding my head underwater and I was supposed to trust that he would eventually let me go.

  Bob's voice again: "Jake?"

  Otto kicked me hard in the side of the head. I rolled onto my back and saw stars. My chest started hitching, my breaths finally coming in small, grateful sips. Otto kicked my head again. Blackness seeped into my edges. My eyes rolled back. My stomach roiled. I thought that I might be sick and, because the mind works weirdly, I actually thought that it was a good thing that they had pulled out the carpet so the mess would be easier to clean.

  "Where is she?" Bob asked again.

  Scuttle-crawling to the far side of the van, I managed to spit out, "I don't know, I swear!"

  I pressed my back against the van wall. That bar with the handcuff was above my left shoulder. Otto kept the gun on me. I didn't move. I was trying to buy time, catch my breath, recover, think straight. The booze was still there, still making everything a bit of a haze, but pain was an efficient way to bring clarity and focus back into your life.