Six Years

by Harlan Coben

  There were tears running down my face when I finished.

  "You really believe that, don't you?"

  I nodded. "No matter what you tell me."

  "And yet--" Julie said.

  I finished the thought for her. "And yet Natalie broke it off with me and married her old boyfriend."

  Julie made a face. "Old boyfriend?"

  "Yes."

  "Todd wasn't an old boyfriend."

  "What?"

  "They'd just met. It was all ridiculously sudden."

  I tried to clear my head. "But she said that they'd dated before, that they even lived together and were in love and they'd broken it off and then realized that they belonged together . . ."

  But Julie was shaking her head. The floor underneath me gave way.

  "It was a whirlwind romance," she said. "That was what Natalie told me. I couldn't understand the sudden rush to get married. But Natalie, well, she was an artist. She was unpredictable. She had, as you put it, these bursts of passion."

  It made no sense. None of this made any sense. Or maybe, for the first time, the confusion was leading to some kind of clarity.

  "Where is Natalie?" I asked.

  Julie tucked her hair behind her ear and looked off.

  "Please tell me."

  "I don't get any of this," Julie said.

  "I know. I want to help."

  "She warned me. She warned me not to tell you anything."

  I didn't know how to reply to that.

  "I think it's best if you go now," Julie said.

  No chance, but maybe it was time to circle in from another direction, keep her off balance. "Where is your father?" I asked her.

  When I'd first confronted her at the door, a slow stun had come to her face. Now it looked as though I'd slapped her. "What?"

  "He taught at Lanford--in my department even. Where is he now?"

  "What does he have to do with anything?"

  Good question, I thought. Great question even. "Natalie never told me about him."

  "She didn't?" Julie gave a halfhearted shrug. "Maybe you two weren't as close as you thought."

  "She came with me to campus and she never said one word about him. Why?"

  Julie considered that for a moment. "He left us twenty-five years ago, you know. I was five years old. Natalie was nine. I barely remember him."

  "Where did he go?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  "Please. Where did he go?"

  "He ran off with a student, but that didn't last. My mother . . . She never forgave him. He got remarried and started a new family."

  "Where are they?"

  "I don't know and I don't care. My mother said he moved out west someplace. That's all I know. I had no interest."

  "And Natalie?"

  "What about her?"

  "Did she have an interest in her father?"

  "An interest? It wasn't up to her. He ran off."

  "Did Natalie know where he was?"

  "No. But . . . I think he's the reason Natalie was always so screwed up when it came to men. When we were little, she was convinced that one day Dad would come back and we'd be a family. Even after he remarried. Even after he had other kids. He was no good, Mom said. He was dead to her--and me."

  "But not to Natalie."

  Julie didn't reply. She seemed lost in a thought.

  "What?" I asked.

  "My mother is in a home now. Complications due to diabetes. I tried to care for her but . . ." Her voice faded away. "See, Mom never remarried. She never had a life. My father took all that away from her. And yet Natalie still longed for some kind of reconciliation. She still thought, I don't know, that it wasn't too late. Natalie was such a dreamer. It's like finding Dad would prove a point--like then she could meet a man that would never leave and that would prove that Dad didn't mean to leave us either."

  "Julie?"

  "What?"

  I made sure that she was looking directly into my eyes. "She met that man."

  Julie looked out her back window, blinked hard. A tear ran down her cheek.

  "Where is Natalie?" I asked.

  Julie shook her head.

  "I won't leave until you tell me. Please. If she still has no interest in seeing me--"

  "Of course she has no interest," Julie snapped, suddenly angry. "If she had an interest, wouldn't she have contacted you on her own? You were right before."

  "About what?"

  "About being delusional. About wearing those rose-tinted glasses."

  "Then help me take them off," I said, unfazed. "Once and for all. Help me see the truth."

  I don't know if my words reached her. I would not be dissuaded. I looked at her and maybe she saw that. Maybe that was why she finally caved.

  "After the wedding, Natalie and Todd moved to Denmark," Julie said. "That was their home, but they traveled a lot. Todd worked as a doctor for a charity. I forget the name of it. Something about beginnings maybe."

  "Fresh Start."

  "Yes, that's it. So they traveled to poorer countries. Todd would do medical procedures on the needy. Natalie would do her artwork and teach. She loved it. They were happy. Or so I thought."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "At the wedding."

  "Wait. You haven't seen your sister in six years?"

  "That's right. After the wedding, Natalie explained to me that her life with Todd was going to be a glorious journey. She warned me that it might be a long time before I saw her again."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "And you've never gone over and visited? She's never come back?"

  "No. Like I said, she warned me. I get postcards from Denmark. That's it."

  "How about e-mail or talking on the phone?"

  "She doesn't have either. She thought that modern technology was clouding her thinking and harming her work."

  I made a face. "She told you that?"

  "Yes."

  "And you bought it? What if there was an emergency?"

  Julie shrugged. "This was the life she wanted."

  "Didn't you find this arrangement odd?"

  "Yes. In fact, I made a lot of the arguments you're making now. But what could I do? She made it clear--this was what she wanted. This was the start of a whole new journey. Who was I to stand in the way?"

  I shook my head in disbelief and to clear it. "When was the last time you got a postcard from her?"

  "It's been a while. Months, maybe half a year."

  I sat back. "So in reality, you don't know where she is, do you?"

  "I would say Denmark, but in truth, no, I guess I don't. I also don't understand how her husband could have been living with another woman in South Carolina or any of this. I mean, nothing makes sense anymore. I don't know where she is."

  A sharp knock on the door startled us both. Julie actually reached for my hand as though she needed comfort. There was a second knock and then a voice called out.

  "Jacob Fisher? This is the police. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air."

  Chapter 23

  I refused to say a word until my attorney--Benedict--was present.

  That took some time. The lead officer identified himself as Jim Mulholland of the New York Police Department. I couldn't figure out that jurisdiction. Lanford College is in Massachusetts. I had killed Otto along Route 91 still within that state. I had ventured into Vermont and when they picked me up I was in New Jersey. Other than taking public transportation through Manhattan, I could not figure out how the NYPD could possibly be involved in this mess.

  Mulholland was a burly man with a thick mustache that brought on visions of Magnum PI. He stressed that I was not under arrest and that I could leave anytime, but boy, they would really, really appreciate my cooperation. He chatted politely, if not inanely, as he drove me to a Midtown precinct. He offered me soda, coffee, sandwiches, whatever I wanted. I was suddenly hungry and accepted. I was about to dig in when I remembered that it was guilty m
en who ate in custody. I had read that somewhere. The guilty man knows what is going on, so he can sleep and eat. It is the innocent man who is too confused and nervous to do either.

  Then again, which was I?

  I ate the sandwich and even enjoyed every bite. Every once in a while, Mulholland or his partner, Susan Telesco, a tall blonde with jeans and a turtleneck, would try to engage me in conversation. I would shake them off and remind them that I had invoked my right to counsel. Three hours later, Benedict showed up. The four of us--Mulholland, Telesco, Benedict, and yours truly--sat around a table in an interrogation room that had been done up to not be overly intimidating. Of course it wasn't as though I had a lot of experience in interrogation rooms, but I always expected them to be somewhat stark. This one was more a soft beige.

  "Do you know why you're here?" Mulholland asked.

  Benedict frowned. "Really?"

  "What?"

  "How did you expect us to answer that exactly? With a confession perhaps? 'Oh yes, Detective Mulholland, I assume you've arrested me because I shot up two liquor stores'? Can we skip amateur hour and just get to the heart of this?"

  "Listen," Mulholland said, adjusting himself in the chair, "we're on your side."

  "Oh boy."

  "No, I mean it. We just need to clean up some details, and then we all go home better people for what happened."

  "What are you talking about?" Benedict asked.

  Mulholland nodded at Telesco. She opened a folder and slid a sheet of paper across the table. When I saw the mug shots--front view, side view--my blood hummed in my veins.

  It was Otto.

  "Do you know this man?" Telesco asked me.

  "Don't answer." I wasn't about to, but Benedict put a hand on my arm just in case. "Who is he?"

  "His name is Otto Devereaux."

  The name sent a chill through me. They had shown me their faces. They had used at least Otto's real name. That could only mean one thing--they never intended for me to leave that van alive.

  "Recently, your client stated that he had an altercation with a man matching Otto Devereaux's description on a highway in Massachusetts. In that statement, your client said that he had been forced to kill Mr. Devereaux in self-defense."

  "My client retracted that statement. He was disoriented and under the influence of alcohol."

  "You don't understand," Mulholland said. "We aren't here to bust his chops. If we could, we'd give him a medal." He spread his hands. "We are all on the same side here."

  "Oh?"

  "Otto Devereaux was a career scumbag of almost biblical proportions. We could show his full oeuvre, but it would take too long. Let's just lead with some of the highlights. Murder, assault, extortion. His nickname was Home Depot because he liked using tools on his victims. He enforced for the legendary Ache brothers until someone decided that he was too violent for them. Then he worked on his own or for whatever desperate bad guy needed a true sicko." He smiled at me. "Look, Jake, I don't know how you got the drop on this guy, but what you did was a blessing for society."

  "So," Benedict said, "theoretically speaking, you're here to thank us?"

  "Nothing theoretical about it. You're a hero. We want to shake your hand."

  No one shook hands.

  "Tell me," Benedict said, "where did you find his body?"

  "That's not important."

  "What was the cause of death?"

  "That's not important either."

  Benedict said, smiling broadly, "Is this really the way to treat your hero?" He nodded toward me. "If there is nothing else, I think we will be leaving now."

  Mulholland glanced over at Telesco. I thought that I saw a small smile on her face. I didn't like it. "Okay," he said, "if that's how you want to play it."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning nothing. You're free to go."

  "Sorry we couldn't help," Benedict said.

  "Don't worry about it. Like I said, we just wanted to thank the man who took this guy out."

  "Uh-huh." We were both standing now. "We can find our way out."

  We were nearly out the door when Susan Telesco said, "Oh, Professor Fisher?"

  I turned.

  "Do you mind if we show you one more photograph?"

  They both looked up at me as though they couldn't be bothered, as though they had all the time in the world and my answer was meaningless. I could look at the picture or I could walk out the door. No biggie. I didn't move. They didn't move.

  "Professor Fisher?" Telesco said.

  She slid the photograph out of the folder facedown, as if we were playing blackjack in a casino. I could see the glint in her eye now. The room dropped ten degrees.

  "Show me," I said.

  She flipped over the photograph. I froze.

  "Do you know this woman?" she asked.

  I didn't reply. I stared at the photograph. Yes, of course, I knew the woman.

  It was Natalie.

  "Professor Fisher?"

  "I know her."

  The photograph was black-and-white. It looked like a still frame from some kind of surveillance video. Natalie was hurrying down a corridor.

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  Benedict put a hand on my shoulder. "Why are you asking my client?"

  Telesco pinned me down with her eyes. "You were visiting her sister when we found you. Would you mind telling us what you were doing there?"

  "And again," Benedict said, "why are you asking my client?"

  "The woman's name is Natalie Avery. We've previously spoken at length to her sister, Julie Pottham. She claims that her sister lives in Denmark."

  I spoke this time. "What do you want with her?"

  "I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

  "Then neither am I," I said.

  Telesco looked at Mulholland. He shrugged. "Okay, then. You're free to go."

  We all stood there, playing this game of chicken. To mix metaphors, I had no cards here so I was the first to blink. "We used to date," I said.

  They waited for more.

  Benedict said, "Jake . . . ," but I waved him off.

  "I'm looking for her."

  "Why?"

  I glanced at Benedict. He seemed to be as curious as the cops. "I loved her," I said. "I never really got over her. So I was hoping . . . I don't know. I was hoping for some kind of reconciliation."

  Telesco wrote something down. "Why now?"

  That anonymous e-mail came back to me:

  You made a promise.

  I sat back down and pulled the photograph closer. I swallowed hard. Natalie's shoulders were hunched. Her beautiful face . . . I could feel myself well up . . . she looked terrified. My finger found her face, as if somehow she could feel my touch and would find comfort. I hated this. I hated seeing her so scared.

  "Where was this taken?" I asked.

  "It's not important."

  "The hell it isn't. You're looking for her, aren't you? Why?"

  They looked at each other again. Telesco nodded. "Let's just say," Mulholland began slowly, "that Natalie is a person of interest."

  "Is she in trouble?"

  "Not from us."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "What do you think it means?" For the first time, I saw the facade drop and could see a flash of anger on Mulholland's face. "We've been looking for her"--he grabbed the photograph of Otto--"but so were he and his friends. Who would you rather found her first?"

  I stared at the photograph, my vision blurring and clearing, when I noticed something else. I tried not to move, tried not to change the expression on my face. In the bottom right-hand corner, there was a time-date stamp. It read: 11:47 P.M., May 24 . . . six years ago.

  This picture had been taken a few weeks before Natalie and I met.

  "Professor Fisher?"

  "I don't know where she is."

  "But you're looking?"

  "Yes."

  "Why now?"

  I shrugged. "I missed her."

 
; "But why now?"

  "It could have been a year ago. It could have been a year later. It was just the time."

  They didn't believe me. Too bad.

  "Have you had any luck?"

  "No."

  "We can help her," Mulholland said.

  I said nothing.

  "If Otto's friends find her first . . ."

  "Why are they looking for her? Hell, why are you looking for her?"

  They changed subjects. "You were in Vermont. Two police officers identified you and we found your iPhone up there. Why?"

  "It is where we dated."

  "She stayed at that farm?"

  I was talking too much. "We met in Vermont. She got married in the chapel up there."

  "And how did your phone end up there?"

  "He must have dropped it," Benedict said. "By the way, can we get it back?"

  "Sure. That can be arranged, no problem."

  Silence.

  I looked at Telesco. "Have you been searching for her for the last six years?"

  "In the beginning. But not so much in recent years, no."

  "Why not?" I asked. "I mean, well, the same question you asked me: Why now?"

  Again they exchanged a glance. Mulholland said to Telesco, "Tell him."

  Telesco looked at me. "We stopped looking for her because we were sure that she was dead."

  I had somehow expected that answer. "Why did you think that?"

  "It doesn't involve you. You need to help us here."

  "I don't know anything."

  "If you tell us what you know," Telesco said, her voice suddenly hard, "we forget all about Otto."

  Benedict: "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "What do you think it means? Your client claims self-defense."

  "So?"

  "You asked about the cause of death. Here's your answer: He snapped a man's neck. I have news for you. A broken neck is rarely the result of self-defense."