Harlan Coben (20 page)

“Freeze!” the cop yelled yet again.

Fifty-fifty chance.

I was about to break to my left, to head back into the darkness, when I saw the young man with the blue kerchief, the one who had nodded at me earlier. He shook his head this time and pointed in the direction behind me. “Thank you,” I said.

He might have said something in return, but I was already on my way. I cut back up and headed through the same chain-link fence I had pushed through earlier. I heard footsteps, but they were too far away. I looked up and again spotted the flannel shirt. He was standing near the lights of the subway steps. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

I ran faster.

So did he.

There was probably fifty yards that separated us. But he had to carry a child. I should be able to close in on him. I started running. The same cop yelled “Halt!” this time, I guess for the sake of variety. I hoped like hell they didn't decide to shoot.

“He's back on the street!” I shouted. “He has my daughter.”

I don't know if they were listening or not. I reached the steps and took them three at a time. I was out of the park again, back on Fort Washington Avenue at Margaret Corbin Circle. I looked ahead at the playground. No movement. I glanced down Fort Washington Avenue and spotted someone running near Mother Cabrini High School, near the chapel.

The mind flashes to odd things. Cabrini Chapel was one of the most surreal stops in all of Manhattan. Zia had dragged me to Mass there once to see without telling why the chapel was something of a tourist spot. I immediately understood the draw. Mother Cabrini died in 1901, but her embalmed body is kept in what looks like a lucite block. That's the altar. The priests conduct mass over her body/table. No, I'm not making that up. The same guy who preserved Lenin in Russia worked on Mother Cabrini. The chapel is open to the public. It even has a gift shop.

My legs felt heavy, but I kept moving. I no longer heard the police. I quickly glanced behind me. The flashlights were far away.

“Over here!” I shouted. “Near Cabrini High!”

I started sprinting again. I reached the entrance to the chapel. It was locked. There was no sign of flannel shirt anywhere. I looked around, eyes wide, panicked. I had lost them. They were gone.

“This way!” I shouted, hoping that either (or both) the police and Rachel would hear me.

But my heart sank. My chance. My daughter was gone again. I felt the weight on my chest. And that was when I heard the car start up.

My head jerked to the right. I scanned the street and started running. A car started moving. It was about ten yards in front of me. A Honda Accord. I memorized the license plate, even as I knew that would be futile. The driver was still trying to maneuver out of a parking spot. I couldn't see who it was. But I wasn't about to take any chances.

The Honda had just cleared the bumper of the car in front of it and was about start up when I grabbed the driver's side door handle. Lucky break finally—he hadn't locked the door. No time, I assumed, because he'd been in a rush.

Several things happened in a very short period of time. As I started pulling the door open, I was able to see through the window. It was
indeed the flannel-shirt man. He reacted quickly. He grabbed the door and tried to hold it closed. I pulled harder. The door opened a crack. He hit the accelerator.

I tried to run with the car, like you see in the movies. The problem is, cars move faster than people. But I would not let go. You hear those stories about people gaining extraordinary strength in certain circumstances, about average men being able to lift cars off the ground to rescue trapped loved ones. I scoff at those stories. You probably do too.

I am not saying that I lifted a car. But I held on. I wedged my fingers in and wrapped them around the divide between the front door and back. I used both hands and willed my fingers into vises. I would not let go. No matter what.

If I hold on, my daughter lives. If I let go, my daughter dies.

Forget focus. Forget compartmentalizing. This thought, this equation, was as simple as breathing.

The man in the flannel shirt pushed down on the gas. The car was picking up speed now. I kicked my legs off the ground, but there was no place to perch them. They slid down the back door and landed with a clunk. I felt the skin of my ankles being scraped off on the pavement. I tried to regain my footing. No go. The pain was tremendous but inconsequential. I held on.

The status quo, I knew, was working against me. I couldn't hang on much longer, no matter how much I willed it. I had to make a move. I tried to pull myself into the car, but I wasn't strong enough. I hung on and let my arms go straight. I tried hopping up again. My body was horizontal now, parallel to the ground. I extended my body. My right leg reached up and curled around something. The antenna on the top of the car. Would that hold me? I didn't think so. My face was pressed against the backseat window. I saw the little car seat.

It was empty.

Panic seized me again. I felt my hands slipping. We had only driven maybe a twenty, thirty yards. With my face against the glass, my nose bouncing against the window, my body and face scraped and battered, I looked at the child in the front seat and a crushing truth pried my hands off the car window.

Again the mind works in odd ways. My first thought was classically doctor: The child should be sitting in the back. The Honda Accord has a passenger-side airbag. No child under the age of twelve should ever sit
in the front. Also, small children should be in a proper car seat. That was, in fact, the law. Riding out of a car seat and in the front . . . that was doubly unsafe.

Ridiculous thought. Or maybe natural. Either way, that was not the thought that ripped the fight out of me.

The flannel-shirted man yanked the steering wheel to the right. I heard the tires squeak. The car jerked, and my fingers slipped away. My grip was gone now. I went airborne. My body landed hard, skidding across the pavement like a stone. I could hear the police sirens behind me. They would, I thought, follow the Honda Accord. But it wouldn't matter. I had only gotten a brief glimpse. But it had been enough to know the truth.

The child in the car was not my daughter.

Again I was
in a hospital, this time New York Presbyterian—my old stomping grounds. They hadn't yet run X rays, but I was pretty sure they'd find a cracked rib. Nothing you could really do about it other than shoot yourself up with painkillers. It would hurt. That was okay. I was pretty scraped up. There was a gash on my right leg that looked like the work of a shark attack. Skin had been ripped off both elbows. None of that mattered.

Lenny arrived in record time. I wanted him here because I was not really sure how to handle this. At first, I almost convinced myself that I had made a mistake. A child changes, right? I had not seen Tara since she was six months old. A lot of growth occurs in that period. She'd have matured from wee infancy to an older toddler. I'd been hanging on to a moving car, for crying out loud. I had only gotten the briefest of glimpses.

But I knew.

The child in the front seat of the car looked to be a boy. He was probably closer to three years old than two. His skin, his coloring, was simply too pale.

It was not Tara.

I knew that Tickner and Regan had questions. I wanted to cooperate. I also wanted to know how the hell they had found out about the ransom drop. I hadn't seen Rachel yet either. I wondered if she were in the building. I also wondered about the fate of the ransom money, the Honda Accord, the man in the flannel shirt. Had they caught him? Had he kidnapped my daughter originally—or had that first ransom drop been a con job too? If so, how had my sister, Stacy, fitted into it?

In short, I was confused. Enter Lenny aka Cujo.

He burst through the door dressed in baggy khakis and a pink Lacoste shirt. His eyes had that scared, wild look that again brought back memories of our childhood. He pushed past a nurse and approached my bed.

“What the hell happened?”

I was about to give Lenny an overview when he stopped me with a raised finger. He turned to the nurse and asked her to leave. When we were alone he nodded for me to go ahead again. Starting with seeing Edgar in the park, I ran through calling Rachel, her arrival, her preparation with all the electronic gizmos, the ransom calls, the drop, my dive on the car. I backtracked and told him about the CD. Lenny interrupted—he always interrupted—but not as often as usual. I saw something cross his face, and maybe—I don't want to read too much into it here—but maybe he was hurt that I hadn't confided in him. The look didn't last long. Lenny gathered himself a piece at a time.

“Any chance that Edgar has been playing you?” he asked.

“To what end? He's the one who's lost four million dollars.”

“Not if he's the one who set it up.”

I made a face. “That doesn't make any sense.”

Lenny didn't like it, but he didn't have a response either. “So where is Rachel now?”

“She's not here?”

“I don't think so.”

“I don't know, then.”

We both went quiet a second.

“Maybe she went back to my house,” I said.

“Yeah,” Lenny said. “Maybe.”

There was nary a trace particle of conviction in his voice.

Tickner pushed open the door. His sunglasses sat atop his shaved head, a look I found disconcerting; if he bent his neck and drew a mouth on the lower part of his pate, it would look like a second face. Regan followed in a sort of hip-hop step, or maybe the soul patch was affecting the way I viewed him. Tickner took the lead.

“We know about the ransom demand,” he said. “We know your father-in-law gave you another two million dollars. We know that you visited a private detective agency today called MVD and asked about the password to a CD-ROM owned by your late wife. We know that
Rachel Mills was with you and that she did not, as you told Detective Regan earlier, return to the Washington, D.C., area. So we can skip all that.”

Tickner moved closer. Lenny watched him, ready to pounce. Regan folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “So let's start with the ransom money,” Tickner said. “Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

“Did someone take it?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“He told me to put it down.”

“Who is ‘he'?”

“The kidnapper. Whoever was on the cell phone.”

“Where did you put it down?”

“In the park. On the path.”

“And then what?”

“He said to start walking forward.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“That's when I heard a child cry and someone start running. Everything went crazy after that.”

“And the money?”

“I told you. I don't know what happened to the money.”

“How about Rachel Mills?” Tickner asked. “Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

I looked at Lenny, but he was studying Tickner's face now. I waited.

“You lied to us about her returning to Washington, D.C., isn't that correct?” Tickner asked.

Lenny put a hand on my shoulder. “Let's not start by mischaracterizing my client's statements.”

Tickner made a face as if Lenny were a turd that had plopped down from the ceiling. Lenny stared back, unfazed. “You told Detective Regan that Ms. Mills was on her way back to Washington, did you not?”

“I said I didn't know where she was,” I corrected him. “I said she
might
have gone back.”

“And where was she at the time?”

Lenny said, “Don't answer.”

I let him know that it was okay. “She was in the garage.”

“Why didn't you tell Detective Regan that?”

“Because we were getting ready for the ransom drop. We didn't want anything slowing us down.”

Tickner folded his arms. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Then ask another question,” Lenny snapped.

“Why would Rachel Mills be involved in the ransom drop?”

“She's an old friend,” I said. “And I knew she'd been a special agent with the FBI.”

“Ah,” Tickner said. “So you thought maybe her experience could help you here?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't call Detective Regan or myself?”

“That's correct.”

“Because?”

Lenny took that one. “You know damn well why.”

“They told me no cops,” I said. “Like last time. I didn't want to risk it again. So I called Rachel.”

“I see.” Tickner looked back at Regan. Regan looked off as if trying to follow a stray thought. “You chose her because she used to be a federal agent?”

“Yes.”

“And because you two were”—Tickner made vague hand gestures—“close.”

“A long time ago,” I said.

“Not anymore?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Hmm, not anymore,” Tickner repeated. “And yet you chose to call her in a matter involving your child's life. Interesting.”

“Glad you think so,” Lenny said, “By the way, is there a point to any of this?”

Tickner ignored him. “Before today, when was the last time you saw Rachel Mills?”

“What difference does that make?” Lenny said.

“Please just answer my question.”

“Not until we know—”

But my hand was on Lenny's arm now. I knew what he was doing. He had automatically snapped into his adversarial pose. I appreciated it, but I wanted to get past this as quickly as possible.

“About a month ago,” I said.

“Under what circumstances?”

“I bumped into her at the Stop & Shop on Northwood Avenue.”

“Bumped into her?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, as in a coincidence? As in not knowing the other was going to be there, out of the blue?”

“Yes.”

Tickner turned around and looked at Regan again. Regan kept perfectly still. He wasn't even toying with the soul patch.

“And before that?”

“What before that?”

“Before you ‘bumped' ”—Tickner's sarcasm spit the word across the room—“into Ms. Mills at the Stop & Shop, when was the last time you'd seen her?”

“Not since college,” I said.

Again Tickner spun toward Regan, his face lit up with incredulity. When he turned back, the glasses dropped down to his eyes. He pushed them back up onto his forehead. “Are you telling us, Dr. Seidman, that the only time you've seen Rachel Mills between your college days and today was just that one time at the supermarket?”

“That's exactly what I'm telling you.”

For a moment, Tickner seemed at a loss. Lenny looked as if he might have something to add, but he kept himself in check.

“Have you two spoken on the phone?” Tickner asked.

“Before today?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Not ever? You never talked to her on the phone before today? Not even when you were dating?”

Lenny said, “Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that?”

Tickner snapped his head toward Lenny. “You have a problem?”

“Yeah, your questions are moronic.”

They started again with the death stares. I broke the silence. “I hadn't spoken to Rachel on the phone since college.”

Tickner turned to me. His expression was openly skeptical now. I glanced behind him at Regan. Regan was nodding to himself. While they both looked off balance, I tried to press it. “Did you find the man and child in the Honda Accord?” I asked.

Tickner considered the question a moment. He looked back at Regan, who shrugged a why-not. “We found the car abandoned on Broadway near 145th Street. It'd been stolen a few hours earlier.” Tickner took out his notebook but didn't look at it. “When we spotted you at the park, you began yelling about your daughter. Do you believe that she was the child in the car?”

“I thought so at the time.”

“But not anymore?”

“No,” I said. “It wasn't Tara.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I saw him. The child, I mean.”

“It was a he?”

“I think so.”

“When did you see him?”

“When I jumped on the car.”

Tickner spread his hands. “Why don't you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?”

I told them the same story I'd told Lenny. Regan never moved from the wall. He still hadn't said a word. I found that odd. As I spoke, Tickner seemed to be growing more and more agitated. The skin on his cleanly shaven head tightened, making the sunglasses, which still sat perched on the top of his skull, start sliding forward. He kept readjusting them. I saw the pulse near his temples flutter. His jaw was locked.

When I was done, Tickner said, “You're lying.”

Lenny slid between Tickner and my bed. For a moment, I thought that they might come to blows, which, let's face it, would not be good for Lenny. But Lenny never gave an inch. It reminded me of the time in third grade when Tony Merullo picked a fight with me. Lenny had stepped between us then, faced Tony bravely, and gotten clobbered.

Lenny stayed nose-to-nose with the larger man. “What the hell is wrong with you, Agent Tickner?”

“Your client is a liar.”

“Gentlemen, this interview is over. Get out.”

Tickner bent his neck so that his forehead pressed against Lenny's. “We have proof he's lying.”

“Let's see it,” Lenny said. Then, “No, wait, forget it. I don't want to see it. Are you arresting my client?”

“No.”

“Then get your sorry butt out of this hospital room.”

I said, “Lenny.”

With one more glare at Tickner to show he wasn't intimidated, Lenny looked back at me.

“Let's finish this now,” I said.

“He's trying to hang you for this.”

I shrugged because I didn't really care. I think Lenny saw that. He slid away. I nodded for Tickner to do his worst.

“You've seen Rachel before today.”

“I told you—”

“If you hadn't seen or spoken to Rachel Mills, how did you know she'd been a federal agent?”

Lenny started to laugh.

Tickner quickly spun toward him. “What are you laughing at?”

“Because, numb-nuts, my wife is friends with Rachel Mills.”

That confused him. “What?”

“My wife and I talk to Rachel all the time. We introduced them.” Lenny laughed again. “That's your proof?”

“No, that's not my proof,” Tickner snapped, defensive now. “Your story about getting this ransom call, about reaching out to an old girlfriend like that. You expect that to fly?”

“Why,” I said, “what do you think happened?”

Tickner said nothing.

“You think I did it, right? That this was yet another elaborate scheme to, what, get another two million from my ex–father-in-law?”

Lenny tried to slow me down. “Marc . . .”

“No, let me just say something here.” I tried to get Regan into it, but he still looked off, so I locked eyes with Tickner. “Do you really think I staged all this? Why go through all the machinations of having this meeting in the park? How did I know you'd track me down there—hell, I still don't know how you did that. Why would I bother leaping on a car like that? Why wouldn't I have just taken the money and hidden it
and come up with a story for Edgar? If I was just running a scam, did I hire this guy with the flannel shirt? Why? Why involve another person or a stolen car? I mean, come on. It makes no sense.”

I looked at Regan, who still wasn't biting. “Detective Regan?”

But all he said was “You're not being straight with us, Marc.”

“How?” I asked. “How am I not being straight with you?”

“You claim that before today you and Ms. Mills haven't spoken on the phone since college.”

“Yes.”

“We have phone records, Marc. Three months before your wife was murdered, there was a call from Rachel's house to yours. Do you want to explain that?”