Harlan Coben (25 page)

My headlights danced through the dark. I started toward the right, hoping that I could work around the big elm. No go. The tree was too close to the house. The car wouldn't fit. I floored it in reverse. The tires
ripped into dewy lawn, taking a second or two to catch. I headed toward the Christies' property line. I took out their new gazebo. Bill Christie would be pissed.

I was in the backyard now. The headlights slipped along the Grossmans' stockade fence. I swung the steering wheel toward the right. And then I saw her. I hit the brake. Rachel stood by the pile of firewood. The wood had been there when we bought the house. We hadn't used any. It was probably rotten and bug infested. The Grossmans had complained that it was so close to their fence that the bugs would start eating into it. I had promised to get rid of it, but I hadn't yet gotten around to it.

Rachel had her gun drawn and pointing down. The man in the flannel was lying at her feet like yesterday's refuse. I didn't have to roll down a window. The windshield was gone from the earlier gunshots. I heard nothing. Rachel lifted her hand. She waved to me, signaling that it was okay. I hurried out of the car.

“You shot him?” I asked, almost rhetorically.

“No,” she said.

The man was dead. You didn't have to be a doctor to see that. The back of his skull had been blown off. Brain matter, congealed and pink-white, clung to the firewood. I am not on expert on ballistics but the damage was severe. It was either a very large bullet or from very close range.

“Someone was with him,” Rachel said. “They shot him and escaped through that gate.”

I stared down at him. The rage boiled up again. “Who is he?”

“I checked his pockets. He has a wad of bills but no ID.”

I wanted to kick him. I wanted to shake him and ask what he had done with my daughter. I looked at his face, damaged yet handsome, and wondered what had led him here, why our life paths had crossed. And that was when I noticed something odd.

I tilted my head to the side.

“Marc?”

I dropped to my knees. Brain matter did not bother me. Bone splinters and bloody tissue did not faze me in the least. I had seen worse trauma. I examined his nose. It was practically putty. I remembered that from last time. A boxer, I'd thought. Either that or he'd lived some rough years. His head lolled back at a funny angle. His mouth was open. That was what had drawn my eye.

I put my fingers on his jaw and palate and pulled his mouth farther open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rachel asked.

“Do you have a flashlight?”

“No.”

Didn't matter. I lifted his head up and aimed his mouth toward the car. The headlights did the trick. I could see clearly now.

“Marc?”

“It always bothered me that he let me see his face.” I lowered my head toward his mouth, trying to do so without casting too much of a shadow. “They were so careful about everything else. The altered voice, the stolen van sign, the welding together of license plates. Yet he lets me see his face.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought maybe he'd worn an elaborate disguise the first time I'd seen him. That would make sense. But now we know that's not the case. So why would he let me see him?”

She seemed taken aback that I was asserting myself, but that didn't last long. She joined in. “Because he had no record.”

“Maybe. Or . . .”

“Or what? Marc, we don't have time for this.”

“His dental work.”

“What about it?”

“Look at his crowns. They're tin cans.”

“They're what?”

I lifted my head. “On his upper right molar and upper left cuspid. See, our crowns used to be made of gold, though most are now porcelain. Your dentist makes a mold so you can get an exact fitting. But this is just an aluminum, ready-made cap. You put it over the teeth and squeeze it on with pliers. I did two oral rotations overseas, mostly dealing with reconstruction, but I saw lots of mouths with these things in them. They call them tin cans. And they don't do it here in the USA, except maybe as a temporary.”

She took a knee next to me. “He's foreign?”

I nodded. “I'd bet he's from the old Soviet bloc, something like that. The Balkans, maybe.”

“That would make sense,” she said. “Whatever prints they'd find
they'd send down to NCIC. Same with any sort of face ID. Our files and computers wouldn't pick him up. Hell, it'll take the police forever to ID him unless someone comes forward.”

“Which probably won't happen.”

“My God, that's why they killed him. They know that we won't be able to trace him back.”

The sirens sounded. Our eyes locked.

“You got a choice to make here, Marc. We stay, we're going to jail. They'll think he was part of our plot and we killed him. My guess is, the kidnappers knew that. Your neighbors will claim it was quiet until we drove up. Suddenly there's shrieking tires and gunfire. I'm not saying that we won't be able to explain it eventually.”

“But it will take time,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And whatever opening we have here, it will close. The cops will pursue it their own way. Even if they can help, even if they believe us, they'll make a lot of noise.”

“One more thing,” she said.

“What?”

“The kidnappers set us up. They knew about the Q-Logger.”

“We figured that out already.”

“But now I'm wondering, Marc. How did they find it?”

I looked up, remembering the warning in the ransom note. “A leak?”

“I wouldn't rule it out anymore.”

We both started toward the car. I put my hand on her arm. She was still bleeding. Her eye was almost swollen shut now. I looked at her, and again something primitive took over: I wanted to protect her. “If we run, it'll make us look guilty,” I said. “I don't mind that—I don't have anything to lose here—but what about you?”

Her voice was soft. “I don't have anything to lose either.”

“You need a doctor,” I said.

Rachel almost smiled. “Aren't you one?”

“True enough.”

There was no time to discuss the pros and cons. We had to act. We got into Zia's car. I swerved it around and headed out the back way, the Woodland Road exit. Thoughts—rational, clear thoughts—were starting
to filter in now. When I really considered where we were and what we were doing, the truth nearly crushed me. I almost pulled over. Rachel saw it.

“What?” she said.

“Why are we running?”

“I don't understand.”

“We hoped to find my daughter or at least who did this to her. We said there was a small opening.”

“Yes.”

“But don't you see? The opening, if there ever really was one, is gone. That guy back there is dead. We know he's foreign, but so what? We don't know who he is. We've reached a dead end. We don't have any other clues.”

There was suddenly a trace of mischief on Rachel's face. She reached into her pocket and pulled something into a view. A cell phone. It wasn't mine. It wasn't hers. “Maybe,” she said, “we do.”

“First thing,” Rachel
said, “we need to get rid of this car.”

“The car,” I said, shaking my head at the damage. “If this search doesn't kill me, Zia will.”

Rachel managed another smile. We were in the zone now, so deep in, so far past scared that we had found a little quiet. I debated where we should go, but really there was only one alternative.

“Lenny and Cheryl,” I said.

“What about them?”

“They live four blocks from here.”

It was five in the morning. Dark had begun to surrender to the inevitable. I dialed Lenny's home number and hoped that he hadn't gone back to the hospital. He answered on the first ring and barked a hello.

“I got a problem,” I said.

“I hear sirens.”

“That would be part of the problem.”

“The police called me,” he said. “After you took off.”

“I need your help.”

“Is Rachel with you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

There was an awkward silence. Rachel fiddled with the dead man's cell phone. I had no idea what she was looking for. Then Lenny said, “What are you trying to do here, Marc?”

“Find Tara. Are you going to help me or not?”

Now there was no hesitation. “What do you need?”

“To hide the car we're using and borrow another.”

“And then what are you going to do?”

I turned the car to the right. “We'll be there in a minute. I'll try to explain it to you then.”

 

Lenny wore a pair of old gray sweatpants, the kind with the tie waist, a pair of slippers, and a Big Dog T-shirt. He pressed a button and the garage door slid to a smooth close as soon as we entered. Lenny looked exhausted, but then again, I don't think Rachel and I were ready for our close-ups either.

When Lenny saw the blood on Rachel, he took a step back. “What the hell happened?”

“Do you have any bandages?” I asked.

“Cabinet over the kitchen sink.”

Rachel still had the cell phone in her hand. “I need to get on the Internet,” she said.

“Look,” Lenny said, “we have to discuss this.”

“Discuss it with him,” Rachel said. “I need Web access.”

“In my office. You know where it is.”

Rachel hurried inside. I followed, staying in the kitchen. She continued on to the den. We both knew this house well. Lenny stayed with me. They had recently renovated the kitchen into something French Farmesque and added a second refrigerator because four kids ate like four kids. The fronts of both fridges were overloaded with artwork and family photos and a brightly colored alphabet. The new one had one of those magnetic poetry sets. The words
I STAND ALONE AROUND THE SEA
ran down the handle. I started going through the cabinet over the sink.

“You want to tell me what's going on?”

I found Cheryl's first aid kit and pulled it out. “There was a shooting at our house.”

I gave him the bare bones, opening the first aid kit and checking the supplies. There'd be enough in here for now. I finally glanced at him. Lenny just gaped at me. “You ran away from a murder scene?”

“If I stayed, what would have happened?”

“The police would have picked you up.”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head and kept his voice low. “They don't think you did it anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“They think it was Rachel.”

I blinked, not sure how to react.

“Has she explained those photos to you?”

“Not yet,” I said. Then, “I don't understand. How did they figure it was Rachel?”

Lenny rapidly outlined a theory involving jealousy and rage and my forgetting key moments before the shooting. I stood there too stunned to respond. When I did, I said, “That's nuts.”

Lenny did not reply.

“That guy with the flannel shirt just tried to kill us.”

“And what ended up happening to him?”

“I told you. Someone else was with him. He was shot.”

“You saw someone else?”

“No. Rachel . . .” I saw where he was going. “Come on, Lenny. You know better.”

“I want to know about those photos on the CD, Marc.”

“Fine, let's go ask her.”

When we left the kitchen, I spotted Cheryl on the stairwell. She looked down at me, arms crossed. I don't think I had ever seen that look on her face before. It made me pause. There was some blood on the carpet, probably from Rachel. On the wall was one of those studio photos of all four kids, trying to look casual in matching white turtlenecks against a white background. Children and all that white.

“I'll take care of it,” Lenny told her. “You stay upstairs.”

We hurried through the den. A DVD case from the latest Disney movie lay splayed on top of the television. I nearly tripped over a Wiffle Ball and plastic bat. A game of Monopoly featuring Pokemon characters was spread across the floor in midgame clutter. Someone, one of the kids I assumed, had scrawled
DO NOT TOUCH A THING
! on a piece of paper and laid it over the board. As we passed the fireplace mantel, I noticed that they'd recently updated the photographs. The kids were older now, in those images as in real life. But the oldest photograph, the “formal dance” image of the four of us, was gone. I don't know what that meant. Probably nothing. Or maybe Lenny and Cheryl were taking their own advice: It was time to move on.

Rachel sat at Lenny's desk, hovering over the keyboard. The blood had dried down the left side of her neck. Her ear was a mess. She
glanced up when she saw us and then went back to typing. I examined her ear. Severe damage. The bullet had scraped along the upper region. It had skimmed the side of her head too. Another inch—hell, another quarter inch—and she'd probably be dead. Rachel ignored me, even when I applied the Bactine and threw on a bandage. It would be good enough for now. I'd fix it for real when we had the chance.

“Bang,” Rachel said suddenly. She smiled and hit a key. The printer began to whir. Lenny nodded toward me. I put the finishing touches on the bandage and said, “Rachel?”

She looked up at me.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“No,” she countered, “we need to get out of here. I just found us a major lead.”

 

Lenny stayed where he was. Cheryl slipped into the room now, her arms still folded. “What lead?” I asked.

“I checked the logs on the cell phone,” Rachel said.

“You can do that?”

“They're in plain view, Marc,” she said, and I could hear the impatience. “The dialed and received call logs. It's pretty much standard on every phone.”

“Right.”

“The dial log didn't help. No numbers were listed, which means, if the guy did dial out, it was to a blocked number.”

I was trying to stay with her. “Okay.”

“But the received log is another story. There was only one incoming call on the list. According to the internal timer, it came in at midnight. I just checked the phone number in the reverse directory at Switchboard dot-com. It's a residence. One Verne Dayton in Huntersville, New Jersey.”

Neither the name nor the city rang any bells. “Where is Huntersville?”

“I MapQuested it. It's near the Pennsylvania border. I zoomed in to within a few hundred yards. The house is all by itself out there. Acres of land in the heart of Nowheresville.”

The chill started in my center and spread. I turned to Lenny. “I need to borrow your car.”

“Hold up a second,” Lenny said. “What we need here are some answers.”

Rachel stood. “You want to know about the photos on the CD.”

“For starters, yes.”

“It's me in the pictures. Yes, I was there. The rest is none of your business. I owe Marc an explanation, not you. What else?”

For once, Lenny didn't know what to say.

“You also want to know if I killed my husband, right?” She looked at Cheryl. “Do you think I killed Jerry?”

“I don't know what to think anymore,” Cheryl said. “But I want you both out of here.”

“Cheryl,” Lenny said.

She shot him a look that could have downed a charging rhino. “They shouldn't have brought this to our doorstep.”

“He's our best friend. He's the godfather of our son.”

“Which makes it that much worse. He drags this danger into our home? Into the lives of our children?”

“Come on, Cheryl. You're exaggerating.”

“No,” I said. “She's right. We should get out of here now. Let me have the keys.”

Rachel grabbed the sheet out of the printer. “Directions,” she explained.

I nodded and looked at Lenny. His head was down. His feet rocked back and forth. Again, I thought of our childhood. “Shouldn't we call Tickner and Regan?” he said.

“And tell them what?”

“I can explain it to them,” Lenny said. “If Tara is at this place”—he stopped, shook his head as if he suddenly saw how ridiculous the thought was—“they'll be better equipped to go in.”

I moved right up next to him. “They found out about Rachel's tracking device.”

“What?”

“The kidnappers. We don't know how. But they found it. Add it up, Lenny. The ransom note warned us that they had an inside source. First time out, they knew I'd told the cops. Second time out, they learn about the tracking device.”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“Do you think I have time to look for proof?”

Lenny's face sank.

“You know I can't risk that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Lenny reached into his pocket and handed me the keys. We were off.