Harlan Coben (34 page)

By the time
I arrived at Terminal C, Lenny was already standing by the Continental check-in desk. It was six o'clock at night now. The airport was jammed with the weary. He handed me the anonymous note that had been found in his office. It read:

Abe and Lorraine Tansmore

26 Marsh Lane

Hanley Hills, MO

That was it. Just the name and address. Nothing else.

“It's a suburb near St. Louis,” Lenny explained. “I did some research already.”

I just kept staring down at the name and address.

“Marc?”

I looked up at him.

“The Tansmores adopted a daughter eighteen months ago. She was six months old when they got her.”

Behind him, a Continental service rep said, “Next please.” A woman pushed past me. She might have said, “Excuse me,” but I'm not sure.

“I have us booked on the next flight to St. Louis. We're leaving in an hour.”

 

When we reached the departure gate, I told him about my meeting with Dina Levinsky. We sat, as we often do, next to each other, facing out. When I finished, he said, “You have a theory now.”

“I do.”

We watched a plane take off. An old couple sitting across from us shared a tin of Pringles. “I'm a cynic. I know that. I hold no illusions about drug addicts. If anything, I overestimate their depravity. And that, I think, is what I did here.”

“How do you figure?”

“Stacy wouldn't shoot me. And she would never hurt her niece. She was an addict. But she still loved me.”

“I think,” Lenny said, “that you're right.”

“I look back. I was so wrapped up in my own world that I never saw . . .” I shook my head. Now was not the time for this. “Monica was desperate,” I said. “She couldn't get a gun and maybe, she decided, she didn't have to.”

“She used yours,” Lenny said.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Stacy must have guessed what was up. She ran to the house. She saw what Monica had done. I don't know how it played exactly. Maybe Monica tried to shoot her too—that could explain the bullet hole near the stairs. Or maybe Stacy just reacted. She loved me. I was lying there. She probably thought I was dead. So I don't know, but either way Stacy came armed. And she shot Monica.”

The gate attendant announced that the flight would soon be boarding but those with special needs or One Pass Gold and Platinum members could board now.

“You said on the phone that Stacy knew Bacard?”

Lenny nodded. “She mentioned him, yeah.”

“Again I'm not sure how it played exactly. But think about it. I'm dead. Monica is dead. And Stacy is probably freaking out. Tara is crying. Stacy can't just leave her. So she takes Tara with her. Later she realizes that she can't raise a kid on her own. She's too messed up. So she turns her over to Bacard and tells him to find her a good family. Or, if I want to be cynical, maybe she gives Tara over for the money. We'll never know.”

Lenny was nodding.

“From there, well, we just follow what we already learned. Bacard decides to rake in extra money by pretending it was a kidnapping. He hires those two lunatics. Bacard would be able to get hair samples, for example. He double-crossed Stacy. He set her up to take the fall.”

I saw something cross Lenny's face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

They called our row.

Lenny stood. “Let's board.”

The flight was delayed. We didn't arrive in St. Louis until past midnight local time. It was too late to do anything tonight. Lenny booked us a room at the Airport Marriott. I bought clothes at their all-night boutique. When we got to the room, I took a very long, very hot shower. We settled in and stared at the ceiling.

In the morning, I called the hospital to check on Rachel. She was still sleeping. Zia was in her room. She assured me that Rachel was doing fine. Lenny and I tried to eat the hotel's buffet breakfast. Nothing would stay down. Our rental car was waiting for us. Lenny had gotten directions to Hanley Hills from the desk clerk.

I don't remember what we saw on the drive. Aside from the Arch in the distance, there was nothing distinct. The United States has a strip-mall sameness about it now. It's easy to criticize that—I often do—but maybe the appeal is that we all like what we already know. We claim to embrace change. But in the end, especially in these times, what truly draws us is the familiar.

When we reached the town limits, I felt a tingling in my legs. “What do we do here, Lenny?”

He had no answer.

“Do I just knock on the door and say, ‘Excuse me, I think that's my daughter?' ”

“We could call the police,” he said. “Let them handle it.”

But I didn't know how that would play out. We were so close now. I told him to keep on driving. We made a right onto Marsh Lane. I was shaking now. Lenny tried to give me a buck-up look, but his face was pale too. The street was more modest than I'd expected. I had assumed that all of Bacard's clients were wealthy. That was clearly not the case with this couple.

“Abe Tansmore works as a schoolteacher,” Lenny said, reading my thoughts as usual. “Sixth grade. Lorraine Tansmore works for a day-care center three days a week. They're both thirty-nine years old. They've been married for seventeen years.”

Up ahead, I saw a house with a cherry-wood sign that read 26—
THE TANSMORES
. It was a small, one-level, what I think they called “bungalow” style. The rest of the houses on the block seemed tired. This one did not. The paint glistened like a smile. There were lots of clusters of color, of flowers and shrubs, all trimly laid out and perfectly pruned. I could see a welcome mat. A low picket fence encircled the front yard. A station wagon, a Volvo model from several years back, sat in the driveway. There was a tricycle, too, and one of those bright-hued plastic Big Wheels.

And there was a woman outside.

Lenny pulled over in front of an empty lot. I barely noticed. The woman was in the flower beds, on her knees. She was working a small digging spade. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. Every few digs she would wipe her forehead with her sleeve.

“You say she works at a day-care center?”

“Three days a week. The daughter goes with her.”

“What do they call the daughter?”

“Natasha.”

I nodded. I don't know why. We waited. The woman, this Lorraine, worked hard, but I could see she enjoyed it. There was a serenity about her. I opened the car window. I could hear her whistling to herself. I don't know how many minutes passed. A neighbor walked by. Lorraine rose and greeted her. The neighbor gestured toward the garden. Lorraine smiled. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but she had a great smile. The neighbor left. Lorraine waved good-bye and turned back to her garden.

The front door opened.

I saw Abe. He was a tall man, thin and wiry, slightly balding. He had a neatly trimmed beard. Lorraine stood and looked over at him. She gave him a small wave.

And then Tara ran outside.

The air around us stopped. I felt my insides shut down. Next to me, Lenny stiffened and muttered, “Oh my God.”

For the last eighteen months, I had never really believed that this moment was possible. What I had done instead was convince myself—no, trick myself—into believing that maybe, somehow, Tara was still alive and okay. But my subconscious knew it was only a self-delusion. It
winked at me. It nudged me in my sleep. It whispered the obvious truth: that I would never see my daughter again.

But it was my daughter. She was alive.

I was surprised at how little Tara had changed. Oh she'd grown, of course. She was able to stand. She was even able, as I now saw, to run. But her face . . . there was no mistake. No being blinded by hope. It was Tara. It was my little girl.

With a huge smile, Tara ran with total abandon toward Lorraine. Lorraine bent low, her face lighting up in that celestial way only a mother's can. She swept my child into her arms. Now I could hear the melodious sound of Tara's laughter. The sound pierced my heart. Tears streamed down my face. Lenny put a hand on my arm. I could hear him sniffling. I saw the husband, this Abe, walk toward them. He was smiling too.

For several hours, I watched them in their small, perfect yard. I saw Lorraine patiently point out the flowers, explaining what each one was. I saw Abe give her a horsey ride on his back. I saw Lorraine teach her how to pat the dirt down with her hand. Another couple dropped by. They had a little girl about Tara's age. Abe and the other father pushed the girls on the metal swing-set in the backyard. Their giggles pounded in my ears. Eventually they all went inside. Abe and Lorraine were the last to disappear. They walked through the door with their arms around each other.

Lenny turned to me. I let my head drop back. I had hoped that today would be the end of my journey. But it wasn't.

After a while, I said, “Let's go.”

When we got
back to the Airport Marriott, I told Lenny to go home. He said he would stay. I told him that I could handle this on my own—that I
wanted
to handle this on my own. He reluctantly agreed.

I called Rachel. She was doing well. I told her what had happened. “Call Harold Fisher,” I said. “Ask him to do a thorough background check on Abe and Lorraine Tansmore. I want to know if there's something there.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I wish I could be there.”

“Me too.”

I sat on my bed. My head dropped into my hands. I don't think I cried. I don't know what I felt anymore. It was over. I had learned as much as I would. When Rachel called back two hours later, nothing she told me was a surprise. Abe and Lorraine were solid citizens. Abe was the first person in his family to graduate college. He had two younger sisters who lived in the area. Both had three children. He had met Lorraine during their freshman year at Washington University in St. Louis.

Night fell. I stood and looked in the mirror. My wife had tried to kill me. Yes, she was unstable. I knew that now. Hell, I probably knew it then. I didn't much care, I guess. When a child's face breaks, I put it back together. I can do miracles in the surgical room. But my own family fell apart and I did nothing but watch.

I thought now about what it meant to be a father. I loved my daughter. I know that. But when I saw Abe today, when I see Lenny coaching soccer, I wonder. I wonder about my fitness. I wonder about my commitment. And I wonder if I am worthy.

Or do I already know the answer?

I wanted so badly to have my little girl back with me. I also wanted so badly for this not to be about me or my wants.

Tara had looked so damn happy.

It was midnight now. I looked at myself in the mirror again. What if leaving this alone—letting her stay with Abe and Lorraine—was the right thing? Was I really brave enough, strong enough, to walk away? I kept staring in the mirror, challenging myself. Was I?

I lay back. I think I fell asleep. A knock on the door startled me awake. I glanced at the digital clock next to my bed. It read 5:19
A
.
M
.

“I'm sleeping,” I said.

“Dr. Seidman?”

It was a male voice.

“Dr. Seidman, my name is Abe Tansmore.”

I opened the door. He was handsome up close, in a sort of James Taylor way. He wore jeans and a tan shirt. I looked at his eyes. They were blue but tinged with red. So, I knew, were mine. For a long time, we just stared at one another. I tried to speak, but I couldn't. I stepped back and let him in.

“Your lawyer stopped by. He”—Abe stopped, swallowed hard—“he told us the whole story. Lorraine and I stayed up all night. We talked it out. We cried a lot. But I think we knew right from the get-go that there was only one decision here.” Abe Tansmore was trying to hold on, but he was losing it now. He closed his eyes. “We have to give you your daughter back.”

I didn't know what to say. I shook my head. “We have to do what's best for her.”

“That's what I'm doing, Dr. Seidman.”

“Call me Marc. Please.” It was a dumb thing to say. I know that. But I wasn't ready for this. “If you're worried about a long, drawn-out court case, Lenny shouldn't have—”

“No, that's not it.”

We stood there a little longer. I pointed toward the chair in the room. He shook his head. Then he looked at me. “All night, I've been trying to imagine your pain. I don't think I can. I think there are places a man just can't get to without experience. Maybe this is one of them. But your pain, awful as it must be, that's not why Lorraine and I came to this decision. And it's not because we blame ourselves either. In hindsight, maybe we should have wondered what was going on. We went to
Mr. Bacard. But the fees would have added up to over a hundred thousand dollars. I'm not a rich man. I couldn't afford that. Then a few weeks later, Mr. Bacard calls us. He said he had a baby that needed immediate placing. She wasn't a newborn, he said. The mother had just abandoned her. We knew something was not quite right, but he said that if we wanted this, we'd have to go in no questions asked.”

He looked off then. I watched his face. “I think deep down, maybe we always knew. We just couldn't face it. But that's not the reason we came to this decision either.”

I swallowed. “What then?”

His eyes drifted toward mine. “You can't do the wrong thing for the right reason.” I must have looked confused. “If Lorraine and I don't do this, we're not fit to raise her. We want Natasha to be happy. We want her to be a good person.”

“You might be the best ones to make that happen.”

He shook his head. “That's not how it works. We don't give children to whatever parents would be best to raise them. You and I can't make that judgment. You don't know how hard this is for us. Or maybe you do.”

I turned away. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Just for a second. Less maybe. But it was enough. I saw the man I was. I saw the man I wanted to be. I turned to him and said, “I want us both to raise her.”

He was stunned. So was I. “I'm not sure I understand,” he said.

“Neither do I. But that's what we're going to do.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

Abe shook his head. “It can't work. You know that.”

“No, Abe, I don't know that. I came here to bring my daughter home—and I find that maybe she already is. Is it right for me to rip her away from that? I want you both in her life. I'm not saying it'll be easy. But kids are raised by single parents, by stepparents, in foster homes. There are divorces and separations and who-knows-what. We all love this little girl. We'll make it work.”

I saw the hope return to the man's thin face. He couldn't speak for a few seconds. Then he said, “Lorraine is in the lobby. Can I go talk to her?”

“Of course.”

They didn't take long. There was a knock on my door. When I
opened it, Lorraine threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, this woman I had never met. Her hair smelled of strawberry. Behind her, Abe came into the room. Tara was sleeping in his arms. Lorraine let go of me and moved away. Abe stepped closer. He handed me my daughter carefully. I held her, and my heart burst into flame. Tara began to stir. She started to fuss. I still held her. I rocked her back and forth and made shushing sounds.

And soon she settled on me and fell back to sleep.