Three Harlan Coben Novels (74 page)

Vespa said, “You know, of course, that the anniversary is coming up.”

“I do,” she said, though she had done her best to ignore it all. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that awful night at the Boston Garden. The papers had run all the expected “Where Are They Now?” commemorative pieces. The parents and survivors all handled it differently. Most participated because they felt it was one way to keep the memory of what happened alive. There had been heart-wrenching articles on the Garrisons and the Reeds and the Weiders. The security guard, Gordon MacKenzie, who was credited with saving many by forcing open locked emergency exits, now worked as a police captain in Brookline, a Boston suburb. Even Carl Vespa had allowed a picture of him and his wife, Sharon, sitting in their yard, both still looking as if someone had just hollowed out their insides.

Grace had gone the other way. With her art career in full swing, she did not want even the appearance of capitalizing on the tragedy. She had been injured, that was all, and to make more of it than that reminded her of those washed-up actors who come out of the woodwork to shed crocodile tears when a hated costar suddenly died. She
wanted no part of it. The attention should be given to the dead and those they left behind.

“He’s up for parole again,” Vespa said. “Wade Larue, I mean.”

She knew, of course.

The stampede that night had been blamed on Wade Larue, currently a resident of Walden Prison outside Albany, New York. He was the one who fired the shots creating the panic. The defense’s claim was interesting. They argued that Wade Larue didn’t do it—forget the gun residue found on his hands, the gun belonging to him, the bullet match to the gun, the witnesses who saw him fire—but if he
did
do it, he was too stoned to remember. Oh, and if neither of those rationales floated your boat, Wade Larue couldn’t have known that firing a gun would cause the death of eighteen people and the injury of dozens more.

The case proved to be controversial. The prosecutors went for eighteen counts of murder, but the jury didn’t see it that way. Larue’s lawyer ended up cutting a deal for eighteen counts of manslaughter. Nobody really worried too much about sentencing. Carl Vespa’s only son had died that night. Remember what happened when Gotti’s son was killed in a car accident? The man driving the car, a family man, has never been heard from again. A similar fate, most agreed, would befall Wade Larue, except this time, the general public would probably applaud the outcome.

For a while, Larue was kept isolated in Walden Prison. Grace didn’t follow the story closely, but the parents—parents like Carl Vespa—still called and wrote all the time. They needed to see her every once in a while. As a survivor, she had become a vessel of some sort, carrying the dead. Putting aside the physical recuperation, this emotional pressure—this awesome, impossible responsibility—was a big part of the reason for Grace’s going overseas.

Eventually Larue had been put in general population. Rumor had it he was beaten and abused by his fellow inmates, but for whatever reason, he lived. Carl Vespa had decided to forgo the hit. Maybe it was a sign of mercy. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Grace didn’t know.

Vespa said, “He finally stopped claiming total innocence. Did you
hear that? He admits he fired his gun, but that he just freaked out when the lights went out.”

Which made sense. For her part, Grace had seen Wade Larue only once. She had been called to testify, though her testimony had nothing to do with guilt and innocence—she had almost no memory of the stampede, never mind who fired the gun—and everything to do with inflaming the passion of the jury. But Grace didn’t need revenge. To her Wade Larue was stoned out of his mind, a souped-up punk more worthy of pity than hate.

“Do you think he’ll get out?” she asked.

“He has a new lawyer. She’s damn good.”

“And if she gets him released?”

Vespa smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read about me.” Then he added, “Besides, Wade Larue isn’t the only one to blame for that night.”

“What do you mean?”

He opened his mouth and then fell silent. Then: “It’s like I said. I’d rather show you.”

Something about his tone told her to change subjects. “You said you were single,” Grace said.

“Pardon?”

“You told my friend you were single.”

He waved his finger. No ring. “Sharon and I divorced two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It hasn’t been right for a long time.” He shrugged, looking off. “How is your family?”

“Okay.”

“I sense some hesitation.”

She may have shrugged.

“On the phone, you said you needed my help.”

“I think so.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“My husband . . .” She stopped. “I think my husband is in trouble.”

She told him the story. His eyes stayed straight ahead, avoiding
her gaze. He nodded every once in a while, but the nods seemed strangely out of context. His expression didn’t change, which was strange. Carl Vespa was usually more animated. After she stopped talking, he didn’t say anything for a long time.

“This photograph,” Vespa said. “Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” She handed it to him. His hand, she noticed, had a small quake. Vespa stared at the picture for a very long time.

“Can I keep this?” he asked.

“I have copies.”

Vespa’s eyes were still on the images. “Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

“Do you love your husband?”

“Very much.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

Carl Vespa had only met Jack once. He had sent a wedding gift when they got married. He sent gifts on Emma’s and Max’s birthday too. Grace wrote him thank-you notes and gave the gifts to charity. She didn’t mind being connected to him, she guessed, but she didn’t want her children . . . what was the phrase? . . . tainted by the association.

“You two met in Paris, right?”

“Southern France, actually. Why?”

“And how did you meet again?”

“What’s the difference?”

He hesitated a second too long. “I guess I’m trying to learn how well you know your husband.”

“We’ve been married ten years.”

“I understand that.” He shifted in his seat. “You were there on vacation when you met?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a vacation exactly.”

“You were studying. You were painting.”

“Yes.”

“And, well, mostly you were running away.”

She said nothing.

“And Jack?” Vespa continued. “Why was he there?”

“Same reason, I guess.”

“He was running away?”

“Yes.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know.”

“May I state the obvious then?”

She waited.

“Whatever he was running from”—Vespa gestured toward the photograph—“it caught up to him.”

The thought had occurred to Grace too. “That was a long time ago.”

“So was the Boston Massacre. Your running away. Did it make it go away?”

In the rearview mirror she saw Cram glance at her, waiting for an answer. She kept still.

“Nothing stays in the past, Grace. You know that.”

“I love my husband.”

He nodded.

“Will you help me?”

“You know I will.”

The car veered off the Garden State Parkway. Up ahead, Grace saw an enormous bland structure with a cross on it. It looked like an airplane hangar. A neon sign stated that tickets were still available for the “Concerts with the Lord.” A band called Rapture would be playing. Cram pulled the limo into a parking lot big enough to declare statehood.

“What are we doing here?”

“Finding God,” Carl Vespa said. “Or maybe His opposite. Let’s go inside, I want to show you something.”

T
his was nuts, Charlaine thought.

Her feet moved steadily toward Freddy Sykes’s yard without thought or emotion. It had crossed her mind that she could be raising the danger stakes out of desperation, hungry as she was for any kind of drama in her life. But okay, again, so what? Really, when she thought about it, what was the worst that could happen? Suppose Mike did find out. Would he leave her? Would that be so bad?

Did she want to get caught?

Oh, enough with the amateur self-analysis. It wouldn’t hurt to knock on Freddy’s door, pretend to be neighborly. Two years ago, Mike had put up a four-foot-high stockade fence in the backyard. He had wanted one higher, but the town ordinance wouldn’t allow it unless you owned a swimming pool.

Charlaine opened the gate separating her backyard from Freddy’s. Odd. This was a first. She had never opened the gate before.

As she got closer to Freddy’s back door, she realized how weathered his house was. The paint was peeling. The garden was overgrown. Weeds sprouted up through the cracks in the walk. There were patches of dead grass everywhere. She turned and glanced at her own house. She had never seen it from this angle. It too looked tired.

She was at Freddy’s back door.

Okay, now what?

Knock on it, stupid.

She did. She started with a soft rap. No answer. She pounded louder. Nothing. She pressed her ear against the door. Like that would do any good. Like she’d hear a muffled cry or something.

There was no sound.

The shades were still down, but there were wedges that the shades couldn’t quite cover. She put an eye up to an opening and peered in. The living room had a lime-green couch so worn it looked like it was melting. There was a vinyl recliner of maroon in the corner. The television looked new. The wall had old paintings of clowns. The piano was loaded with old black-and-white photographs. There was one of a wedding. Freddy’s parents, Charlaine figured. There was another of the groom looking painfully handsome in an army uniform. There was one more photograph of the same man holding a baby, a smile spread across his face. Then the man—the soldier, the groom—was gone. The rest of the photographs were of either Freddy alone or with his mother.

The room was immaculate—no, preserved. Stuck in a time warp, unused, untouched. There was a collection of small figurines on a side table. More photographs too. A life, Charlaine thought. Freddy Sykes had a life. It was a strange thought, but there you have it.

Charlaine circled toward the garage. There was one window in the back. A flimsy curtain of pretend lace hung across it. She stood on her tiptoes. Her fingers gripped the window ledge. The wood was so old it almost broke away. Peeling paint flaked off like dandruff.

She looked into the garage.

There was another car.

Not a car actually. A minivan. A Ford Windstar. When you live in a town like this, you know all the models.

Freddy Sykes did not own a Ford Windstar.

Maybe his young Asian guest did. That would make sense, right?

She was not convinced.

So what next?

Charlaine stared down at the ground and wondered. She had
been wondering since she first decided to approach the house. She had known before leaving the safety of her own kitchen that there would be no answer to her knocks. She also knew that peeking in the windows—peeping on the peeper?—would do no good.

The rock.

It was there, in what had once been a vegetable garden. She had seen Freddy use it once. It wasn’t a real rock. It was one of those hide-a-keys. They were so common now that criminals probably looked for them before checking under the mat.

Charlaine bent down, picked up the rock, and turned it over. All she had to do was slide the little panel back and take the key out. She did so. The key rested in her palm, glistening in the sunlight.

Here was the line. The no-going-back line.

She moved toward the back door.

S
till wearing the sea-predator smile, Cram opened the door and Grace stepped out of the limousine. Carl Vespa slid out on his own. The huge neon sign listed a church affiliation that Grace had never heard of. The motto, according to several signs around the edifice, seemed to indicate that this was “God’s House.” If that were true, God could use a more creative architect. The structure held all the splendor and warmth of a highway mega-store.

The interior was even worse—tacky enough to make Graceland look understated. The wall-to-wall carpeting was a shiny shade of red usually reserved for a mall girl’s lipstick. The wallpaper was darker, more blood-colored, a velvet affair adorned with hundreds of stars and crosses. The effect made Grace dizzy. The main chapel or house of worship—or, most suitably, arena—held pews rather than seats. They looked uncomfortable, but then again wasn’t standing encouraged? The cynical side of Grace suspected that the reason all religious services had you sporadically stand had nothing to do with devotion and everything to do with keeping congregants from falling asleep.

As soon as she entered the arena, Grace felt a flutter in her heart.

The altar, done up in the green and gold of a cheerleader’s uniform, was being wheeled offstage. Grace looked for preachers with bad toupees, but none were to be found. The band—Grace assumed
this was Rapture—was setting up. Carl Vespa stopped in front of her, his eyes on the stage.

“Is this your church?” she asked him.

A small smile came to his lips. “No.”

“Is it safe to assume that you’re not a fan of, uh, Rapture?”

Vespa didn’t answer the question. “Let’s move down closer to the stage.”

Cram took the lead. There were security guards, but they swept aside as if Cram were toxic.

“What’s going on here?” Grace asked.

Vespa kept moving down the steps. When they reached what a theater would call the orchestra—what do you call the good seats in a church?—she looked up and got a whole new feel for the size of the place. It was a huge theater-in-the-round. The stage was in the center, surrounded on all sides. Grace felt the constriction in her throat.

Dress it up in a religious cloak, but there was no mistake.

This felt like a rock concert.

Vespa took her hand. “It’ll be okay.”

But it wouldn’t be. She knew that. She had not been to a concert or sporting event in any “arena venue” in fifteen years. She used to love going to concerts. She remembered seeing Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at Asbury Park Convention Center during her high school days. What was strange to her, what she had realized even back then, was that the line between rock concert and intense religious service was not all that thick. There was a moment when Bruce played “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland”—two of Grace’s favorites—when she was on her feet, her eyes closed, sheen of sweat on her face, when she was simply gone, lost, shaking with bliss, the same bliss she’d witness on TV when a televangelist got the crowd on its feet, hands raised and shaking.

She loved that feeling. And she knew that she never wanted to experience it again.

Grace pulled her hand away from Carl Vespa’s. He nodded as if he understood. “Come on,” he said gently. Grace limped behind
him. The limp, it seemed to her, was getting more pronounced. Her leg throbbed. Psychological. She knew that. Tight spaces did not terrify her; huge auditoriums, especially jammed with people, did. The place was fairly empty now, thank He Who Lives Here, but her imagination entered the fray and provided the absent commotion.

Shrill feedback from the amplifier made her pull up. Someone was doing a sound test.

“What’s this all about?” she asked Vespa.

His face was set. He veered to the left. Grace followed. There was a scoreboard-type sign above the stage announcing that Rapture was in the middle of a three-week gig and that they, Rapture, were: “What God Has on His MP3.”

The band came onstage now for sound check. They gathered at center stage, had a brief discussion, and then started playing. Grace was surprised. They sounded pretty good. The lyrics were syrupy, full of stuff about skies and spread wings and ascensions and being lifted up. Eminem told a potential girlfriend to “sit your drunk ass on that f***ing runway, ho.” These lyrics, in their own way, were equally jarring.

The lead singer was female. She had platinum blond hair, cut with bangs, and sang with her eyes cast toward the heavens. She looked about fourteen years old. A guitarist stood to her right. He was more heavy-metal rock, what with the medusa-black locks and a tattoo of a giant cross on his right bicep. He played hard, slashing at the strings as if they had pissed him off.

When there was a lull, Carl Vespa said, “The song was written by Doug Bondy and Madison Seelinger.”

She shrugged.

“Doug Bondy wrote the music. Madison Seelinger—that’s the singer up there—wrote the lyrics.”

“And I care because?”

“Doug Bondy is playing the drums.”

They moved to the side of the stage for a better look. The music started again. They stood by a speaker. Grace’s ears took the pounding, but under normal conditions, she would actually have been enjoying
the sound. Doug Bondy, the drummer, was pretty much hidden by the array of cymbals and snares surrounding him. She moved a little more to the side. She could see him better now. He was banging the skins, as they say, his eyes closed, his face at peace. He looked older than the other members of the band. He had a crewcut. His face was clean-shaven. He wore those black Elvis Costello glasses.

Grace felt that flutter in her chest expand. “I want to go home,” she said.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I want to go home.”

The drummer was still smacking the skins, lost in the music, when he turned and saw her. Their eyes met. And she knew. So did he.

It was Jimmy X.

She didn’t wait. She started limping toward the exit. The music chased her down.

“Grace?”

It was Vespa. She ignored him. She pushed through the emergency exit door. The air felt cool in her lungs. She sucked it down, tried to let the dizziness fade. Cram was outside now, as if he knew that she’d take this exit. He smiled at her.

Carl Vespa came up behind her. “It’s him, right?”

“And what if it is?”

“What if . . .” Vespa repeated, surprised. “He’s not innocent here. He’s as much to blame—”

“I want to go home.”

Vespa stopped short as if she’d slapped him.

Calling him had been a mistake. She knew that now. She had lived. She had recovered. Sure, there was the limp. There was some pain. There was the occasional nightmare. But she was okay. She had gotten over it. They, the parents, never would. She saw it that first day—the shatter in their eyes—and while progress had been made, lives had been lived, pieces had been picked up, the shatter had never left. She looked now at Carl Vespa—at the eyes—and saw it all over again.

“Please,” she said to him. “I just want to go home.”