Harlan Coben (35 page)

It started to
all go wrong again when I looked at the calendar.

The human brain is amazing. It is a curious mix of electricity and chemicals. It is, in effect, pure science. We understand more about the workings of the great cosmos than we do about the curious circuitry of the cerebrum, cerebellum, hypothalamus, medulla oblongata, and all the rest. And like any tricky compound, we are never sure how it will react to a certain catalyst.

There were several things that gave me reason to pause. There was the question of leaks. Rachel and I had thought that someone in either the FBI or police department had told Bacard and his people what was happening. But that never fit in with my theory about Stacy shooting Monica. There was the fact that Monica was found with no clothes on. I think I understood why now, but the thing is, Stacy wouldn't have.

But the main catalyst occurred, I think, when I looked at the calendar and realized that today was Wednesday.

The shootings and original abduction had taken place on a Wednesday. Of course, there had been plenty of Wednesdays in the past eighteen months. The day of the week was a pretty innocuous thing. But this time, after we had learned so much, after my brain had digested all the fresh data, something meshed. All those little questions and doubts, all those idiosyncrasies, all those moments I took for granted and never really examined . . . they all shifted a little. And what I saw was even worse than what I had originally imagined.

I was back in Kasselton now—at my house where it had all started. I called Tickner for confirmation.

I said, “My wife and I were shot with thirty-eights, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you're sure they were two different guns?”

“Positive.”

“And my Smith and Wesson was one of them?”

“You know all this, Marc.”

“Did you get all the ballistic reports back yet?”

“Most of them.”

I licked my lips and readied myself. I hoped to hell that I was wrong. “Who was shot with my gun—me or Monica?”

He turned coy on me. “Why are you asking me this now?”

“Curiosity.”

“Yeah, right. Hold on a second.” I could hear him shuffling papers. I felt my throat constrict. I almost hung up. “Your wife was.”

When I heard the car pull up outside, I put the receiver back in the cradle. Lenny turned the knob and opened the door. He didn't knock. After all, Lenny never knocked, right?

I was sitting on the couch. The house was still, all the ghosts sleeping now. He had a Slurpee in either hand and a broad smile. I wondered how many times I had seen that smile. I remembered it more crooked. I remembered it jammed to overflowing with braces. I remembered it bleeding after he hit a tree when we went sledding down the Gorets' backyard. I thought again about when big Tony Merruno picked a fight with me in third grade, how Lenny jumped on his back. I remembered now that Tony Merruno broke Lenny's glasses. I don't think Lenny cared.

I knew him so well. Or maybe I hadn't known him at all.

When Lenny saw my face, his smile faded away.

“We were supposed to play racquetball that morning, Lenny. Remember?”

He lowered the cups and put them on the end table.

“You never knock. You always just open the door. Like today. So what happened, Lenny? You came to pick me up. You opened the door.”

He started shaking his head, but I knew now.

“The two guns, Lenny. That's what gave it away.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” But there was no conviction in his voice.

“We figured that Stacy didn't get Monica a gun—that Monica used
mine. But you see, she didn't. I just checked with ballistics. It's funny. You never told me that Monica was shot with my gun. I was shot with the other weapon.”

“So?” Lenny said, suddenly the attorney again. “That doesn't mean anything. Maybe Stacy got her a gun, after all.”

“She did,” I said.

“So fine, okay, it still adds up.”

“Tell me how.”

He shifted his feet. “Maybe Stacy helped Monica get a gun. Monica shot you with it. When Stacy arrived a few minutes later, Monica tried to shoot her.” Lenny moved over to the staircase as if to demonstrate. “Stacy ran upstairs. Monica fired—that would explain the bullet hole.” He pointed to the spackled area by the stairs. “Stacy grabbed your gun out of the bedroom, came downstairs, and shot Monica.”

I looked at him. “Is that how it happened, Lenny?”

“I don't know. I mean, it could be.”

I waited a beat. He turned away. “One problem,” I said.

“What?”

“Stacy didn't know where I hid the gun. She didn't know the lockbox's combination either.” I took a step closer. “But you did, Lenny. I kept all my legal documents there. I trusted you with everything. So now I want the truth. Monica shot me. You came in. You saw me lying on the floor. Did you think I was dead?”

Lenny closed his eyes.

“Make me understand, Lenny.”

He shook his head slowly. “You think you love your daughter,” he said. “But you have no idea. What you feel, it grows every day. The longer you have a child, the more attached you get. The other night I came home from work. Marianne was crying because some girls were teasing her in school. I went to bed feeling sick, and I realized something. I can only be as happy as my saddest child. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

“You have it pretty much right. I came to your house that morning. I opened the door. Monica was on the phone. She was still holding the gun in her hand. I ran over to you. I couldn't believe it. I felt for a pulse but . . .” He shook his head. “Monica started screaming at me, about how she wouldn't let anyone take away her baby. She pointed the gun
at me. I mean, Jesus Christ. I thought for sure I was going to die. I rolled away and then I ran for the stairs. I remembered you had a gun up there. She fired at me.” He pointed again. “That's the bullet hole.”

He stopped. He took a few breaths. I waited.

“I grabbed your gun.”

“Did Monica follow you up the stairs?”

His voice was soft. “No.” He started blinking. “Maybe I should have tried to use the phone. Maybe I should have sneaked out. I don't know. I've gone through it hundreds of times. I try to imagine how I should have played it. But you were lying there, my best friend, dead. That crazy bitch was shouting about running away with your daughter—my godchild. She had already taken a shot at me. I didn't know what she would do next.”

He looked away.

“Lenny?”

“I don't know what happened, Marc. I really don't. I sneaked back down the stairs. She still had the gun. . . .” His voice tailed.

“So you shot her.”

He nodded. “I didn't mean to kill her. At least, I don't think I did. But suddenly you were both lying there, dead. I was going to call the police. But now I wasn't sure how it would look. I had shot Monica at a funny angle. They could claim her back was turned.”

“You thought maybe they'd arrest you?”

“Of course. The cops hate me. I'm a successful defense attorney. What do you think would have happened?”

I didn't reply. “You broke the window?”

“From the outside,” he said. “So it would look like an intruder.

“And you took Monica's clothes off?”

“Yes.”

“Same reason?”

“I knew that there would be gunpowder residue on the clothes. They'd realize she fired a gun. I was trying to make it look like a random attacker. So I got rid of her clothes. I used a baby wipe to clean off her hand.”

That was another thing that had bothered me. Monica being stripped down. There had been the possibility that Stacy would have done it to throw off the police, but I couldn't imagine her thinking of that. Lenny was the defense attorney—him I could see.

We were getting to the heart of it now. We both knew that. I crossed my arms. “Tell me about Tara.”

“She was my godchild. It was my job to protect her.”

“I don't understand.”

Lenny spread his hands. “How many times did I beg you to write a will?”

I was confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Think it through for a second. During all this, when you were in trouble, you resorted to your surgical training, right?”

“I guess.”

“I'm an attorney, Marc. I did the same. You were both dead. Tara was wailing in the other room. And I, Lenny the Lawyer, realized instantly what would happen.”

“What?

“You hadn't made out a will. You hadn't named guardians. Don't you see? That meant Edgar would get your daughter.”

I looked at his face. I hadn't thought of that.

“Your mother might contest, but she wouldn't stand a chance against his finances. She had your father to worry about. She had a drunk driving conviction six years ago. Edgar would get custody.”

I saw it now. “And you couldn't allow that.”

“I'm Tara's godfather. It was my job to protect her.”

“And you hated Edgar.”

He shook his head. “Was I clouded by what he did to my dad? Yeah, maybe subconsciously, a little. But Edgar Portman is evil. You know that. Look at how Monica turned out. I couldn't let him destroy your daughter like he did his own.”

“So you took her.”

He nodded.

“You brought her to Bacard.”

“He had been a client. I knew some of what he did, though not to what extent. I also knew that he would keep it confidential. I told him I wanted the best family he had. Forget money, forget power. I wanted good people.”

“So he placed her with the Tansmores.”

“Yes. You have to understand. I thought you were dead. Everyone did. And then it looked like you might end up a vegetable. By the time
you were okay, it was too late. I couldn't tell anybody. I would go to prison for sure. Do you know what that would do to my family?”

“Gee, I can't imagine,” I said.

“That's not fair, Marc.”

“I don't have to be fair here.”

“Hey, I didn't ask for any of this.” He was shouting now. “I walked in on a terrible situation. I did what I thought best—for your daughter. But you can't expect me to sacrifice my family.”

“Better to sacrifice mine?”

“The truth? Yes, of course. I'd give up anything to protect my children. Anything. Wouldn't you?”

Now I was the one who stayed silent. I had said it before: I would lay down my life in a second for my daughter. And truth be told, if push came to shove, I would lay down yours too.

“Believe it or not, I tried to think through this coldly,” Lenny said. “A cost-benefit analysis. If I come forward with the truth, I destroy my wife and four children and you take your daughter from a loving home. If I keep quiet . . .” He shrugged. “Yeah, you suffered. I didn't want to do that. It hurt me to watch you. But what would you have done?”

I didn't want to think about it. “You're leaving something out,” I said.

He closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible.

“What happened to Stacy?”

“She wasn't supposed to be hurt. It was like you said. She had sold Monica the gun and when she realized why, she rushed to stop her.”

“But she arrived too late?”

“Yes.”

“She saw you?”

He nodded. “Look, I told her everything. She wanted to help, Marc. She wanted to do the right thing. But in the end, the habit was too strong.”

“She blackmailed you?”

“She asked for money. I gave it to her. That wasn't important. But she was there. And when I went to Bacard, I told him everything that had happened. You have to understand. I thought you were going to die. When you didn't, I knew that you'd go nuts without closure. Your daughter was gone. I talked to Bacard about it. He came up with the idea of a fake kidnapping. We'd all make a lot of money.”

“You took money for this?”

Lenny leaned back as if I'd just slapped him. “Of course not. I put my share into a trust fund for Tara's college. But the idea of this fake kidnapping appealed to me. They'd set it up so in the end, it would look like Tara was dead. You'd have closure. We'd also be taking money from Edgar and funneling at least some of it to Tara. It seemed like a win-win.”

“Except?”

“Except when they heard about Stacy, they decided that they couldn't depend on a drug addict to keep quiet. The rest you know. They lured her with money. They made sure she got caught on tape. And then, without telling me, they killed her.”

I thought about that. I thought about Stacy's last minutes in the cabin. Did she know that she was going to die? Or did she just drift off, thinking she was merely getting yet another fix?

“You were the leak, weren't you?”

He didn't reply.

“You told them about the police being involved.”

“Don't you see? It made no difference. They never intended to give Tara back. She was already with the Tansmores. After the ransom drop, I thought it was over. We all tried to move on.”

“So what happened?'

“Bacard decided to run the ransom again.”

“Were you in on it?” I asked.

“No, he kept me out of the loop.”

“When did you learn about it?”

“When you told me in the hospital. I was furious. I called him. He told me to relax, that there was no way it could be traced back to us.”

“But we did it trace it back.”

He nodded.

“And you knew that I was getting close to Bacard. I told you on the phone.”

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute.” A fresh chill ran up my neck. “In the end, Bacard wanted to clean house. He called those two lunatics. The woman, that Lydia, she went out and killed Tatiana. Heshy was sent to take care of Denise Vanech. But”—I thought it through—“but when I saw Steven
Bacard, he had just been shot. He was still bleeding. There was no way either of them could have done it.”