The Stranger (15 page)

A
re your kids home?”
Len Gilman asked.

Adam shook his head. The five of them were still standing on the curb. Len Gilman didn’t look like a cop, though he had the gruff part down to an art form. He reminded Adam of one of those aging motorcycle gang members who still wears leather and hangs out in dive bars. Gilman’s graying handlebar mustache had yellow nicotine stains. He favored short-sleeved shirts, even when in uniform, and had enough hair on his arms to be mistaken for a bear.

For a moment, no one moved, just five town dads hanging by the curb on a Thursday night.

This made no sense, Adam thought, and maybe that was a good thing.

If Len Gilman had come here in his capacity as a police officer to deliver the worst kind of news, why would he bring Tripp, Gaston, and Cal with him?

“Maybe we could go inside,” Len said, “and talk.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s better if we do this in private.”

Adam was tempted to say that they were in private, on the curb in front of his lawn where no one else could hear them, but Len was already starting up the walk and Adam didn’t want to do anything that might delay the conversation any more. The other three men waited for Adam. Gaston had his head down, studying the grass. Cal was jittery, but that was pretty much his default state. Tripp was noncommittal.

Adam moved in behind Len, the other three trailing on the path. When they got to the door, Len stepped aside and let Adam use the key. Jersey the dog rushed toward them, nails clacking on the hardwood, but, perhaps sensing something wasn’t quite right, her greeting was muted and perfunctory. Jersey quickly sized up the situation and slinked back to the kitchen.

The house fell into silence, the kind of silence that seemed deliberate, as though even the walls and furniture were conspiring to keep everything still. Adam didn’t bother with niceties. He didn’t ask anyone if they wanted to take a seat or have a drink. Len Gilman headed into the living room, as though he either owned the place or was a cop comfortable in his own skin.

“What’s going on?” Adam asked.

Len did the talking for the group. “Where is Corinne?”

Two things hit Adam at once. First: relief. If she’d been hurt or worse, Len would know where she was. So whatever was going on
here, even if it was something bad, it wasn’t the worst-case scenario. Second: fear. Because, yes, Corinne seemed safe for the moment, but whatever this visit entailed, by both this show of force and the tone of Len’s voice, it was indeed going to be something bad.

“She’s not home,” Adam said.

“Yes, we can see that. Would you mind telling us where she is?”

“Would you mind telling me why you want to know?”

Len Gilman kept his gaze on Adam. The other men stood and shifted their feet. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Adam was about to protest that this was his house and that he’d tell everyone when or where to sit, but that seemed pointless and a waste of energy. Len collapsed with a sigh in the big chair usually reserved for Adam. Adam noted that it was probably a power move, but again no reason to fret over the irrelevant. The other three men sat on the couch like the speak-no-hear-no-see-no monkeys. Adam stayed standing.

“What the hell is going on?” Adam asked again.

Len Gilman stroked his handlebar mustache as though it were a small pet. “I just want to make something clear right off the bat. I’m here in my role as a friend and a neighbor. I’m not here as the chief of police.”

“Oh, that’s encouraging.”

Len ignored the sarcasm and continued. “So as a friend and neighbor, I’m telling you that we are looking for Corinne.”

“And as a friend and neighbor, not to mention a concerned husband, I’m asking you why.”

Len Gilman nodded, buying time, trying to figure how to play this. “I know Tripp stopped by here yesterday.”

“Right.”

“He mentioned that we had a lacrosse board meeting.”

Len Gilman then stopped talking, doing that cop thing where you wait and hope your subject says something. Adam knew the technique all too well from his days in the prosecutor’s office. He also knew that those who played it back, who tried to outwait the cop, were usually hiding something. Adam wasn’t. He also wanted to move this along, so he said, “Right,” again.

“Corinne didn’t come to the meeting. She didn’t show.”

“So what? Does she need an absence note from a parent?”

“Don’t be a wiseass, Adam.”

Len was right. He needed to clamp down on the sarcasm.

“Are you a member of the board, Len?” Adam asked.

“I’m a member at large.”

“What’s that mean?”

Len smiled and spread his hands. “Damned if I know. Tripp is the president. Bob here is the VP. And Cal is the secretary.”

“I know and, man, am I impressed.” Again he scolded himself for the tone. This wasn’t the time. “But I still don’t know why you’re all looking for Corinne.”

“And we don’t know why we can’t find her,” Len countered, spreading his meaty paws. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? We’ve texted her. We’ve e-mailed her. We’ve called her mobile and your house. Heck, I even stopped by the school. Did you know that?”

Adam bit back his reply.

“Corinne wasn’t there. She was absent—and there was no absence note from a parent. So I talked to Tom.” Tom Gorman was the principal. He, too, lived in town and had three kids. Towns like this got ridiculously incestuous. “He says Corinne normally has the
best attendance record of any teacher in the district, but suddenly she’s a no-show. He was concerned.”

“Len?”

“Yes?”

“Can you cut the crap and tell me why you’re all so anxious to find my wife?”

Len looked over at the three monkeys on the couch. Bob’s face was set in stone. Cal was busy cleaning his glasses. That left it up to Tripp Evans. Tripp cleared his throat and said, “There seems to be some discrepancies with the lacrosse financials.”

Boom.

Or maybe the opposite of boom. The house grew even quieter. Adam was sure that he could actually hear his own heart beating in his chest. He found the seat behind him and lowered himself onto it.

“What are you talking about?”

But of course, he already knew, didn’t he?

Bob now found his voice. “What do you think we’re talking about?” he half snapped. “There’s money missing from the account.”

Cal nodded, just to do something.

“And you think . . . ?” Adam didn’t finish the thought. First off, it was obvious what they thought. Two, it would not do to even voice such a ridiculous accusation.

But was it ridiculous?

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Len said, playing Mr. Reasonable. “Right now, we just want to talk to Corinne. As I told you before, I’m here as a friend and neighbor and maybe a board member. That’s why we are all here. We’re Corinne’s friends. And yours. We want to keep this between us.”

Lots of nods.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Len said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way, “that if the books get straightened out, that will be the end of it. It stays in this room. No questions will be asked. If the discrepancies go away, if the ledger is made whole again, well, we don’t really care about the hows or whys. We all move on.”

Adam stayed quiet. Organizations are all the same. Cover-ups and lies. The greater good and all that. Through his confusion and fear, part of Adam couldn’t help but feel disgust. But that was beside the point. He needed to be very careful here. Despite Len Gilman’s twice-repeated “friend/neighbor/board member” spiel, he was a cop. He wasn’t here as a nicety. He was here to gather information. Adam had to be careful how much he gave him.

“This discrepancy,” Adam said. “How large is it?”

“Very,” Len Gilman said.

“In terms of . . .”

“Sorry, that’s confidential.”

“You can’t seriously believe that Corinne would do anything—”

“Right now,” Len Gilman said, “we just need to talk to her.”

Adam stayed silent.

“Where is she, Adam?”

He couldn’t tell them, of course. He couldn’t even try to explain. The attorney in him took over. How many times had he warned his own client not to talk? How many convictions had he nailed because some idiot tried to talk his way out of it?

“Adam?”

“I think you guys better leave now.”

D
an Molino tried not to cry
as he watched his son Kenny line up for the forty-yard dash.

Kenny was a high school senior and one of the top football prospects in the state. He had a breakout senior year, gaining notice and respect among the big-time scouts, and now here he was, warming up for the final combine event. Dan stood in the bleachers, feeling that familiar rush, that parental high, as he watched his big son—Kenny was 285 pounds now—getting ready to put his feet in the starting blocks. Dan was a big guy too, six-two, two forty. He’d also played some ball back in the day, All-State linebacker, but he’d been a step too slow and a size too small to go Division I. He started up his own business in freelance furniture delivery twenty-five years ago, and now Dan owned two
trucks and had nine guys working for him. The big stores, they often had their own delivery fleet. Dan specialized in taking care of the little mom-and-pop shops, though there seemed to be less and less of them every day. The big chains were squeezing them out, just like the big boys like UPS and FedEx were squeezing him.

Still, Dan made a living. A few of those big-chain mattress stores had recently decided to cut back on their own fleet. Found it cheaper to hire a local guy like Dan. It helped. So, okay, Dan wasn’t killing it, but he was doing fine. He and Carly had a nice place in Sparta off the lake. They had three kids. Ronald was the youngest. He was twelve. Karen was a freshman, getting to that stage when the sass and puberty kicked in and the boys start noticing. Dan hoped that he’d survive it. And then there was Kenny, his firstborn, the high school senior who was poised to get a full ride to a major college football program. Alabama and Ohio State were showing interest already.

If Kenny could just nail this forty-yard dash.

Watching his son, Dan felt his eyes water up. Always happened. It was kind of embarrassing, the way he’d react like this. Couldn’t help it, though. He’d started wearing sunglasses to Kenny’s high school games so no one would see, but that hadn’t helped when they were inside and Kenny was getting some award, like when they named him MVP at the team dinner and Dan’s sitting there, and boom, there it came, the eyes watering up, sometimes even a tear or two running down the cheek. When someone would notice, Dan would say allergies or that he had a cold or some such thing. Who knows, maybe they bought that line. Carly loved this part of him, calling him her sensitive Teddy Bear or giving him a big hug. Whatever else Dan had done, whatever mistakes he’d made in his
life, he had hit the biggest bottom-of-the-ninth homer when Carly Applegate had chosen him to be her life partner.

In truth, Dan didn’t think that Carly had been quite as lucky. Eddie Thompson had liked her, back in the day. Eddie’s family got in early on McDonald’s chains, made a fortune. They were always in the town paper now, Eddie and his wife, Melinda, doing some charity thing or whatever. Carly never said anything, but Dan knew it bugged her. Or maybe that was just Dan’s own issues. He didn’t know anymore. Dan only knew that when he saw his kids do something special, like play football or win awards, his eyes watered up. He was an easy cry and he tried to hide that, but Carly knew the truth and loved him for it.

Dan was wearing sunglasses today. That was for sure.

With the big-time scouts keeping a watchful eye, Kenny had done really well in the other tests—the vertical jump, the 7-on-7, that trench warfare thing. Still, the forty-yard dash would clinch it for him. A full ride to some big-time university. Ohio State, Penn State, Alabama, maybe even—oh man, it was almost too much to even let himself think about it—Notre Dame. The Notre Dame scout was here, and Dan couldn’t help noticing that the guy had been keeping tabs on Kenny.

Just one last dash. Just beat 5.2 and Kenny was golden. That was what they said. If a prospect slower than that, the scouts lost interest, even if he was great at everything else. They wanted a 5.2 or better. If Kenny did that, if Kenny could just run this one race at his best time . . .

“You know, don’t you?”

The unfamiliar voice startled him for a second, but Dan just figured that the guy hadn’t been talking to him. Still, when he
sneaked a look, he could see some stranger was staring directly into Dan’s sunglassed eyes.

Little guy, Dan thought, but then again, everyone looked little to Dan. Not short. Just small. Small hands, thin arms, almost frail. The guy who was staring at him now stuck out here because it was so clear he didn’t belong. There was nothing football about him. Too little. Too nerdy. Big baseball cap pulled down too low. And that soft, friendly smile.

“You talking to me?” Dan asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m kinda busy here.”

The guy kept smiling as Dan slowly turned back toward the track. On the field, Kenny was putting his feet in the blocks. Dan watched and waited for his personal waterworks to begin.

But for once, his eyes stayed dry.

Dan risked a glance back. The guy was still smiling and staring.

“What’s your problem?”

“It can wait till after the race, Dan.”

“What can wait? How do you know my—?”

“Shhh, let’s see how he does.”

On the field, someone shouted, “On your mark, get set,” and then the gun went off. Dan’s head snapped back toward his son. Kenny got a good jump off the start and began pounding down his lane like a runaway truck. Dan smiled. Try getting in the way of that, he thought. Kenny would mow you down like a blade of grass.

The race lasted only scant seconds, but it felt much longer. One of Dan’s new drivers, some kid working off a student loan, sent an article that said time slows down when you’re having new
experiences. Well, this was new. Maybe that’s why the seconds ticked away so slowly. Dan was watching his boy heading for a personal-best time in the forty and, in doing so, locking in a full ride to someplace special, someplace Dan could never have gone, and when Kenny crossed the finish line with a record time of 5.07, Dan knew that the tears would start coming.

Except they didn’t.

“Great time,” the little guy said. “You must be so proud.”

“You bet I am.”

Dan faced the stranger straight-on now. Screw this guy. This was one of the greatest moments—maybe
the
greatest—of Dan’s life and he’d be damned if he’d let some dork get in that way. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

“You a scout?”

The stranger smiled. “Do I look like a scout, Dan?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know lots of things. Here.”

The stranger held out a manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“You know, don’t you?”

“I don’t know who the hell you think—”

“It’s just hard to believe no one has ever raised this with you before.”

“Raised what?”

“I mean, look at your son.”

Dan spun back toward the track. Kenny had this huge smile on his face, looking toward the sideline for his father’s approval. Now Dan’s tears started to come. He waved, and his boy, who didn’t go
out carousing at night, who didn’t drink or smoke pot or hang out with a bad crowd, who still—and yeah, no one believed it—preferred hanging out with his old man, watching the game or some movie on Netflix, waved back.

“His weight was, what, two thirty last year,” the stranger said. “He put on fifty-five pounds and no one noticed?”

Dan frowned, even as he felt his heart drop. “It’s called puberty, asshole. It’s called working out hard.”

“No, Dan. It’s called Winstrol. It’s called a PED.”

“A what?”

“Performance-enhancing drug. Better known to the layman as steroids.”

Dan turned and moved right up into the little stranger’s face. The stranger just kept smiling. “What did you say?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Dan. It’s all in that manila folder. Your son went to Silk Road. You know what that is? The Deep Web? The online underworld economy? Bitcoin? I don’t know if you gave Kenny your blessing or if your son paid for it on his own, but you know the truth, don’t you?”

Dan just stood there.

“What do you think all these scouts are going to say when that file goes public?”

“You’re full of it. You’re making this up. This is all—”

“Ten thousand dollars, Dan.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to go into this in detail right now. You’ll see all the proof in that manila envelope. Kenny started with Winstrol. That was his main PED, but he also took Anadrol and Deca Durabolin. You’ll see how often he bought it, his method of payment,
even the IP address on your home computer. Kenny started taking them junior year, so all those trophies, all those victories, all those stats . . . well, if the truth comes out, they all go away, Dan. All those congratulatory slaps on the back when you go into O’Malley’s Pub, all those well-wishers, all those townspeople who think so highly of the nice boy you raised—what are they going to think of you when they find out your son cheated? What are they going to think of Carly?”

Dan put his finger on the little guy’s chest. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, Dan. I’m asking for ten thousand dollars. A one-time payment. You know I could demand a lot more, what with how much college costs nowadays. So consider yourself lucky.”

Then the voice that always brought the tears sounded to his right: “Dad?”

Kenny was jogging over with a look of joy and hope on his face. Dan just froze and stared at his son, unable to move for a moment.

“I’m going to leave you now, Dan. All the information is in that manila envelope I just gave you. Look at it when you get home. What happens tomorrow is up to you, but for right now”—the stranger gestured toward Kenny coming toward them—“why don’t you enjoy this special moment with your son?”