Three Harlan Coben Novels (45 page)

Time started playing
games with me. Going in and out. Speeding up and slowing down. In focus and suddenly blurred. But that did not last long. I let the surgeon side of me take over. He, Marc the Doctor, knew how to compartmentalize. I have always found this easier to do at work than in my personal life. The skill—to partition, to separate, to detach—has never translated. At work, I am able to take my emotional excess and channel it, allow it to converge into a constructive focus. I have never been successful at doing this at home.

But this crisis had forced a change. Compartmentalizing wasn’t a question of desire as much as survival. To get emotional, to allow myself to wallow in doubt or consider the implications of a child missing for eighteen months . . . it would paralyze me. That was probably what the kidnappers wanted. They wanted me to come apart. But I work well under pressure. I am at my best. I know that. I had to do that now. The walls came up. I could look at the situation rationally.

First thing: No, I would not contact the police this time.

But that did not mean I had to wait around helplessly.

By the time Edgar handed me the duffel bag stuffed with money, I had an idea.

I called Cheryl and Lenny’s house. There was no answer. I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen in the morning. I didn’t have Cheryl’s cell phone, but it would be better to do this in person anyway.

I drove over to Willard Elementary School and arrived at eight twenty-five. I parked behind a line of SUVs and minivans and got out. This elementary school, like so many others, has the bricks, the cement
back steps, the one level, the architectural design made shapeless by the many additions. Some additions try to blend in, but then there are the others, usually built between 1968 and 1975, that were faux-sleek with blue glass and odd tiling. They looked like post-apocalyptic greenhouses.

Kids scrambled around the playground as they always do. The difference was, the parents now stayed and watched. They chatted with one another and when the bell rang, they made sure that their charges were safely ensconced inside the brick or sleek blue glass before departing. I hated to see the fear in the eyes of the parents. But I understood it. The day you become a parent, fear becomes your constant companion. It never lets you go. My life was Exhibit A in the why.

Cheryl’s blue Chevy Suburban pulled into the drop-off line. I started toward her. She was unharnessing Justin from his car seat when she spotted me. Justin gave her a dutiful kiss, an act he takes for granted which, I guess, is how it should be, and then he ran off. Cheryl watched him as though afraid he could vanish on the short concrete trek. Kids can never understand that fear, but that’s okay. Hard enough to be a kid without having that weight on you.

“Hey,” Cheryl said to me.

I said hi back. Then: “I need something.”

“What?”

“Rachel’s phone number.”

Cheryl was already back at the driver-side door. “Get in.”

“My car is parked over there.”

“I’ll bring you back. Swim practice ran late. I’ve got to get Marianne to school.”

She had already started the car. I hopped up into the front passenger seat. I turned and smiled at Marianne. She wore headphones and quick-fingered her Game Boy Advance. She gave me an absentminded wave, barely glancing up. Her hair was still wet. Conner was in the child seat next to her. The car reeked of chlorine, but I found the smell oddly comforting. Lenny, I know, cleans out the car religiously, but you can’t possibly keep up. There were French fries in the crevice between the seats. Crumbs of unknown origin clung to the upholstery. On the floor by my feet lay a potpourri of school notices and children’s artwork that had been subjected to onslaughts of rain boots. I sat on a small action figure, the kind that McDonald’s gives away with their Happy Meals. A
CD case reading
NOW THAT
’
S WHAT I CALL MUSIC
14 sat between us, providing listeners with the latest from Britney and Christina and Generic Boy Band. The windows in the back were smeared with greasy fingerprints.

The kids were only allowed to play with the Game Boy in the car, never in the house. They were never, under any circumstance, allowed to watch a PG-13 movie. I asked Lenny about how he and Cheryl went about deciding such matters and he responded, “It’s not the rules themselves, but the fact that there are rules.” I think I know what he meant.

Cheryl kept her eyes on the road. “It’s not my nature to pry.”

“But you want to know my intentions.”

“I guess.”

“And if I don’t want to tell you?”

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s better if you don’t.”

“Trust me here, Cheryl. I need the number.”

She flipped on her signal light. “Rachel is still my closest friend.”

“Okay.”

“It took her a long time to get over you.” She hesitated.

“And vice versa.”

“Exactly. Look, I’m not saying this right. It’s just . . . there are some things you need to know.”

“Like?”

She kept her eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel. “You asked Lenny why we never told you she got divorced.”

“Yes.”

Cheryl glanced in the rearview mirror, not at the road, but at her daughter. Marianne seemed wrapped up in her game. “She didn’t get divorced. Her husband is dead.”

Cheryl glided to a stop in front of the middle school. Marianne took off the headphones and slid out. She did not bother with the dutiful kiss, but she did say good-bye. Cheryl put the car back in drive.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, because that was what people said under these circumstances. I almost added, because the mind works in very strange and even macabre ways: Hey, Rachel and I have something else in common.

And then, as if Cheryl could read these thoughts, she said, “He was shot.”

This eerie parallel sat between us for several seconds. I stayed quiet.

“I don’t know the details,” she quickly added. “He was with the FBI too. Rachel was one of the highest-ranking women in the bureau at the time. She resigned after he died. She stopped taking my calls. It hasn’t been good for her since.” Cheryl pulled up to my car and stopped. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand. A lot of years have passed since college. Rachel isn’t the same person you loved all those years ago.”

I kept my tone steady. “I just need her phone number.”

Without another word, Cheryl grabbed a pen from the visor, uncapped it with her teeth, and jotted the number on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.

“Thanks,” I said.

She barely nodded as I got out.

I did not hesitate. I had my cell phone. I slipped into my car and dialed the number. Rachel answered with a tentative hello. My words were simple enough.

“I need your help.”

Five hours later,
Rachel’s train pulled into Newark Station.

I couldn’t help but think of all those old movies where trains separate lovers, steam billowing from beneath, the conductor calling a last warning, the whistle sounding, the chug-chug as the wheels begin to move, one lover hanging out and waving, the other running along the platform. I don’t know why I thought of this. The Newark train station is about as romantic as a pile of hippo dung with head lice. The train approached with nary a whisper and nothing you’d want to see or smell wafted in the air.

But when Rachel stepped off, I still felt the hum in my chest. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a red turtleneck. Her overnight bag dangled from one shoulder, and she hoisted it up as she stepped down. For a moment, I just stared. I’d just turned thirty-six years old. Rachel was thirty-five. We had not been together since our very early twenties. We had lived our entire adult lives apart. Odd when you think of it that way. I told you before about our breakup. I try to unearth the whys, but maybe it is that simple. We were kids. Kids do dumb things. Kids don’t understand repercussions, don’t think long term. Kids don’t understand that the hum may never really leave your chest.

Yet today, when I realized that I needed help, I thought first of Rachel. And she had come.

She moved toward me with no hesitation. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Did they call?”

“Not yet.”

She nodded and started walking down the platform. Her tone was no nonsense. She, too, had slipped into her role as a professional. “Tell me more about the DNA test.”

“I don’t know anything else.”

“So it’s not definitive?”

“Not court-evidence definitive, no, but they seem pretty sure.”

Rachel shifted her bag from her right shoulder to her left. I tried to keep up with her pace. “We have to make some tough decisions, Marc. You ready for that?”

“Yes.”

“First off, are you certain that you don’t want to contact the cops or FBI?”

“The note said they had an inside source.”

“That’s probably bull,” she said.

We walked a few more steps.

“I contacted the authorities last time,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean it was the wrong move.”

“But it certainly wasn’t the right one.”

She made a yes-no gesture with her head. “You don’t know what happened last time. Maybe they spotted the tail. Maybe they watched your house. But most likely, they never intended to give her back. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“But you still want them left out.”

“It’s why I called you.”

She nodded and finally stopped, waiting for me to signal which way. I pointed to the right. She started up again. “Another thing,” she said.

“What?”

“We can’t let them dictate the tempo this time. We have to insist on assurances that Tara is alive.”

“They’ll say the hairs prove it.”

“And we’ll say the tests were inconclusive.”

“You think they’ll buy that?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” She kept walking, the cut of her jaw held high. “But this is what I mean by tough decisions. That flannel-shirt guy in the park? That’s about head games. They want to intimidate and weaken you. They want you to follow blindly again. Tara is
your child. If you want to just hand over the money again, that’s up to you. But I wouldn’t advise it. They vanished before. There’s no reason to think they won’t again.”

We entered the parking garage. I handed the attendant my ticket. “So what do you suggest?” I asked her.

“A few things. First, we have to demand an exchange. No ‘Here’s the money, call us later.’ We get your daughter when they get the money.”

“And if they don’t agree?”

She looked at me with those eyes. “Tough decisions. You understand?”

I nodded.

“I also want a total electronic surveillance hookup, so I can stay with you. I want to strap on a fiber-optic camera and see what this guy looks like, if possible. We don’t have manpower, but there are still things we can do.”

“Suppose they catch on?”

“Suppose they run away again?” she countered. “We’re taking chances here no matter what we do. I’m trying to learn from what happened the first time. There are no guarantees. I’m simply trying to improve our odds.”

The car arrived. We slid in and started up McCarter Highway. Rachel suddenly grew very quiet. The years again melted away. I knew this posture. I had seen it before.

“What else?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“Rachel.”

Something in my tone made her look away. “There are some things you should know.”

I waited.

“I called Cheryl,” she said. “I know she filled you in on most of it. You understand that I’m not a fed anymore.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a limit to what I can do.”

“I understand that.” She sat back. The posture was still there. “What else?”

“You need a reality check here, Marc.”

We pulled to a red light. I turned and looked at her—really looked at
her—for the first time. The eyes still had that hazel with gold flakes. I know the years had been tough, but it didn’t show in the eyes.

“The odds that Tara is still alive are minuscule,” she said.

“But the DNA test,” I countered.

“I’ll handle that later.”

“Handle it?”

“Later,” she said again.

“What the hell does that mean? It’s a match. Edgar said the final confirmation is a formality.”

“Later,” she repeated with steel in her voice. “Right now we might as well assume that she’s alive. We should go through with the ransom drop-off as if there is a healthy child on the other end. But somewhere along the line, I need you to understand that this could be an elaborate con.”

“How do you figure?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Like hell it isn’t. Are you saying, what, they faked a DNA test?”

“I doubt it.” Then she added, “But it’s a possibility.”

“How? There was a match between the two sets of hairs.”

“The hairs matched each other.”

“Yes.”

“But,” she said, “how do you know the first set of hairs—the ones you got a year and a half ago—belonged to Tara?”

It took a few moments for the meaning to reach me.

“Did you ever run a test on the first set, see if the DNA matched yours?” she asked.

“Why would we?”

“So for all you know, the original kidnappers sent you the hairs of another kid.”

I tried to shake my head clear. “But they had a snippet of her clothes,” I said. “The pink with black penguins. How do you explain that?”

“You don’t think the Gap sold more than one of those? Look, I don’t know what the story is yet, so let’s not get bogged down in hypotheticals. Let’s just concentrate on what we can do here and now.”

I sat back. We fell into silence. I wondered if I had made the right move by calling her. There was so much excess baggage here. But at the
end of the day, I trusted her. We needed to maintain the professional, to keep compartmentalizing.

“I just want my daughter back,” I said.

Rachel nodded, opened her mouth as if to say something, and then grew silent again. And that was when the ransom call came in.

Lydia liked to
stare at old photographs.

She did not know why. They offered her little comfort. The nostalgia factor was, at best, limited. Heshy never looked back. For reasons that she could never properly articulate, Lydia did.

This particular photograph had been taken when Lydia was eight years old. It was a black-and-white still from the beloved classic TV sitcom
Family Laughs
. The show ran for seven years—in Lydia’s case, from the age of six until just near her thirteenth birthday.
Family Laughs
starred ex–movie hunk Clive Wilkins as the widowed father of three adorable children: twin boys, Tod and Rod, who were eleven when the series began, and an adorable pixie of a little sister named, cutely enough, Trixie, played by the irrepressible Larissa Dane. Yes, the show was at least three steps beyond precious. Old repeats of
Family Laughs
still run on TV Land.

Every once in a while, the
E! True Hollywood Story
runs a piece on the old cast of
Family Laughs
. Clive Wilkins died from pancreatic cancer two years after the show ended. The narrator would note that Clive was “just like a father on the set,” which, Lydia knew, was a load of crap. The guy drank and smelled liked tobacco. When she hugged him for the cameras, it took all her considerable young acting skills not to gag from the stench.

Jarad and Stan Frank, the real-life identical twins who played Tod and Rod, had been trying to get a music career going since the show’s cancellation. On
Family Laughs
, they had a groovy garage band with a repertoire of songs written by others, instruments played by others, and voices so echoed and distorted by synthesizers that even Jarad and Stan,
who could not hold a key if it was tattooed into their palms, started to believe that they were genuine musical artistes. The twins were both nearing forty now, both clearly clients of the Hair Club, both deluding themselves that, even though they claimed to be “tired of the fame,” they were one break away from the return to stardom.

But the true draw here, the gripping enigma of the
Family Laughs
saga, involved the fate of the adorable “Pixie named Trixie,” Larissa Dane. Here is what is known about her: During the show’s final season, Larissa’s parents got divorced and fought bitterly over her earnings. Her dad ended up blowing his brains out. Her mother remarried a con artist who disappeared with the money. Like most child actors, Larissa Dane became an immediate has-been. Rumors of promiscuity and drug abuse swirled, though—this being before the nostalgia craze—no one really cared enough to be interested. She overdosed and nearly died when she was just fifteen. She was sent to a sanitarium of some sort and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. No one really knows what became of her. Many believe that she died from a second drug overdose.

But of course, she had not.

Heshy said, “You ready to make the call, Lydia?”

She did not answer right away. Lydia moved to the next photograph. Another shot from
Family Laughs
, this time Season Five, Episode 112. Little Trixie wore a cast on her arm. Tod wanted to draw a guitar on it. Father didn’t really approve. Tod protested, “But, Dad, I promise only to draw it, not play it!” The laugh track howled. Young Larissa didn’t understand the joke. Grown-up Lydia didn’t either. What she did remember, however, was how she had broken her arm that day. Typical kid stuff really. She was horsing around and fell down the stairs. The pain was tremendous, but they needed to get this show in the can. With that in mind, the studio doctor shot her up with Lord-knows-what and two hack screenwriters incorporated the injury into the script. She was barely conscious when they filmed.

But please, do not start up the violins.

Lydia had read Danny Partridge’s book. She had listened to the whining of Willis on
Diff’rent Strokes
. She had heard all about the plight of the child star, the abuse, the stolen money, the long hours. She had seen all the talk shows, heard all the complaints, seen all the crocodile tears from her colleagues—and their dishonesty sickened her.

Here was the truth about the child star dilemma. No, it’s not the
abuse, though when Lydia was young and foolish enough to believe a shrink could help, he kept telling her how she must be “blocking,” that she had in all likelihood been molested by one of the show’s producers. And no, don’t blame parental neglect for what child stars become. Or, in reverse, parental pushing. It’s not the lack of friends, the long hours, the poor socialization skills, the stream of studio tutors. No, it is none of that.

It is, quite simply, the loss of the spotlight.

Period. The rest are excuses because no one wants to admit that they are that shallow. Lydia began working on the show when she was six. She had few memories that dated back before then. All she remembers, thus, is being a star. A star is special. A star is royalty. A star is the closest thing on earth to a god. And for Lydia, there had never been anything else. We teach our children that they are special, but Lydia lived it. Everyone thought she was adorable. Everyone thought she was the perfect daughter, loving and kind and yet properly sassy. People stared at her with a bizarre longing. People wanted to be near her, to know about her life, spend time with her, touch the hem of her cloak.

And then, one day, poof—all gone.

Fame is more addictive than crack. Adults who lose fame—one-hit wonders, for example—usually tailspin into depression, though they try to act like they’re above it. They don’t want to admit the truth. Their whole life is a lie, a desperate scramble for another dose of that most potent of drugs. Fame.

Those adults had a mere sip of the nectar before it was snatched away. But for a child star, that nectar is mother’s milk. It’s all they’ve ever known. They can’t comprehend that it’s fleeting, that it won’t last. You can’t explain that to a child. You can’t prepare them for the inevitable. Lydia had never known anything but adulation. And then, pretty much overnight, the spotlight went out. She was, for the first time in her life, alone in the dark.

That was what screws you up.

Lydia recognized that now. Heshy had helped her. He had gotten her off the junk once and for all. She had hurt herself, had been a slut, had snorted and shot up more narcotics than one could imagine. She did none of these things to escape. She did them to lash out, to hurt something or someone. Her mistake, she realized in rehab after a truly horrific and violent incident, was that she was hurting
herself
. Fame raises
you up. It makes others lesser. So why on earth was she hurting the one who should be on top? Instead, why not hurt the pitiful masses, those who had worshiped her, who had given her such heady power, who had turned on her? Why harm the superior species, the one who’d been worthy of all this praise?

“Lydia?”

“Hmm.”

“I think we should call now.”

She turned to Heshy. They had met in the loony bin, and right away, it was as if their mutual misery could reach out and embrace. Heshy had rescued her when two orderlies had pinned her down. At the time, he had merely pushed them off her. The orderlies threatened them, and they both promised not to say anything. But Heshy understood how to bide his time. He waited. Two weeks later, he ran over one of the goons with a stolen car. While the goon lay wounded, Heshy backed up over his head and then, positioning the tire near the base of the neck, hit the accelerator. A month later, the second goon—the lead orderly—was found in his home. Four of his fingers had been ripped off. Not cut or sliced, but twisted. The ME could tell by the rotation tears. The fingers had been rotated around and around until the tendons and bone finally snapped. Lydia still had one of the fingers somewhere in the basement.

Ten years ago, they ran off together and changed their names. They altered their appearances just enough. They both started over, avenging angels, damaged but superior, above the riffraff. She didn’t hurt anymore. Or at least, when she did, she found an outlet.

They had three residences. Heshy purportedly lived in the Bronx. She had a place in Queens. They both had working addresses and working phones. But that was all for show. Business offices, if you will. Neither of them wanted anyone to know that they were, in fact, a team, connected, lovers. Lydia, using an alias, had bought this bright yellow house four years ago. It had two bedrooms and one and a half baths. The kitchen, where Heshy now sat, was airy and happy. They were on a lake in the tippy north corner of Morris County, New Jersey. It was peaceful here. They loved the sunsets.

Lydia kept staring at the pictures of “Pixie Trixie.” She tried to remember what she’d felt like back then. The memories were pretty much gone. Heshy stood behind her now and waited with his usual patience. There were those who would claim that she and Heshy were cold-blooded
killers. That, Lydia quickly realized, was pretty much a misnomer, another Hollywood creation. Like the wonderfulness of Pixie Trixie. No one enters this violent business merely because it is profitable. There are easier ways to make a living. You may act like a professional. You may keep your emotions in check. You may even delude yourself into thinking it’s just another day at the office, but when you look at it honestly, the reason you walk on this wrong side of the line is because you enjoy it. Lydia understood that. Hurting someone, killing someone, fading or turning out the light in a person’s eyes . . . no, she did not need that. She did not crave it as she had the spotlight. But yes, no question, there was that pleasant jolt, that unmistakable thrill, a lessening of her own pain.

“Lydia?”

“I’m on it, Pooh Bear.” She picked up the cell phone with the stolen number and the scramble. She turned and faced Heshy. He was hideous, but she didn’t see that. He nodded at her. She flipped on the voice changer and dialed the number.

When Lydia heard Marc Seidman’s voice, she said, “Shall we try this again?”