Three Harlan Coben Novels (82 page)

L
ife does not stop.

Grace had to do some food shopping. That might sound odd considering the circumstances. Her two children, she was sure, would gladly survive on a steady diet of delivered pizzas, but they still needed the basics: milk, orange juice (the kind with calcium and never, ever, pulp), a dozen eggs, sandwich meats, a couple of boxes of cereal, loaf of bread, box of pasta, a Prego sauce. Stuff like that. It might even feel good, food shopping. Doing the mundane, doing something so numbingly normal, would surely be, if not comforting, mildly therapeutic.

She hit the King’s on Franklin Boulevard. Grace held no supermarket loyalties. Her friends had favorites and would never dream of shopping elsewhere. Cora liked the A&P in Midland Park. Her neighbor liked the Whole Foods in Ridgewood. Other acquaintances favored the Stop & Shop in Waldwick. Grace’s selection was more haphazard because, to put it plainly, no matter where you shopped, Tropicana Orange Juice was Tropicana Orange Juice.

In this case the King’s was the closest to Starbucks. Decision made.

She grabbed a cart and pretended that she was just an average citizen having an average day. That didn’t last long. She thought about Scott Duncan, his sister, what that all meant.

Where, Grace wondered, do I go from here?

First off, the purported “Cora Connection”—Grace dismissed it.
There was simply no way. Duncan did not know Cora. His job was to be suspicious. Grace knew better. Cora was out there, no question about it, but that was what had drawn Grace to her in the first place. They had met at a school concert when the Lawsons first moved to town. While their kids butchered the holiday standards, they’d both been forced to stand in the lobby because neither of them had arrived early enough to secure a seat. Cora had leaned over and whispered, “I had an easier time getting front row for Springsteen.” Grace had laughed. And so, slowly, it began.

But forget that. Forget Grace’s own biased viewpoint. What possible motive could Cora have? The smart money was still on Fuzz Pellet Josh. Yes, he would naturally be nervous. Yes, he was probably antiauthority. But there was more there, Grace was sure of it. So forget Cora. Concentrate on Josh. Figure an angle on that.

Max was on a bacon kick. There was some newfangled premade bacon he’d had at a friend’s house during a play-date. He wanted her to buy it. Grace was checking the health claims. Like the rest of the country she was concentrating more on lowering the carb intake. This stuff had none. No carbs at all. Enough sodium to salt a large body of water. But no carbs.

She was checking the ingredients—an interesting potpourri of words she’d need to look up—when she felt, actually felt, someone’s eyes on her. Still holding the box at eye level, she slowly shifted her gaze. Down the corridor, near the bologna and salami display, a man stood and openly stared at her. There was no one else in the aisle. He was average height, maybe five-ten or so. A razor hadn’t glided across his face in at least two days. He wore blue jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and a shiny black Members Only windbreaker. His baseball cap had a Nike swoosh on it.

Grace had never seen the man before. He stared at her for another moment before he spoke. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Mrs. Lamb,” the man said to her. “Room 17.”

For a moment the words did not register. Grace just stood there, unable to move. It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him—she had—but his words were so out of context, so out of place coming from
this stranger’s lips, that her brain could not really comprehend the significance.

At first anyway. For a second or two. Then it all flooded in. . . .

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

Mrs. Lamb was Emma’s teacher. Room 17 was Emma’s classroom.

The man was already on the move, hurrying down the aisle.

“Wait!” Grace shouted. “Hey!”

The man turned the corner. Grace went after him. She tried to pick up speed but the limp, that damn limp, kept her in check. She reached the end of the aisle, coming out on the back wall by the chicken parts. She looked left and right.

No sign of the man.

Now what?

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

She moved to her right, checking down the aisles as she went. Her hand slid into her pocketbook, fumbled a bit, touched down on her cell phone.

Stay calm, she told herself. Call the school.

Grace tried to pick up the pace, but her leg dragged like a lead bar. The more she hurried, the more pronounced the limp became. When she really tried to run, she resembled Quasimodo heading up the belfry. Didn’t matter, of course, what she looked like. The problem was function: She wasn’t moving fast enough.

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

If he’s done anything to my baby, if he’s so much as looked at her wrong . . .

Grace reached the last aisle, the refrigerated section that housed the milk and eggs, the aisle farthest from the entrance so as to encourage impulse buy. She started toward the front of the store, hoping that she’d find him when she doubled back. She fiddled with her phone as she moved, no easy task, scrolling through her saved phone numbers to see if she had the school’s.

She didn’t.

Damn. Grace bet those other mothers, the good mothers, the ones
with the perky smiles and ideal after-school projects—she bet they had the school’s phone number preprogrammed into their speed dial.

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

Try directory assistance, stupid. Dial 411.

She hit the digits and the send button. When she reached the end of the aisle, she looked down the row of cashiers.

No sign of the man.

On the phone the thunder-deep voice of James Earl Jones announced: “Verizon Wireless four-one-one.” Then a ding. A woman’s voice now: “For English please stay on the line.
Para español, por favor numero dos.
”

And it was then, listening to this Spanish option, that Grace spotted the man again.

He was outside the store now. She could see him through the plate glass window. He still wore the cap and the black windbreaker. He was strolling casually, too casually, whistling even, swinging his arms. She was about to start moving again when something—something in the man’s hand—made her blood freeze.

It couldn’t be.

Again it did not register immediately. The sight, the stimuli the eye was sending to the brain, would not compute, the information causing some sort of short circuit. Again not for long. Only for a second or two.

Grace’s hand, the one with the phone in it, dropped to her side. The man kept walking. Terror—terror unlike anything she had ever experienced before, terror that made the Boston Massacre feel like an amusement park ride—hardened and banged against her chest. The man was almost out of sight now. There was a smile on his face. He was still whistling. His arms were still swinging.

And in his hand, his right hand, the hand closest to the window, he held a Batman lunchbox.

“M
rs. Lawson,” Sylvia Steiner, the principal of Willard School, said to Grace in that voice that principals use when dealing with hysterical parents, “Emma is fine. So is Max.”

By the time Grace had made it to the door at King’s, the man with the Batman lunchbox was gone. She started screaming, started asking for help, but her fellow shoppers looked at her as if she’d escaped from the county mental facility. There was no time to explain. She did her limp-run to her car, called the school while driving a speed that would have intimidated an Andretti, and burst straight into the main office.

“I spoke to both of their teachers. They’re in class.”

“I want to see them.”

“Of course, that’s your right, but may I make a suggestion?”

Sylvia Steiner spoke so damn slowly that Grace wanted to reach her hand down her throat and rip the words out.

“I’m sure you’ve had a terrible fright, but take a few deep breaths. Calm yourself first. You’ll scare your children if they see you like this.”

Part of Grace wanted to grab her patronizing, smug, over-coiffed ’do and pull it off her head. But another part of her, a bigger part, realized that the woman was speaking the truth.

“I just need to see them,” Grace said.

“I understand. How about this? We can peek in on them from the window at the door. Would that work for you, Mrs. Lawson?”

Grace nodded.

“Come on then, I’ll escort you.” Principal Steiner shot the woman working the desk a look. The woman at the desk, Mrs. Dinsmont, did everything she could not to roll her eyes. Every school has a seen-it-all woman like this at the front desk. State law or something.

The corridors were explosions of color. The artwork of children always broke Grace’s heart. The pieces were like snapshots, a moment that is forever gone, a life-post, never to be repeated. Their artistic abilities will mature and change. The innocence will be gone, captured only in fingerpaint or coloring out of the lines, in uneven handwriting.

They reached Max’s classroom first. Grace put her face to the glass. She spotted her son immediately. Max’s back was to her, his face tilted up. He sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. His teacher, Miss Lyons, was in a chair. She was reading a picture book, holding it up so the children could see it, while she read.

“Okay?” Principal Steiner asked.

Grace nodded.

They continued down the corridor. Grace saw number 17 . . .

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

. . . on the door. She felt a fresh shiver and tried not to hurry. Principal Steiner, she knew, had noticed the limp. The leg ached in a way it hadn’t in years. She peered through the glass. Her daughter was there, right where she should be. Grace had to fight back the tears. Emma had her head down. The eraser end of her pencil was in her mouth. She chewed on it, deep in thought. Why, Grace wondered, do we find such poignancy in watching our children when they don’t know we’re there? What exactly are we trying to see?

So now what?

Deep breaths. Calm. Her children were okay. That was the key thing. Think it through. Be rational.

Call the police. That was the obvious move.

Principal Steiner faked a cough. Grace looked at her.

“I know this is going to sound nuts,” Grace said, “but I need to see Emma’s lunchbox.”

Grace expected a look of surprise or exasperation, but no, Sylvia Steiner just nodded. She did not ask why—had in fact not questioned her bizarre behavior in any way. Grace was grateful.

“All the lunchboxes are kept in the cafeteria,” she explained. “Each class has their own bucket. Would you like me to show you?”

“Thank you.”

The buckets were all lined up in grade order. They found the big blue bucket marked “Susan Lamb, Room 17” and started going through it.

“What does it look like?” Principal Steiner asked.

Just as she was about to reply Grace saw it. Batman. The word
POW!
in yellow caps. She slowly lifted it into view. Emma’s name was written on the bottom.

“Is that it?”

Grace nodded.

“A popular one this year.”

It took all her effort not to clutch the lunchbox to her chest. She put it back as though it were Venetian glass. They headed back to the main office in silence. Grace was tempted to pull the kids out of school. It was two-thirty. They’d be let out in a half an hour anyway. But no, that wouldn’t work. That would probably just freak them out. She needed time to think, to consider her response, and when she thought about it, weren’t Emma and Max safest right here, surrounded by others?

Grace thanked the principal again. They shook hands.

“Is there anything else I can do?” the principal asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Grace left then. She stood outside on the walk. She closed her eyes for a moment. The fear was not so much dissolving as solidifying, turning into pure, primitive rage. She could feel the heat running up her neck. That bastard. That bastard had threatened her daughter.

Now what?

The police. She should call them. That was the obvious move. The phone was in her hand. She was about to dial when a simple thought stopped her: What exactly would she say?

Hi, I was in the supermarket today, see, and this man near the bologna section? Well, he whispered the name of my kid’s teacher. Right, teacher. Oh, and her classroom number. Yes, at the bologna section, right there with the Oscar Mayer meats. And then the man ran off. But, I saw him later with my daughter’s lunchbox. Outside the supermarket. What was he doing? Just walking, I guess. Well, no, it wasn’t really Emma’s lunchbox. It was the same kind. Batman. No, he didn’t make any overt threats. Sorry? Yes, I’m the same woman who said her husband had been kidnapped yesterday. Right, then my husband called and said he needed space. Yep, that was me, the same hysterical broad. . . .

Was there another option?

She ran it through again. The police already thought she was a whack job. Could she convince them otherwise? Perhaps. What would the cops do anyway? Would they assign a man full time to watch her children? Doubtful, even if she could somehow make them understand the urgency.

Then she remembered Scott Duncan.

He was with the U.S. attorney’s office. That was like being a federal cop, right? He would have pull. He would have power. And most of all he would believe her.

Duncan had given her his cell number. She checked her pocket for it. Came up empty. Had she left it in the car? Probably. Didn’t matter. He told her that he was heading back to work. The U.S. attorney’s office was in Newark, she figured. Either that or Trenton. Trenton was too far a ride. Better to try Newark first. He should be there by now.

She stopped walking and turned to face the school. Her children were inside. Weird thought, but there it was. They spent their days here, away from her in this bastion of brick, and part of Grace found that oddly overwhelming. She dialed directory assistance and asked for the U.S. attorney’s office in Newark. She spent the extra thirty-five cents to have the operator dial it for her.

“U.S. attorney for the state of New Jersey.”

“Scott Duncan, please.”

“Hold.”

Two rings and a woman answered. “Goldberg,” she said.

“I’m looking for Scott Duncan.”

“What case?”

“Pardon?”

“What case is this in reference to?”

“No case. I just need to speak with Mr. Duncan.”

“May I ask what it’s about?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you. Scott Duncan doesn’t work here anymore. I’m covering most of his cases. If I can help you with that . . .”

Grace pulled the phone away from her ear. She looked at it as though from afar. She clicked the end button. She got into her car and again watched the brick building that currently housed her children. She watched it for a very long time, wondering if there was anyone she could truly trust, before deciding what to do.

She lifted the phone back into view. She pressed in the number.

“Yes?”

“This is Grace Lawson.”

Three seconds later, Carl Vespa said, “Is everything okay?”

“I changed my mind,” Grace said. “I do need your help.”