Run Away

by Harlan Coben

  Simon stared at the calendar, that simple, old-world scheduler and to-do list.

  He did that pretty much every time he came. Just stared at the thirty or thirty-one boxes (yes, twenty-eight or twenty-nine in February for the anal). Most—almost all—of those boxes had no writing in them. Just white. A blue ballpoint had scratched out the words “Dentist, 2PM” for the sixth of the month. Recycling day was circled every other Monday. And there, on the second Tuesday of every month, written with a purple marker in big, bold letters, was one word:

  SIMON!

  Yes, his name. With the exclamation point. And an exclamation point was really not Sadie Lowenstein.

  That was it.

  He had first seen that calendar entry—his name in purple with an exclamation point—on this same refrigerator eight years ago, when he was debating cutting down his visits because really, at this stage, with her investments and costs pretty much fixed, there was no reason to come out monthly. It could be handled by phone or by a junior colleague or at the most, they could wrap it up in quarterly visits.

  But then Simon looked at the refrigerator and saw his name on the calendar.

  He told Ingrid about the entry. He told Yvonne about it. Sadie had no family nearby anymore. Her friends had either moved or passed away. So this meant something to her, his visits, sitting at the old kitchen table where she once raised a family, Simon going over the portfolio as they both sipped tea.

  And so it meant something to him too.

  Simon had never missed an appointment with Sadie. Not once.

  Ingrid would be angry if he’d canceled today. So here he was.

  He was able to access her portfolio from his laptop. He went over a few of the holdings, but really that was all beside the point.

  “Simon, do you remember our old store?”

  Sadie and Frank had owned a small office-supply store in town, the kind of place that sold pens and paper and made photocopies and business cards.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Have you driven by it lately?”

  “No. It’s a clothing store now, right?”

  “Used to be. All those tight teen clothes. I used to call it Sluts R Us, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Which I know isn’t nice. I mean, you should have seen me in my prime. I was a looker, Simon.”

  “You still are.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Stop with the patronizing. Back then though, boy I knew how to use my curves, if you know what I’m saying. My dad would throw a fit with what I wore.” A wistful smile came to her lips. “Got Frank’s attention, that I can tell you. The poor kid. Saw me at Rockaway Beach in a two-piece—he never had a chance.”

  She turned the smile toward him. He smiled back.

  “Anyway,” Sadie said, the smile and the memory vanishing, “that whore costume place closed down. Now it’s a restaurant. Guess what kind of food?”

  “What kind?”

  She took a drag from her cigarette and made a face like a dog had left a dropping on her linoleum. “Asian fusion,” she spat out.

  “Oh.”

  “What the hell does that even mean? Is fusion a country now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Asian fusion. And it’s called Meshugas.”

  “Yeah? I don’t think that’s the name.”

  “Something like that. Trying to appeal to us tribe members, right?” She shook her head. “Asian fusion. I mean, come on, Simon.” She sighed and toyed with her cigarette. “So what’s wrong?”

  “Pardon?”

  “With you. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You think I’m meshugas?”

  “Are you speaking fusion to me?”

  “Very funny. I could tell the moment you walked in. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She leaned back, looked left, looked right, looked back at him. “You think I got a lot going on right now?”

  He almost told her. Sadie looked at him with wisdom and sympathy, and she clearly welcomed it, would probably even enjoy, if that was the word, listening with a learned ear and offering, at the very least, moral support.

  But he didn’t.

  It wasn’t about his own privacy. It was about the line. Simon was her financial advisor. He could exchange niceties about his family. But not something like this. His issues were his issues, not his client’s.

  “Something with one of your children,” Sadie said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When you lose a child…” Sadie said. She stopped, shrugged. “One of the side effects is this kind of sixth sense. Plus, I mean, what else would it be? Okay, so which kid?”

  Easier to just say it: “My oldest.”

  “Paige. I won’t pry.”

  “You’re not prying.”

  “May I give you a little advice, Simon?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean, that’s what you do, right? Give advice. You come here and you give me financial advice. Because you’re an expert in money. My expertise is…anyway, I always knew Barry was gay. It was strange. Identical twins. Raised in the same house. Barry used to sit right where you are. That was his seat. Greg sat next to him. But from as young as I can remember, they were different. It gets everyone mad when I say that Barry from Day One was, I don’t know, more flamboyant. That doesn’t mean you’re gay, people tell me. But I know my truth. My boys were identical—and different. If you knew them both, even as little children, and had to guess which was gay—go ahead, say I’m stereotyping—you’d know. Barry was into fashion and theater. Greg was into baseball and cars. I mean, I was practically raising clichés.”

  She tried to smile at that. Simon folded his hands and put them on the kitchen table. He had heard some of this before, but this wasn’t a place Sadie went to very often.

  And that was when it began to dawn on him.

  The twins, genetics.

  The story of Barry and Greg had fascinated him the first time he’d heard it because he’d wondered how identical twins, who had the exact same DNA and were raised in the same home, ended up with different sexual preferences.

  “When Barry got sick,” Sadie continued, “we didn’t see what it was doing to Greg. We ignored him. We had to deal with all the immediate horror. Meanwhile Greg is seeing his identical twin wither away. There’s no reason to go into the details. But Greg never recovered from Barry’s illness. He was scared, so he just…ran away. I didn’t see that in time.”

  Greg was the only beneficiary of his mother’s estate, so Simon still kept somewhat in touch with him. Greg was now thrice divorced and currently engaged to a twenty-eight-year-old dancer he’d met in Reno.

  “I lost him. Because I didn’t pay attention. But also…”

  She stopped.

  “Also what?”

  “Because I couldn’t save Barry. That was really it, Simon. For all the problems, all Greg’s fears of maybe being gay too, all that, if I could have saved Barry, Greg would have been okay.” She tilted her head. “Can you still save Paige?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But there’s a chance?”

  “Yeah, there is.”

  Genetics. Paige had been studying genetics.

  “Then go save her, Simon.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  There were no signs for Truth Haven, which was hardly a surprise.

  “Take a left,” Dee Dee said, “by that old mailbox.”

  Old was an understatement. The mailbox looked as if passing teenagers had started whacking it daily with a baseball bat during the Carter administration.

  Dee Dee looked at his face.

  “What?”

  “Something else I read,” Ash said.

  “What?”

  “Are you forced to have sex with them?”

  “With…?”

  “You know what I mean. Your truth or your visitor or whatever the le
aders call themselves?”

  She said nothing.

  “I read that they force you.”

  Her voice was soft. “The Truth can’t be forced.”

  “Sounds like a yes.”

  “Genesis 19:32,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember the story of Lot in the Bible?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Do you remember the story or not?”

  This sounded to him like a deflection, but he answered, “Vaguely.”

  “So in Genesis chapter 19, God allows Lot and his wife and their two daughters to escape the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  He nodded. “But Lot’s wife turns around when she’s not supposed to.”

  “Right, and God turns her into a pillar of salt. Which is, well, seriously messed up. But that’s not my point. It’s Lot’s daughters.”

  “What about them?”

  “When they get to Zoar, Lot’s daughters complain there are no men. So they come up with a plan. Do you remember what it is?”

  “No.”

  “The older daughter tells her younger sister—I’m quoting Genesis 19:32—‘Come on, let’s get our father drunk, so that we can sleep with him and have children by him.’”

  Ash said nothing.

  “And they do. Yep, incest. Right there in Genesis. The two daughters get their father drunk, sleep with him, and become pregnant.”

  “I thought the Truth had nothing to do with the Old or New Testament.”

  “We don’t.”

  “So why are you using Lot as an excuse?”

  “I don’t need an excuse, Ash. And I don’t need your permission. I just need the Truth.”

  He kept staring out the front windshield.

  “That still sounds like a ‘yes, I have sex with them.’”

  “Do you like sex, Ash?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if you were in a group where you got to have sex with a lot of women, would it be an issue?”

  He didn’t reply.

  The car tires kicked up dirt from the road as he headed into the woods. No Trespassing signs—a wide variety of them in various colors and sizes and even wording—hung from trees. As they approached the gate, Dee Dee rolled down her window and made a complicated hand gesture, like a third-base coach signaling a runner to steal second.

  The car glided to a stop before the gate. Dee Dee opened her car door. When Ash did the same, she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a shake of her head.

  “Stay here. Keep both hands on the steering wheel at all times. Don’t take them off, even to scratch your nose.”

  Two men in gray uniforms that reminded Ash of a Civil War reenactment appeared from the small guardhouse. They were both armed with AR-15s. They both had huge beards and scowled at Ash. Ash tried to look nonthreatening. He had his own handguns within reach and was probably a better shot than either of these posers, but not even the best marksman is a match for two AR-15s.

  That was the part people didn’t get.

  It isn’t about talent or skill. You could be LeBron James, but if you’re using a basketball with no air, you’re not going to be able to dribble as well as someone whose ball got plenty.

  Dee Dee approached the guards and did something with her right hand that looked a bit like someone crossing themselves, but the shape she made was more triangular. The two men returned the gesture/salute.

  Ritual, Ash guessed. Like all religions.

  Dee Dee spoke to the two men for a minute or two. The men never took their eyes off Ash, which took considerable self-discipline when you consider what Dee Dee looked like. Ash would have had to look.

  Perhaps this was why the religious life had never called to him.

  The Truth. What bullshit.

  She came back to the car. “Just pull over there to the right.”

  “Why can’t I just turn around and go?”

  “What happened to you taking me away from all this?”

  His heart leapt into his throat when she said that, but her just-kidding smile brought it back down again. He tried to keep the disappointment off his face.

  “You’re back,” he said. “You’re safe. There’s no need for me to hang around.”

  “Just wait, okay? I need to check with the council.”

  “Check what?”

  “Please, Ash. Just wait.”

  One guard handed her folded clothes. Gray. Like theirs. She slipped them over the clothing she was wearing. The other guard handed her headgear that looked like something you’d find in a convent. Also gray. She put it on top of her head and tied it like a bonnet under her chin.

  Dee Dee always strode with her head high, her shoulders back, the definition of confidence. Now she was bent over, eyes lowered, her whole persona subservient. The transformation startled him. And pissed him off.

  Dee Dee has left the building, Ash said to himself. Holly is here now.

  He watched her walk through the gate. He tilted his torso to the right, so his eyes could follow her up a path. There were other women milling about, all dressed in the same drab-gray uniform. No men. Maybe they were in a different area.

  The two guards saw that he was watching Dee Dee and the compound. They didn’t like it. So they stood in front of his car to block his view. He debated shifting the car into drive, hitting the gas, and mowing the fuckers down. Instead he chose to turn the car off and get out. The guards didn’t like that, but then again they didn’t like much that he did.

  The first thing that hit Ash as he got out of the car was the silence. It was pure, heavy, almost suffocating but in a good way. There were normally sounds everywhere, even in the deepest part of the woods, but there was only quiet here. Ash didn’t move for a moment, didn’t even want to risk shattering the silence by shutting his car door. He stood and closed his eyes and let the quiet consume him. For a second or two, he got it. Or thought he got it. The appeal. He could surrender to this, this quiet, this tranquility. It would be so easy to turn over control and reason and thoughts. Just be.

  Surrender.

  Yes, that was that applicable word. Let someone else do the heavy mental work. Just toil or live in the moment. Get sucked into the stillness. Hear your heart beating in your chest.

  But this wasn’t a life.

  It was a vacation, a break, a cocoon. It was the Matrix or virtual reality or something like that. And maybe when you grow up like he did—or more, like Dee Dee did—a comforting delusion beats harsh reality.

  But not in the long run.

  He took out a cigarette.

  “Smoking is forbidden,” one of the guards said.

  Ash lit up.

  “I said—”

  “Shh. Don’t spoil the quiet.”

  Guard One took a step toward Ash, but Guard Two put a hand out to block him. Ash leaned against the car, took a deep inhale, made a production out of blowing the smoke out. Guard One was not pleased. Ash heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. Guard Two leaned in and whispered into it.

  Ash made a face. Who uses walkie-talkies anymore? Don’t they have mobile phones?

  A few seconds later, Guard Two whispered something in the ear of Guard One. Guard One grinned.

  “Hey, tough guy,” Guard One said.

  Ash let loose another long trail of smoke.

  “You’re wanted up in the sanctuary.”

  Ash started toward them.

  “No smoking inside Truth Haven.”

  Ash was going to argue, but what was the point? He threw the cigarette onto the road and crushed it under his foot. Guard Two had opened the gate with a remote control. Ash took in the setup now—the fencing, the security cameras, the remote. Pretty high tech.

  He started toward the opening, but Guard One stopped him with his AR-15.

  “You armed, tough guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe hand the weapon over to me then.”

  “Aw, can’t I keep my gun?”

  Both guard
s pointed their weapons at him.

  “Holster on my right side,” Ash said.

  Guard One reached for it, felt nothing.

  Ash sighed. “That’s your right, not mine.”

  Guard One slid his hand to the other side of Ash’s body and removed the .38.

  “Nice piece,” the guard said.

  “Put it in my glove compartment,” Ash said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I won’t bring it in, but I’m leaving here with it. Put it in my car. The door is open.”

  Guard One didn’t like it, but Guard Two nodded that he should listen. So he did. When the task was completed, Guard One made a big deal of slamming the door really hard.

  “Any other weapons?” Guard One asked.

  “No.”

  Guard Two gave him a cursory search anyway. When he was done, Guard One gestured with his head for him to proceed through the gate. They flanked Ash as they entered the compound—Guard One on his right, Guard Two on his left.

  Ash wasn’t overly concerned. He figured that Dee Dee had spoken to the Truth or the Volunteer or whoever and that they wanted to see him. Dee Dee hadn’t made it clear, but it seemed pretty obvious that someone in the cult was paying for these hits. Dee Dee wasn’t coming up with the cash or the names on her own.

  Someone in this cult wanted these guys dead.

  They started up the hill. Ash wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside Truth Haven, but the overriding word to describe the compound was…“generic.” In a clearing, Ash could make out a building painted the same drab gray as the uniform, maybe three stories high. The architecture was rectangular and functional and had all the personality of a roadside chain motel. Or maybe military barracks. Or maybe, and perhaps most accurately, it looked like a prison.

  There were no breaks from the drab gray—no splashes of color, no texture, no warmth.

  But maybe that was the point. There were no distractions.

  There was nature, pushed to the side, and of course there was beauty in that. There was calm and quiet and solitude. If you are troubled, if you feel out of place amongst normal society, if you are desperately trying to escape modernity and its noises and constant stimulation, what locale could be better? That was how cults worked, wasn’t it? Find the disillusioned outcasts. Offer them easy answers. Isolate. Induce dependency. Control. Allow only one voice, one that cannot be questioned or doubted.