by Harlan Coben
“Gotta grab something to eat,” he whispered to Grace.
“There’s leftover chicken in the fridge.”
“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Jack arched an eyebrow. “Still afraid you’re not enough woman for me?”
“Oh, that reminds me.”
“What?”
“Something about Cora’s date last night.”
“Hot?”
“I’ll be down in a second.”
He arched the other eyebrow and hustled downstairs with a whistle. Grace waited until she heard Emma’s breathing deepen before following. She turned off the light and watched for a moment. This was Jack’s bit. He paced the corridors at night, unable to sleep, guarding them in their beds. There were nights she’d wake up and find the spot next to her empty. Jack would be standing in one of their doorways, his eyes glassy. She’d approach and he’d say, “You love them so much . . .” He didn’t need to say more. He didn’t even have need to say that.
Jack didn’t hear her approach, and for some reason, a reason Grace wouldn’t want to articulate, she tried to stay quiet. Jack stood stiffly, his back to her, his head down. This was unusual. Jack was usually hyper, constant motion. Like Max, Jack could not stay still. He fidgeted. His leg shook whenever he sat. He was high energy.
But right now he was staring down at the kitchen counter—more specifically, at the strange photograph—still as a stone.
“Jack?”
He startled upright. “What the hell is this?”
His hair, she noticed, was a shade longer than it should be. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“That’s you, right? With the beard?”
“What? No.”
She looked at him. He blinked and looked away.
“I picked up this roll of film today,” she said. “At the Photomat.”
He said nothing. She stepped closer.
“That photograph was in the middle of the pack.”
“Wait.” He looked up sharply. “It was in with our roll of film?”
“Yes.”
“Which roll?”
“The one we took at the apple orchard.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
She shrugged. “Who are the other people in the photo?”
“How should I know?”
“The blonde standing next to you,” Grace said. “With the X through her. Who is she?”
Jack’s cell phone rang. He snapped it up like a gunfighter on a draw. He mumbled a hello, listened, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “It’s Dan.” His research partner at Pentocol Pharmaceuticals. He lowered his head and headed into the den.
Grace headed upstairs. She started getting ready for bed. What had started as a gentle nagging was growing stronger, more persistent. She flashed back to their years living in France. He would never talk about his past. He had a wealthy family and a trust fund, she knew—and he wanted nothing to do with either. There was a sister, a lawyer out in Los Angeles or San Diego. His father was still alive but very old. Grace had wanted to know more, but Jack refused to elaborate, and sensing something foreboding, she had not pushed him.
They fell in love. She painted. He worked in a vineyard in Saint-Emilion in Bordeaux. They lived in Saint-Emilion until Grace had gotten pregnant with Emma. Something called her home then—a yearning, corny as it might sound, to raise her children in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Jack wanted to stay, but Grace had insisted. Now Grace wondered why.
Half an hour passed. Grace slipped under the covers and waited. Ten minutes later, she heard a car engine start up. Grace looked out the window.
Jack’s minivan was pulling out.
He liked to shop at night, she knew—hit the grocery store when it wasn’t crowded. So going out like this was not unusual for him. Except, of course, he hadn’t called up to tell her he was going or to ask if they needed anything in particular.
Grace tried his cell phone but the voice mail picked up. She sat back and waited. Nothing. She tried to read. The words swam by in a meaningless haze. Two hours later, Grace tried Jack’s cell phone again. Still voice mail. She checked on the children. They slept soundly, appropriately oblivious.
When she could stand it no longer Grace headed downstairs. She looked through the packet of film.
The strange photograph was gone.
chapter 2
Most people check out the online personals to find a date. Eric Wu found victims.
He had seven different accounts using seven different made-up personas—some male and some female. He tried to stay in e-mail contact with an average of six “potential dates” per account. Three of the accounts were on standard any-age straight personals. Two were for singles over the age of fifty. One was for gay men. The final site hooked up lesbians looking for serious commitment.
At any one time Wu would be conducting online flirtations with as many as forty or even fifty of the forlorn. He would slowly get to know them. Most were cautious, but that was okay. Eric Wu was a patient man. Eventually they would give him enough tidbits to find out if he should pursue the relationship or cut them loose.
He only dealt with women at first. The theory was that they would be the easiest victims. But Eric Wu, who received no sexual gratification from his work, realized that he was leaving untapped an entire market that would be less likely to worry about online safety. A man does not, for example, fear rape. He does not fear stalkers. A man is less cautious, and that makes him more vulnerable.
Wu was seeking singles with few ties. If they had children, they were no good to him. If they had family living close by, they were no good to him. If they had roommates, important jobs, too many close friends, well, ditto. Wu wanted them lonely, yes, but also secluded and shut off from the many ties and bonds that connect the rest of us to something greater than the individual. Right now, he also required one with geographical proximity to the Lawson household.
He found such a victim in Freddy Sykes.
Freddy Sykes worked for a storefront tax-filing company in Waldwick, New Jersey. He was forty-eight years old. His parents were both deceased. He had no siblings. According to his online flirtations at BiMen.com, Freddy had taken care of his mother and never had the time for a relationship. When she passed away two years ago, Freddy inherited the house in Ho-Ho-Kus, a scant three miles from the Lawson residence. His online photograph, a headshot, hinted that Freddy was probably on the plump side. His hair was shoe-polish black, thin, styled in a classic comb-over. His smile seemed forced, unnatural, as if he were wincing before a blow.
Freddy had spent the past three weeks flirting online with one Al Singer, a fifty-six-year-old retired Exxon executive who’d been married twenty-two years before admitting that he was interested in “experimenting.” The Al Singer persona still loved his wife, but she didn’t understand his need to be with both men and women. Al was interested in European travel, fine dining, and watching sports on TV. For his Singer persona, Wu used a photograph he’d grabbed off a YMCA online catalogue. His Al Singer looked athletic but not too handsome. Someone too attractive might raise Freddy’s suspicion. Wu wanted him to buy the fantasy. That was the key thing.
Freddy Sykes’s neighbors were mostly young families who paid him no attention. His house looked like every other on the block. Wu watched now as Sykes’s garage door opened electronically. The garage was attached. You could enter and exit your car without being seen. That was excellent.
Wu waited ten minutes and then rang his doorbell.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Mr. Sykes.”
“From whom?”
Freddy Sykes had not opened the door. That was strange. Men usually did. Again that was part of their vulnerability, part of the reason that they were easier prey than their female counterparts. Overconfidence. Wu spotted the peephole. Sykes would no doubt be peeri
ng at the twenty-six-year-old Korean man with baggy pants and a squat, compact build. He might notice Wu’s earring and bemoan how today’s youth mutilated their bodies. Or maybe the build and earring would turn Sykes on. Who knew?
“From Topfit Chocolate,” Wu said.
“No, I mean, who sent them?”
Wu pretended to read the note again. “A Mr. Singer.”
That did it. The deadbolt slid open. Wu glanced about him. No one. Freddy Sykes opened the door with a smile. Wu did not hesitate. His fingers formed a spear and then darted for Sykes’s throat like a bird going for food. Freddy went down. Wu moved with a speed that defied his bulk. He slid inside and closed the door behind him.
Freddy Sykes lay on his back, his hands wrapped around his own neck. He was trying to scream, but all he could make were small squawking noises. Wu bent down and flipped him onto his stomach. Freddy struggled. Wu pulled up his victim’s shirt. Freddy kicked at him. Wu’s expert fingers traced up his spine until he found the right spot between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. Freddy kicked some more. Using his index finger and thumb like bayonets, Wu dug into the bone, nearly breaking skin.
Freddy stiffened.
Wu applied a bit more pressure, forcing the facet joints to sublux. Still burrowing deeper between the two vertebrae, he took hold and plucked. Something in Freddy’s spine snapped like a guitar string.
The kicking stopped.
All movement stopped.
But Freddy Sykes was alive. That was good. That was what Wu wanted. He used to kill them right away, but now he knew better. Alive, Freddy could call his boss and tell him that he was taking time off. Alive, he could offer up his PIN if Wu wanted money from the ATM. Alive, he could answer messages in case someone did indeed call.
And alive, Wu would not have to worry about the smell.
• • •
Wu jammed a gag in Freddy’s mouth and left him naked in the bathtub. The pressure on the spine had made the facet joints jump out of position. This dislocation of the vertebrae would contuse rather than completely sever the spinal column. Wu tested the results of his handiwork. Freddy could not move his legs at all. His deltoids might work, but the hands and lower arms would not function. Most important, he could still breathe on his own.
For all practical purposes, Freddy Sykes was paralyzed.
Keeping Sykes in the tub would make it easier to rinse off any mess. Freddy’s eyes were open a little too widely. Wu had seen this look before: somewhere past terror but not yet death, a hollowness that fell in that awful cusp between the two.
There was obviously no need to tie Freddy up.
Wu sat in the dark and waited for night to fall. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. There were prisons in Rangoon where they studied spinal fractures during hangings. They learned where to place the knot, where to apply force, what effects different placement would have. In North Korea, in the political prison Wu had called home from the age of thirteen to eighteen, they had taken the experiments one step further. Enemies of the state were killed creatively. Wu had done many with his bare hands. He had hardened his hands by punching boulders. He had studied the anatomy of the human body in a way most medical students would envy. He had practiced on human beings, perfecting his techniques.
The exact spot between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. That was key. Any higher and you could paralyze them completely. That would lead to death fairly quickly. Forget their arms and legs—their internal organs would stop working. Any lower and you would only get the legs. The arms would still work. If the pressure applied was too great, you’d snap the entire spinal column. It was all about precision. Having the right touch. Practice.
Wu turned on Freddy’s computer. He wanted to keep up with the other singles on his list because he never knew when he would need a new place to live. When he was finished, Wu allowed himself to sleep. Three hours later he awoke and looked in on Freddy. His eyes were glassier now, staring straight up, blinking without focus.
When his contact called Wu’s cell phone, it was nearly 10 P.M.
“Are you settled in?” the contact asked.
“Yes.”
“We have a situation.”
Wu waited.
“We need to move things up a bit. Is that a problem?”
“No.”
“He needs to be taken now.”
“You have a place?”
Wu listened, memorizing the location.
“Any questions?”
“No,” Wu said.
“Eric?”
Wu waited.
“Thanks, man.”
Wu hung up. He found the car keys and took off in Freddy’s Honda.
chapter 3
Grace couldn’t call the police yet. She couldn’t sleep either. The computer was still on. Their screen saver was a family photo taken last year at Disney World. The four of them posed with Goofy at Epcot Center. Jack was wearing mouse ears. His grin was ear to ear. Hers was more reserved. She’d felt silly, which just encouraged Jack. She touched the mouse—the other mouse, the computer mouse—and her family disappeared.
Grace clicked the new icon and the strange photograph of the five college-aged kids appeared. The image came up with Adobe Photo-shop. For several minutes Grace just stared at the young faces, searching for—she didn’t know—a clue maybe. Nothing came to her. She cropped each face, blowing them up into something approaching four inches by four inches. Any bigger and the already-blurred image became undecipherable. The good paper was in the color inkjet, so she hit the print button. She grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.
Soon she had five separate headshots, one for each person in the picture. She studied them again, this time taking extra care with the young blonde next to Jack. She was pretty with that girl-next-door complexion and long flaxen hair. The young woman’s eyes were on Jack, and the look was more than casual. Grace felt a pang of, what, jealousy? How bizarre. Who was this woman? Obviously an old girlfriend—one Jack had never mentioned. But so what? Grace had a past. So did Jack. Why would the look in that photograph bother her?
So what now?
She would have to wait for Jack. When he came home, she would demand answers.
But answers about what?
Back up here a second. What was really going on? An old photograph, probably of Jack, had popped up in her packet of pictures. It was weird, sure. It was even a little creepy, what with the blonde crossed out like that. And Jack had stayed out late before without calling. So really, what was the big deal here? Something in the photo had probably upset him. He turned off his phone and was probably in a bar. Or at Dan’s house. This whole thing was probably just a bizarre joke.
Yeah, Grace, sure. A joke. Like the one about the carpool to the pool.
Sitting alone, the room dark except for the glow from the computer monitor, Grace tried a few more ways to rationalize away what was going on. She stopped when she realized that this was only scaring her more.
Grace clicked onto the face of the young woman, the one who stared at her husband with longing, zooming in for a better view. She stared at the face, really stared, and a tingle of dread began to travel across her scalp. Grace did not move. She just kept looking at the woman’s face. She didn’t know the wheres or whens or hows, but she now realized something with thudding certainty.
Grace had seen this young woman before.
chapter 4
Rocky Conwell took up post by the Lawson residence.
He tried to get comfortable in his 1989 Toyota Celica, but that was impossible. Rocky was too big for this piece-of-crap car. He pulled harder on that damned seat lever, nearly ripping it out, but the seat would go back no farther. It would have to do. He settled in and let his eyes start to close.
Man, was Rocky tired. He was working two jobs. The first, his steady gig to impress his parole officer, was a ten-hour shift on the Budweiser assembly line in Newark. The second, sitting in this damn car and staring at a house, was strictly off th
e books.
Rocky jerked up when he heard a noise. He picked up his binoculars. Damn, someone had started up the minivan. He focused in. Jack Lawson was on the move. He lowered the binoculars, shifted into drive, and prepared to follow.
Rocky needed two jobs because he needed cash in a big, bad way. Lorraine, his ex, was making overtures about a possible reconciliation. But she was still skittish about it. Cash, Rocky knew, could tip the balance in his favor. He loved Lorraine. He wanted her back in a big, bad way. He owed her some good times, didn’t he? And if that meant he had to work his butt off, well, he’d been the one to screw up. It was a price he was willing to pay.
It hadn’t always been like this for Rocky Conwell. He’d been an All-State defensive end at Westfield High. Penn State—Joe Paterno himself—had recruited him and transformed him into a hard-hitting inside linebacker. Six-four, two-sixty, and blessed with a naturally aggressive nature, Rocky had been a standout for four years. He’d been All Big-Ten for two years. The St. Louis Rams drafted him in the seventh round.
For a while, it was like God Himself had perfectly planned out his life from the get-go. His real name was Rocky, his parents naming him that when his mother went into labor as they watched the movie Rocky in the summer of 1976. You gonna have a name like Rocky, you better be big and strong. You better be ready to rumble. Here he was, a pro football draft pick itching to get to camp. He and Lorraine—a knockout who could not only stop traffic but make it go backward—hooked up during his junior year. They fell for each other pretty hard. Life was good.
Until, well, it wasn’t.
Rocky was a great college player, but there is a big difference between Division IA and the pros. At the Rams rookie camp, they loved his hustle. They loved his work ethic. They loved the way he would sacrifice his body to make a play. But they didn’t love his speed—and in today’s game, what with the emphasis on passing and coverage, Rocky was simply not good enough. Or so they said. Rocky would not surrender. He started taking more steroids. He got bigger but still not big enough for the front line. He managed to hang around one season playing special teams for the Rams. The next year he was cut.