by Harlan Coben
Jeremiah disappeared into the woods that night and never ventured out. He had rarely seen fellow human beings or listened to the radio or watched television. He had used a telephone only once ' and that was in an emergency. His only real connection to the outside world came from newspapers, though they had what happened here eight years ago all wrong.
Born and raised in the foothills of northwest Georgia, Jeremiah's father taught his son all kinds of survival techniques, though his overriding lesson was simply this: You could trust nature but not man. Jeremiah had forgotten that for a little while. Now he lived it.
Fearing they would search near his hometown, Jeremiah took to the woods in Pennsylvania. He hiked around for a while, changing camp every night or two, until he happened upon the relative comfort and security of Lake Charmaine. The lake had old camp bunks that could house a man when the outdoors got a little too nasty. Visitors rarely came to the lake ' mostly in the summer, and even then, only on weekends. He could hunt deer here and eat the meat in relative peace. During the few times of the year when the lake was being used, he simply hid or took off for points farther west.
Or he watched.
To the children who used to come here, Jeremiah Renway had been the Boogeyman.
Jeremiah stayed still now and watched the officers move about in their dark windbreakers FBI windbreakers. The sight of those three letters in big yellow caps still punctured his heart like an icicle.
No one had bothered to yellow-tape the area, probably because it was so remote. Renway had not been surprised when they found the bodies. Yes, the two men had been buried good and deep, but Renway knew better than most that secrets don't like to stay underground. His former partner in crime, Evelyn Cosmeer, who'd transformed herself into the perfect Ohio suburban mom before her capture, knew that. The irony did not escape Jeremiah.
He stayed hidden in the bush. He knew a lot about camouflage. They would not see him.
He remembered the night eight years ago when the two men had died ' the sudden gun blasts, the sounds of the shovels ripping into the earth, the grunts from the deep dig. He'd even debated telling the authorities what happened ' all of it.
Anonymously, of course.
But in the end he couldn't risk it. No man, Jeremiah knew, was meant for a cage, though some could live through it. Jeremiah could not. He'd had a cousin named Perry who'd been serving eight years in a federal penitentiary. Perry was locked in a tiny cell for twenty-three hours a day. One morning, Perry tried to kill himself by running headfirst into the cement wall.
That would be Jeremiah.
So he kept his mouth shut and did nothing. For eight years anyway.
But he thought about that night a lot. He thought about the young woman in the nude. He thought about the men in wait. He thought about the scuffle near the car. He thought about the sickening, wet sound of wood against exposed flesh. He thought about the man left to die.
And he thought about the lies. The lies, most of all, haunted him.
Chapter 12
By the time I returned to the clinic, the waiting room was packed with the sniffing and impatient. A television replayed a video of The Little Mermaid, automatically rewinding at the end and starting over, the color frayed and faded from overuse. After my hours with the FBI, my mind sympathized with the tape. I kept rehashing Carlson's words ' he was definitely the lead guy ' trying to figure out what he was really after, but all that did was make the picture murkier and more surreal. It also gave me a whopping headache.
"Yo, Doc."
Tyrese Barton hopped up. He was wearing butt-plunge baggy pants and what looked like an oversized varsity jacket, all done by some designer I never heard of but soon would.
"Hi, Tyrese," I said.
Tyrese gave me a complicated handshake, which was a bit like a dance routine where he leads and I follow. He and Latisha had a six-year-old son they called TJ. TJ was a hemophiliac. He was also blind. I met him after he was rushed in as an infant and Tyrese was seconds away from being arrested. Tyrese claimed I saved his son's life on that day. That was hyperbole.
But maybe I did save Tyrese.
He thought that made us friends ' like he was this lion and I was some mouse who pulled a thorn from his paw. He was wrong.
Tyrese and Latisha were never married, but he was one of the few fathers I saw in here. He finished shaking my hands and slipped me two Ben Franklins as though I were a ma+
He gave me the eye. "You take good care of my boy now."
"Right."
"You the best, Doc." He handed me his business card, which had no name, no address, no job title. Just a cell phone number. "You need anything, you call."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
Still with the eye. "Anything, Doc."
"Right."
I pocketed the bills. We've been going through this same routine for six years now. I knew a lot of drug dealers from working here; I knew none who survived six years.
I didn't keep the money, of course. I gave it to Linda for her charity. Legally debatable, I knew, but the way I figured it, better the money went to charity than to a drug dealer. I had no idea how much money Tyrese had. He always had a new car, though ' he favored BMWs with tinted windows ' and his kid's wardrobe was worth more than anything that inhabited my closet. But, alas, the child's mother was on Medicaid, so the visits were free.
Maddening, I know.
Tyrese's cell phone sounded something hip-hop.
"Got to take this, Doc. Bidness."
"Right," I said again.
I do get angry sometimes. Who wouldn't? But through that haze, there are real children here. They hurt. I don't claim that all children are wonderful. They are not. I sometimes treat ones that I know ' know ' will amount to no good. But children are, if nothing else, helpless. They are weak and defenseless. Believe me, I've seen examples that would alter your definition of human beings. So I concentrate on the children.
I was supposed to work only until noon, but to make up for my FBI detour, I saw patients until three. Naturally, I'd been thinking about the interrogation all day. Those pictures of Elizabeth, battered and defeated, kept popping through my brain like the most grotesque sort of strobe light.
Who would know about those pictures?
The answer, when I took the time to think about it, was somewhat obvious. I leaned forward and picked up the phone. I hadn't dialed this number in years, but I still remembered it.
"Schayes Photography," a woman answered.
"Hi, Rebecca."
"Son of a gun. How are you, Beck?"
"Good. How about yourself?"
"Not bad. Busy as all hell."
"You work too hard."
"Not anymore. I got married last year."
"I know. I'm sorry I couldn't make it."
"Bull."
"Yeah. But congrats anyway."
"So what's up?"
"I need to ask you a question," I said.
"Uh-huh."
"About the car accident."
I hear a tinny echo. Then silence.
"Do you remember the car accident? The one before Elizabeth was killed?"
Rebecca Schayes, my wife's closest friend, did not reply.
I cleared my throat. "Who was driving?"
"What?" She did not say that into the phone. "Okay, hold on." Then
back at me: "Look, Beck, something just came up here. Can I call you back in a little while?"
"Rebecca'"
But the line was dead.
Here is the truth about tragedy: It's good for the soul.
The fact is, I'm a better person because of the deaths. If every cloud has a silver lining, this one is admittedly pretty flimsy. But there it is. That doesn't mean it's worth it or an even trade or anything like that, but I know I'm a better man than I used to be. I have a finer sense of what's important. I have a keener understanding of people's pain.
There was a time ' it's laughable now ' when I used to worry about what club
s I belonged to, what car I drove, what college degree I stuck on my wall ' all that status crap. I wanted to be a surgeon because that wowed people. I wanted to impress so-called friends. I wanted to be a big man.
Like I said, laughable.
Some might argue that my self-improvement is simply a question of maturity. In part, true. And much of the change is due to the fact I am now on my own. Elizabeth and I were a couple, a single entity. She was so good that I could afford to be not so good, as though her goodness raised us both, was a cosmic equalizer.
Still, death is a great teacher. It's just too harsh.
I wish I could tell you that through the tragedy I mined some undiscovered, life-altering absolute that I could pass on to you. I didn't. The clich+!s apply ' people are what count, life is precious, materialism is overrated, the little things matter, live in the moment ' and I can repeat them to you ad nauseam. You might listen, but you won't internalize. Tragedy hammers it home. Tragedy etches it onto your soul. You might not be happier. But you will be better.
What makes this all the more ironic is that I've often wished that Elizabeth could see me now. Much as I'd like to, I don't believe the dead watch over us or any similar comfort-fantasy we sell ourselves. I believe the dead are gone for good. But I can't help but think: Perhaps now I am worthy of her.
A more religious man might wonder if that is why she's returned.
Rebecca Schayes was a leading freelance photographer. Her work appeared in all the usual glossies, though strangely enough, she specialized in men. Professional athletes who agreed to appear on the cover of, for example, GQ often requested her to do the shoot. Rebecca liked to joke that she had a knack for male bodies due to "a lifetime of intense study."
I found her studio on West Thirty-second Street, not far from Penn Station. The building was a butt-ugly semi-warehouse that reeked from the Central Park horse and buggies housed on the ground floor. I skipped the freight elevator and took the stairs.
Rebecca was hurrying down the corridor. Trailing her, a gaunt, black-clad assistant with reedy arms and pencil-sketch facial hair dragged two aluminum suitcases. Rebecca still had the unruly sabra locks, her fiery hair curling angrily and flowing freely. Her eyes were wide apart and green, and if she'd changed in the past eight years, I couldn't see it.
She barely broke stride when she saw me.
"It's a bad time, Beck."
"Tough," I said.
"I got a shoot. Can we do this later?"
"No.
She stopped, whispered something to the sulking black-clad assistant, and said, "Okay, follow me."
Her studio had high ceilings and cement walls painted white. There were lots of lighting umbrellas and black screens and extension cords snaking everywhere. Rebecca fiddled with a film cartridge and pretended to be busy.
"Tell me about the car accident," I said.
"I don't get this, Beck." She opened a canister, put it down, put the top back on, then opened it again. "We've barely spoken in, what, eight years? All of a sudden you get all obsessive about an old car accident?"
I crossed my arms and waited.
"Why, Beck? After all this time. Why do you want to know?"
"Tell me."
She kept her eyes averted. The unruly hair fell over half her face, but she didn't bother pushing it back. "I miss her," she said. "And I miss you too."
I didn't reply to that.
"I called," she said.
"I know."
"I tried to stay in touch. I wanted to be there."
"I'm sorry," I said. And I was. Rebecca had been Elizabeth's best friend. They'd shared an apartment near Washington Square Park before we got married. I should have returned her calls or invited her over or made some kind of effort. But I didn't.
Grief can be inordinately selfish.
"Elizabeth told me that you two were in a minor car crash," I went on. "It was her fault, she said. She took her eyes off the road. Is that true?"
"What possible difference does it make now?"
"It makes a difference."
"How?"
"What are you afraid of, Rebecca?"
Now it was her time for silence.
"Was there an accident or not?"
Her shoulders slumped as though something internal had been severed. She took a few deep breaths and kept her face down. "I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"She told me it was a car accident too."
"But you weren't there?"
"No. You were out of town, Beck. I came home one night, and Elizabeth was there. She was bruised up. I asked her what happened. She told me she'd been in a car accident and if anyone asked, we'd been in my car."
"If anyone asked?"
Rebecca finally looked up. "I think she meant you, Beck."
I tried to take this in. "So what really happened?"
"She wouldn't say."
"Did you take her to a doctor?"
"She wouldn't let me." Rebecca gave me a strange look. "I still don't get it. Why are you asking me about this now?"
Tell no one.
"I'm just trying to get a little closure."
She nodded, but she didn't believe me. Neither one of us was a particularly adept liar.
"Did you take any pictures of her?" I asked.
"Pictures?"
"Of her injuries. After the accident."
"God, no. Why would I do that?"
An awfully good question. I sat there and thought about it. I don't know how long.
"Beck?"
"Yeah."
"You look like hell."
"You don't," I said.
"I'm in love."
"It becomes you."
"Thanks."
"Is he a good guy?"
"The best."
"Maybe he deserves you, then."
"Maybe." She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. It felt good, comforting. "Something happened, didn't it?"
This time I opted for the truth. "I don't know."
Chapter 13
Shauna and Hester Crimstein sat in Hester's swanky midtown law office. Hester finished up her phone call and put the receiver back in the cradle.
"No one's doing much talking," Hester said.
"But they didn't arrest him?"
"No. Not yet."
"So what's going on?" Shauna asked.
"Near as I can tell, they think Beck killed his wife."
"That's nuts," Shauna said. "He was in the hospital, for crying out loud. That KillRoy loony tune is on death row."
"Not for her murder," the attorney replied.
"What?"
"Kellerton's suspected of killing at least eighteen women. He confessed to fourteen, but they only had enough hard evidence to prosecute and convict him on twelve. That was enough. I mean, how many death sentences does one man need?"
"But everyone knows he killed Elizabeth."
"Correction: Everyone knew."
"I don't get it. How can they possibly think Beck had anything to do with it?"
"I don't know," Hester said. She threw her feet up on her desk and put her hands behind her head. "At least, not yet. But we'll have to be on our guard."
"How's that?"
"For one thing, we have to assume the feds are watching his every step. Phone taps, surveillance, that kind of thing."
"So?"
"What do you mean, so?"
"He's innocent, Hester. Let them watch."
Hester looked up and shook her head. "Don't be na+>>ve."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that if they tape him having eggs for breakfast, it can be something. He has to be careful. But there's something else."
"What?"
"The feds are going to go after Beck."
"How?"
"Got me, but trust me, they will. They got a hard-on for your friend. And it's been eight years. That means they're desperate. Desperate feds are ugly, constitutional-rights-stamping feds."
Shauna sat back and thought about the strange emails from "Elizabeth."
"What?" Hester said.
"Nothing."
"Don't hold back on me, Shauna."
"I'm not the client here."
"You saying Beck isn't telling me everything?"
An idea struck Shauna with something approaching horror. She thought about it some more, ran the idea over some test tracks, let it bounce around for a few moments.
It made sense, and yet Shauna hoped ' nay, prayed ' that she was wrong. She stood and hurried toward the door. "I have to go."
"What's going on?"
"Ask your client."
Special agents Nick Carlson and Tom Stone positioned themselves on the same couch over which Beck had recently waxed nostalgic. Kim Parker, Elizabeth's mother, sat across from them with her hands primly in her lap. Her face was a frozen, waxy mask. Hoyt Parker paced.
"So what's so important that you couldn't say anything over the phone?" Hoyt asked.
"We want to ask you some questions," Carlson said.
"What about?"
"Your daughter."
That froze them both.
"More specifically, we'd like to ask you about her relationship with her husband, Dr. David Beck."
Hoyt and Kim exchanged a glance. "Why?" Hoyt asked.
"It involves a matter currently under investigation."
"What matter? She's been dead for eight years. Her killer is on death row."
"Please, Detective Parker. We're all on the same side here."
The room was still and dry. Kim Parker's lips thinned and trembled. Hoyt looked at his wife and then nodded at the two men.
Carlson kept his gaze on Kim. "Mrs. Parker, how would you describe the relationship between your daughter and her husband?"
"They were very close, very much in love."
"No problems?"
"No," she said. "None."
"Would you describe Dr. Beck as a violent man?"
She looked startled. "No, never."
They looked at Hoyt. Hoyt nodded his agreement.
"To your knowledge, did Dr. Beck ever hit your daughter?"
"What?"
Carlson tried a kind smile. "If you could just answer the question."
"Never," Hoyt said. "No one hit my daughter."