by Harlan Coben
Of course neither of them understood it either. Matt could never explain why t hese meetings meant so much to him. Most would assume that he did it purely out o f guilt, that he did it for her or for redemption or something like that. But t hat wasn't the case at all.
For two hours-- that's how long their meetings lasted-- Matt felt strangely free b ecause he ached and hurt and felt. He didn't know what she got out of it, but h e assumed that it was something similar. They talked about that night. They t alked about their lives. They talked about the tentative steps, the feeling t hat the ground could give way at any time. Sonya never said, "I forgive you."
She never said that it wasn't his fault, that it was an accident, that he served h is time.
Sonya started down the corridor. Matt stared at the painting another second or t wo and then followed. They moved back downstairs and into the museum's atrium.
They grabbed coffee and sat at their usual table.
"So," she said. "Tell me what's going on."
She didn't say this to be polite or as an icebreaker. This was not about h ow-are-you-fine-and-you? Matt told her everything. He told this woman, Sonya McGrath, things he told no one else. He never lied to her, never fudged or e dited.
When he was done, Sonya asked, "Do you think Olivia is having an affair?"
"The evidence seems pretty clear."
"But?"
"But I've learned that evidence rarely gives you the full picture."
Sonya nodded. "You should call her again," she said.
"I did."
"Try the hotel."
"I did."
"Not there?"
"She wasn't registered."
"There are two Ritz-Carltons in Boston."
"I tried them both."
"Ah." She sat back and put her hand on her chin. "So you know that, in some way, Olivia is not being truthful."
"Yes."
Sonya considered that. She had never met Olivia, but she knew more about Matt's r elationship with her than anyone. She looked off.
"What?" he said.
"I'm just trying to find a plausible reason for her behavior."
"And?"
"And so far I've come up with nothing." She shrugged and took a sip of her c offee. "I've always found your relationship with Olivia an oddity."
"How so?"
"The way you hooked up ten years after a one-night stand."
"It wasn't a one-night stand. We didn't sleep together."
"Which may be the point."
"I don't get what you mean."
"If you slept together, well, the spell might have been broken. People claim t hat making love is the most intimate thing in the world. In truth, it's p robably the opposite."
He waited.
"Well, this is an odd coincidence," she said.
"Why's that?"
"Clark is having an affair."
Matt didn't ask her if she was sure or how she knew. He simply said, "I'm s orry."
"It's not what you think."
He said nothing.
"It has nothing to do with what happened to our son."
Matt tried to nod.
"We like to blame Stephen's death for all our problems. He's become our big l ife's-not-fair card. But the reason behind Clark's affair is far more basic."
"That being?"
"He's horny."
She smiled. Matt tried to smile back.
"Oh, did I mention that she's young? The girl Clark is sleeping with?"
"No."
"Thirty-two. We have a daughter that age."
"I'm sorry," Matt said again.
"Don't be. It's the flip side of what we said before. About intimacy and sex."
"How so?"
"The truth is, like most women my age, I have very little interest in sex. Yes, I know Cosmo and the like will tell you differently, what with all that nonsense a bout men peaking at nineteen and women in their thirties. But in reality, men a re always hornier. Period. To me sex no longer has anything to do with i ntimacy. Clark, on the other hand, needs it. So that's all she is to him, this y oung girl. Sex. A release. A physical need."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"It's not about me."
Matt said nothing.
"When you think about it, it's simple: Clark needs something that I have no i nterest in providing. So he goes elsewhere." Sonya saw the look on his face.
She sighed, put her hands on her thighs. "Let me give you an example. If Clark l oved, say, poker and I didn't want to play . . ."
"Come on, Sonya. That's not the same thing."
"Oh, but isn't it?"
"Sex and poker?"
"Okay, fine, let's keep it on the physically pleasing. A professional massage.
Clark gets rubdowns at his club every week from a masseur named Gary--"
"That's not the same thing either."
"But don't you see? It is. Sex with this girl isn't about intimacy. It's just a p hysical thing. Like a back rub or a handshake. So shouldn't it be okay with m e?"
Sonya looked up at him and waited.
"It wouldn't be okay with me," Matt said.
There was a small smile on her lips. Sonya liked mind games. She liked a c hallenge. He wondered if she meant what she said or if she was merely testing h im. "So what are you going to do?" she asked him.
"Olivia comes home tomorrow."
"You think you can wait till then?"
"I'm going to try."
Her eyes stayed on him.
"What?" he asked.
"We can't escape it, can we? I thought . . ." She stopped.
"You thought what?"
Their eyes locked. "I know it's a terrible cliche, but it all felt like a n ightmare. The news about Stephen. The trial. I kept expecting to wake up and f ind it was all some cruel joke, that everything was okay."
He'd felt the same way. He was stuck in a bad dream, waiting for the Candid Camera climax when Stephen would show up unharmed and smiling.
"But now the world feels like the opposite, doesn't it, Matt?"
He nodded.
"Instead of believing the bad is a nightmare from which you'll awaken," she went o n, "you think it's the good that's an illusion. And that's what this call on y our camera phone did. It woke you from the good dream."
He could not speak.
"I know that I'll never get past what happened," Sonya McGrath said. "It's s imply not possible. But I thought . . . I hoped maybe you could."
Matt waited for her to say more. She did not. She rose suddenly, as if she had s aid too much. They headed together for the exit. Sonya kissed him on the cheek a nd when they hugged, they both held on longer than usual. He could, as always, f eel the devastation emanating from her. Stephen's death was there, in every m oment, in every gesture. He sat with them, their forever companion.
"If you need me," she whispered, "you call. Anytime."
"I will."
He watched her walk away. He thought about what she had said, about the fine l ine between the good dreams and the bad, and then, when she finally disappeared a round the corner, he turned away.
Chapter 12
WHEN MATT REACHED Rolanda's desk, she said, "Cingle's waiting in your office."
"Thanks."
"Midlife wants me to buzz him the very second you arrive." Rolanda looked up.
"Have you arrived yet?"
"Give me five."
She turned back to the computer terminal and started typing. Matt entered.
Cingle Shaker was standing looking at the window. "Nice view," she said.
"You think?"
"Nah. That's just my idea of small talk."
"You're very good at it," he said.
"I thought you were just a paralegal."
"I am."
"So why the fancy digs?"
"It was my brother's."
"So?"
"So Bernie was a big rainmaker here."
"So?" Cingle turned toward him. "I don't want to s
ound cold, but he's dead."
"I think you were being hard on yourself before. You really are good at this s mall talk stuff."
"No, I mean, he's been dead for, what, three years now? I can't believe they let a n ex-con paralegal keep a space like this."
He smiled. "I knew what you meant."
"So what gives?"
"Maybe they're being respectful to my brother's memory."
"Attorneys?" Cingle made a face. "Please."
"Actually," he said, "I think they like having me around."
"Because you're such a nice guy?"
"Because of the ex-con angle. I'm a fun oddity."
Cingle nodded. "Kinda like having a lesbian couple at your hoity-toity soiree."
"Something like that, but even more exotic. It's funny. In some ways I'm the u ltimate curiosity. Whenever they're drunk, they all ask me, on the sly, of c ourse, what it's really like for a guy like them to go to the"-- he made quote m arks with his fingers--"Big House."
"You're like a local celebrity."
"In a bizarre way, yeah."
"And that's why they don't throw you out of the office?"
He shrugged.
"They might also be afraid of you," Cingle said. "You already killed one man w ith your bare hands."
He sighed and took his seat. Cingle took hers.
"Sorry," she said.
He waved her off. "What's up?"
Cingle crossed her long legs. It was for effect, he knew that, but he wondered i f it had become something of an unconscious move on her part. "So tell me," she s aid. "Why did you want the license plate traced?"
He spread his hands. "Do we really have to go through the meaning of 'personal' a gain?"
"Only if you want me to tell you what I know."
"So you're resorting to blackmail now?"
But he could see that she was serious.
"I think he was following me," Matt said.
"Why do you think that?"
"Why do you think? I went a few places, his car was there."
"And you just happened to pick up on that?"
"His license plate was close to my initials."
"Excuse me?"
Matt explained about the license plate, about the three letters being similar to h is own initials, about the way the car raced off when he approached. Cingle l istened without moving.
When Matt finished, Cingle asked, "So why is Charles Talley following you, Matt?"
"I don't know."
"No idea at all?"
He did not repeat himself. He knew all about men who doth protest too much.
Silence was the best response here.
"Talley has a record."
Matt was tempted to say "So do I," but he knew better. Having a record-- a record w orth Cingle's attention-- meant something. The fact that it didn't in Matt's c ase only proved the rule by the exception. Matt didn't like thinking that way--h adn't Lance Banner used that same prejudice?-- but you'd be hard-pressed to a rgue with the reality.
"Assault," Cingle said. "He used brass knuckles. Didn't kill the poor bastard b ut scrambled his brains to the point where it would have been more merciful if h e had."
Matt thought about that, tried to make it fit. "How long did he get?"
"Eight years."
"Long time."
"Not his first charge. And Talley was far from a model prisoner."
Matt tried to put it together. Why would this guy be following him?
"Do you want to see what he looks like?" Cingle asked.
"You have a picture?"
"His mug shot, yeah."
Cingle wore a blue blazer with jeans. She reached into the inner jacket pocket, p lucked out the photographs, and sent Matt's world spinning all over again.
How the. . . ?
He knew that her eyes were on him, gauging his reaction, but he couldn't help i t. When he saw the two mug shots-- the classic front view and turn-to-the-side p rofile-- he nearly gasped out loud. His hands gripped the desk. It felt as t hough he were in free fall.
"So you recognize him," Cingle said.
He did. The same smirk. The same blue-black hair.
Charles Talley was the man from the camera phone.
Chapter 13
LOREN MUSE WALKED through a time machine.
Revisiting St. Margaret's, her high school alma mater, the cliches applied: The c orridors seemed tighter, the ceilings seemed lower, the lockers seemed smaller, t he teachers shorter. But others things, the important stuff, did not change too m uch. Loren fell into a time portal as she entered. She felt the high school t ingle in her belly, the constant state of insecurity; the need for both a pproval and rebellion churned inside of her.
She knocked on Mother Katherine's door.
"Come in."
There was a young girl sitting in the office. She wore the same school uniform t hat Loren had so many years ago, the white blouse and tartan skirt. God, she'd h ated that. The girl had her head down, clearly post-Mother Katherine berate.
Her stringy hair hung down in front of her face like a beaded curtain.
Mother Katherine said, "You may go now, Carla."
Shoulders slumped, head still lowered, Carla slinked off. Loren nodded as she p assed, as if to say, I feel for ya, sister. Carla did not meet her eye. She c losed the door behind her.
Mother Katherine watched all of this with a look both bemused and disheartened, a s though she could read Loren's mind. There were stacks of bracelets, all d ifferent colors, on her desk. When Loren pointed to them, the bemusement v anished.
"Those bracelets belong to Carla?" Loren asked.
"Yes."
A dress code violation, Loren thought, fighting off the desire to shake her h ead. Man, this place will never change.
"You haven't heard about this?" Mother Katherine asked.
"Heard about what?"
"The bracelet"-- she took a deep breath--"game."
Loren shrugged.
Mother Katherine closed her eyes. "It's a recent . . . the word would be fad, I b elieve."
"Uh huh."
"The different bracelets . . . I don't even know how to say this . . . the d ifferent colors represent certain acts of a sexual nature. The black one, for e xample, is supposed to be . . . uh, for one thing. Then the red one . . ."
Loren held her hand up. "I think I get the picture. So the girls wear them as s ome kind of, I don't know, level of achievement?"
"Worse."
Loren waited.
"You're not here about this."
"Tell me anyway."
"Girls like Carla wear the bracelets around the boys. If the boy can grab the b racelet off the girl's arm, she must then, well, perform the act that c orresponds with the bracelet color."
"Please tell me you're kidding."
Mother Katherine gave her a look as heavy as the ages.
"How old is Carla?" Loren asked.
"Sixteen." Mother Katherine pointed to another set of bracelets as if afraid to t ouch them. "But I took this set off an eighth grader."
There was nothing to say to that.
Mother Katherine reached behind her. "Here are the phone logs you requested."
The building still had that chalk-dust musk Loren had always associated, until j ust now, with a certain sort of adolescent naivete. Mother Katherine handed her a small stack of papers.
"Eighteen of us share three phones," Mother Katherine said.
"Six of you to a phone, then?"
Mother Katherine smiled. "And they say we don't teach math anymore."
Loren looked at Christ on the cross behind the Mother Superior's head. She r emembered an old joke, one she heard when she first got here. A boy is getting a ll Ds and Fs in math so his parents send him to Catholic school. On his first r eport card, his parents are shocked to see their son getting straight As. When h is parents ask him why, he says, "Well, when I went into the chapel and saw t hat guy nailed to a plus sign, I knew they were serious."
> Mother Katherine cleared her throat. "May I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"Do they know how Sister Mary Rose died?"
"They're still running tests."
Mother Katherine waited.
"That's all I can tell you right now."
"I understand."
Now it was Loren who waited. When Mother Katherine turned away, Loren said, "You k now more than you're saying."
"About?"
"About Sister Mary Rose. About what happened to her."
"Have you learned her identity yet?"
"No. But we will. Before the end of the day, I'd bet."
Mother Katherine straightened her back. "That would be a good start."
"And there's nothing else you want to tell me?"
"That's correct, Loren."
Loren waited a beat. The old woman was . . . lying would be too strong a word.
But Loren could smell evasion. "Did you go through these calls, Mother?"
"I did. I had the five sisters who shared the phone with her go through them t oo. Most were to family members, of course. They called siblings, parents, some f riends. There were some to local businesses. They order pizza sometimes.
Chinese food."
"I thought nuns had to eat, uh, convent food."
"You thought wrong."
"Fair enough," Loren said. "Any numbers that stuck out?"
"Just one."
Mother Katherine's reading glasses dangled from a chain. She slid them onto the e nd of her nose and beckoned for the sheets. Loren handed them back to her. She s tudied the first page, licked her finger, moved to the second. She took out a p en and circled something.
"Here."
She gave the sheet back to Loren. The number had a 973 area code. That would put i t in New Jersey, no more than thirty miles from here. The call had been made t hree weeks ago. It lasted six minutes.
Probably nothing.
Loren spotted the computer on the credenza behind Mother Katherine's desk. It w as weird to think about, the Mother Superior surfing the Web, but it truly s eemed as though there were very few holdouts anymore.
"May I borrow your computer?" Loren asked.
"Of course."
Loren tried a simple Google search on the phone number. Nothing.
"Are you looking up the number?" Mother Katherine asked.
"I am."
"According to the link on the Verizon Web page, the number is unlisted."
Loren looked back at her. "You tried already?"
"I looked up all the numbers."