Gone for Good

by Harlan Coben

  I panicked, but at the same time, I was ready to move on. Like I said, I had lived with Cray in Missouri. I figured that if I moved to New York, maybe I'd be safe. But I needed a deeper ID, in case Cray kept hunting. Sheila was in the same boat. Her fake ID was all surface, just a name change. And that was when we came up with a simple plan."

  I nodded. This one I knew. "You switched identities."

  "Right. She became Nora Spring and I became Sheila Rogers. This way, if my husband came after me, he'd only find her. And if the people searching for them found Sheila Rogers, well, you see, it adds another layer."

  I considered that, but something still did not add up. "Okay, so that's how you became Sheila Rogers. You switched identities."

  "Yes."

  "And you ended up in New York City."

  "Yes."

  "And" here was the part I was having trouble with "somehow we happened to meet."

  Nora smiled. "You're wondering about us, aren't you?"

  "I guess I am."

  "You're thinking it's a hell of a coincidence that I volunteered at the very place you work."

  "It would seem unlikely," I agreed.

  "Well, you're right. It wasn't a coincidence." She sat back and sighed. "I'm not sure how to explain this, Will."

  I just held her hand and waited.

  "Okay, you have to understand. I was so lonely overseas. All I had was your brother and Sheila and, of course, Carly. I spent all that time hearing your brother rave about you, and it was like ... it was like you were so different from any man I'd ever known. The truth is, I think I was half in love with you before we ever met. So I told myself when I came to New York that I'd just meet you, see what you were really like. Maybe if it seemed okay, I'd even tell you that your brother was alive and that he was innocent, though Ken warned me repeatedly about the danger of that. It wasn't a plan or anything. I just came to New York and one day I walked into Covenant House, and call it destiny or fate or whatever, but the moment I saw you, I knew that I would love you forever."

  I was scared and confused and smiling.

  "What? "she said.

  "I love you."

  She put her head on my shoulder. We grew quiet now. There was more.

  It would come in time. For now, we just enjoyed the silence of being with one another. When Nora was ready, she started up again.

  "A few weeks ago, I was sitting at the hospital with your mother. She was in such pain, Will. She couldn't take it anymore, she told me. She wanted to die. She was in such discomfort, well, you know."

  I nodded.

  "I loved your mother. I think you know that."

  "I do," I said.

  "I couldn't stand just sitting there doing nothing. So I broke my promise to your brother. Before she died, I wanted her to know the truth. She deserved that. I wanted her to know that her son was alive and that he loved her and that he hadn't hurt anybody."

  "You told her about Ken?"

  "Yes. But even in her haze, she was skeptical. She needed proof, I think."

  I froze and turned to her. I saw it now. What had started it all. The visit to the bedroom after the funeral. The picture hidden behind the frame. "So you gave my mother that photograph of Ken."

  Nora nodded.

  "She never saw him. Just the photograph."

  "That's right."

  Which explained why we never knew about it. "But you told her he was coming back."

  "Yes."

  "Were you lying?"

  She thought about that. "Maybe I was engaging in hyperbole, but no, I don't think it was an outright lie. You see, Sheila contacted me when they captured him. Ken had always been very careful. He had all sorts of provisions set up for Sheila and Carly. So when they caught him, Sheila and Carly ran off. The police never knew about them. Sheila stayed overseas until Ken thought it was safe. Then she sneaked back in."

  "And she called you when she arrived?"

  "Yes."

  It was all adding up. "From a pay phone in New Mexico."

  "Yes."

  That would be the first call Pistillo was talking about the one from New Mexico to my apartment. "So then what happened?"

  "It all started going wrong," she said. "I got a call from Ken. He was in a frenzy. Someone had found them. He and Carly had been out of the house when two men broke in. They tortured Sheila to find out where he'd gone. Ken came home during the attack. He shot them both.

  But Sheila was seriously wounded. He called and told me that I had to run now. The police would find Sheila's fingerprints. McGuane and his people would also learn that Sheila Rogers had been with him."

  "They'd all be looking for Sheila," I said.

  "Yes."

  "And that was you now. So you had to disappear."

  "I wanted to tell you, but Ken was insistent. If you didn't know anything, you'd be safer. And then he reminded me that there was Carly to consider. These people tortured and killed her mother. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to Carly."

  "How old is Carly?"

  "She'd be close to twelve by now."

  "So she was born before Ken ran away."

  "I think she was six months old."

  Another sore point. Ken had a child and never told me about her. I asked, "Why did he keep her a secret?"

  "I don't know."

  So far, I had been able to follow the logic, but I could not see how Carly fit into this. I mulled it over. Six months before he vanished.

  What had been going on in his life? It was right about the time the FBI had flipped him. Could it be connected to that? Was Ken afraid that his actions might put his infant daughter in danger? That made sense, I guess.

  No, I was missing something.

  I was about to ask a follow-up question, try to get more details, when my cell phone chirped. Squares probably. I glanced at the caller ID. Nope, not Squares. But I recognized the number instantly. Katy Miller. I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear.

  "Katy?"

  "Oooo, no, sorry, that's incorrect. Please try again."

  The fear flooded back. Oh Christ. The Ghost. I closed my eyes. "If you hurt her, so help me "

  "Come, come, Will," the Ghost interrupted. "Impotent threats are beneath you."

  "What do you want?"

  "We need to chat, old boy."

  "Where is she?"

  "Who? Oh, you mean Katy? Why, she's right here."

  "I want to talk to her."

  "You don't believe me, Will? I'm wounded."

  "I want to talk to her," I repeated.

  "You want proof she's alive?"

  "Something like that."

  "How about this?" the Ghost began in his silkiest hush. "I can make her scream for you. Would that help?"

  I closed my eyes again.

  "Can't hear you, Will."

  "No."

  "You sure? It would be no problem. One piercing, nerve-shredding scream. What do you say?"

  "Please don't hurt her," I said. "She has nothing to do with this."

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm on Park Avenue South."

  "Be more specific."

  I gave him a location two blocks away.

  "I'll have a car there in five minutes. Get in it. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "And, Will?"

  "What?"

  "Don't call anyone. Don't tell anyone. Katy Miller has a sore neck from a previous encounter. I can't tell you how tempting it would be to test it out." He stopped and whispered. "Still with me, old neighbor?"

  "Yes."

  "Hang tight then. This will all be over soon."

  Chapter -Three.

  Claudia Fisher burst into the office of Joseph Pistillo.

  Pistillo lifted his head. "What?"

  "Raymond Cromwell didn't report in."

  Cromwell was the undercover agent they'd assigned to Joshua Ford, Ken Klein's attorney. "I thought he was wired."

  "They had an appointment at McGuane'
s. He couldn't wear a wire in there."

  "And nobody's seen him since that appointment?"

  Fisher nodded. "Same with Ford. Both are missing."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "So what do you want to do?"

  Pistillo was already up and moving. "Get every available agent. We're raiding McGuane's office now."

  To leave Nora alone like that I had already gotten used to the name was beyond heart-wrenching, but what choice did I have? The idea that Katy was alone with that sadistic psycho gnawed straight into my marrow. I remembered how it felt to be handcuffed to the bed, helpless while he attacked her. I closed my eyes and wished the image away.

  Nora made an effort to stop me, but she understood. This was something I had to do. Our good-bye kiss was almost too tender. I pulled away.

  The tears were back in her eyes.

  "Come back to me," she said.

  I told her I would and hurried out.

  The car was a black Ford Taurus with tinted windows.

  There was only the driver inside. I did not recognize him. He handed me an eye shade, the kind they give out on airplanes, and told me to put it on and lie flat in the back. I did as he asked. He started up the car and pulled out. I used the time to think. I knew a lot now.

  Not all. Not enough. But a lot. And I was reasonably sure that the Ghost was right: It would all be over soon.

  I ran it through in my mind and here was what I semi-concluded: Eleven years ago, Ken was involved in illegal activities with his old friends, McGuane and the Ghost. There was really no way around that anymore.

  Ken had done wrong. He might have been a hero to me, but my sister, Melissa, had pointed out that he was drawn to violence. I might amend that to say he craved action, the enticement of the edge. But that's just semantics.

  Somewhere along the way, Ken was captured and agreed to help bring down McGuane. He risked his life. He went undercover. He wore a wire.

  Somehow McGuane and the Ghost found out. Ken ran. He came home, though I'm not sure why. I'm not sure how Julie fit in here either. By all accounts she had not been home in over a year. Was her return a coincidence? Was she there merely following Ken, perhaps as a lover, perhaps because he was her drug source? Did the Ghost follow her, knowing that she would eventually lead him to Ken?

  I don't know any of that. Not yet anyhow.

  Whatever, the Ghost found them, probably in a delicate moment. He attacked. Ken was injured, but he escaped. Julie was not so lucky.

  The Ghost wanted to put pressure on Ken, so he framed him for the murder. Terrified that he'd be killed or worse, Ken ran. He picked up his steady girlfriend, Sheila Rogers, and their infant daughter, Carly.

  The three of them disappeared.

  My vision, even through my eye shade, darkened. I heard a whooshing noise. We had entered a tunnel. Could be the Midtown, but my guess was that we were in the Lincoln, heading out toward New Jersey. I thought now about Pistillo and his role in all this. For him, it was the old ends-justify-means debate. Under certain circumstances, he might be a "means" guy, but this case was personal. It was easy to see his point of view. Ken was a crook. He had made a deal and no matter what the reason, he had reneged on it by running. Open season on him.

  Make him a fugitive and let the world comb through the muck and find his man.

  Years pass. Ken and Sheila stay together. Their daughter, Carly, grows. Then one day, Ken is captured. He is brought back to the States, convinced, I imagine, that they'll hang him for the murder of Julie Miller. But the authorities have always known the truth. They don't want him for that. They want the head of the beast. McGuane.

  And Ken can still help deliver him.

  So they strike a deal. Ken hides out in New Mexico. Once they believe it's safe, Sheila and Carly come back from Sweden to stay with him. But McGuane is a powerful nemesis. He learned where they were. He sent two men. Ken wasn't home, but they tortured Sheila to find out where he was. Ken surprises them, kills them, packs his injured lover and daughter in the car, and then he runs again. He warns Nora, who is using Sheila's ID, that the authorities and McGuane are going to be on her tail. She is forced to run too.

  That pretty much covered what I knew.

  The Ford Taurus came to a stop. I heard the driver shut off the engine. Enough with the passive, I thought. If I had any hope of getting out of this alive, I would have to be more assertive. I pulled the eye shade off and checked my watch. We had been driving for an hour. Then I sat up.

  We were in the middle of thick woods. The ground was blanketed with pine needles. The trees were lush and heavy with green. There was a watchtower of sorts, a small aluminum structure that sat on a platform about ten feet off the ground. It looked like an oversize toolshed, built strictly for function. Something both neglected and industrial.

  Rust licked the corners and door.

  The driver turned around. "Get out."

  I did as he asked. My eyes stayed on the structure. I saw the door open, and the Ghost stepped out. He was dressed entirely in black, as though he were on his way to reading poetry in the Village. He waved to me.

  "Hi, Will."

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "Who?"

  "Don't start that crap."

  The Ghost folded his arms. "My, my," he said, "aren't we just the bravest little soldier?"

  "Where is she?"

  "You mean Katy Miller?"

  "You know I do."

  The Ghost nodded. He had something in his hand. A rope of some kind.

  A lasso maybe. I froze. "She looks so much like her sister, don't you think? How could I resist? I mean, that neck. That beautiful swan neck. Already bruised ..."

  I tried to keep the quake from my voice. "Where is she?"

  He blinked. "She's dead, Will."

  My heart sank.

  "I grew bored waiting and " He started laughing then. The sound echoed in the stillness, ripping through the air, clawing at the leaves. I stood there, unmoving. He pointed and shouted, "Gotcha! Oh, I'm only joshing, Willie boy. Having a little fun. Katy is just fine." He waved me forward. "Come on and see."

  I hurried toward the platform, my heart firmly lodged in my throat.

  There was a rusted ladder. I climbed it. The Ghost was still laughing. I pushed past him and opened the door to the aluminum shack.

  I turned to my right.

  Katy was there.

  The Ghost's laugh was still ringing in my ears. I hurried over to her.

  Her eyes were open, though several strands of hair blocked them. The bruises on her neck had turned into a jaundiced yellow. Her arms were tied to a chair, but she looked uninjured.

  I bent down and pushed the hair away. "Are you okay?"I asked.

  "I'm fine."

  I could feel the rage building. "Did he hurt you?"

  Katy Miller shook her head. Her voice quaked. "What does he want with us?"

  "Please let me answer that one."

  We turned as the Ghost entered. He kept the door opened. The floor was littered with broken beer bottles. There was an old file cabinet in the corner. A laptop computer sat closed in one corner. Three metal folding chairs, the kind used for school assemblies, were out.

  Katy sat in one. The Ghost took the second and signaled for me to take the one on his immediate left. I remained standing. The Ghost sighed and stood back up.

  "I need your help, Will." He turned toward Katy. "And I thought having Miss Miller here join us, well" he gave me the skin-crawling grin "I thought she might work as something of an incentive."

  I squared up. "If you hurt her, if you so much as lay a hand "

  The Ghost did not wind up. He did not rear back. He merely snapped his hand from his side and caught me under the chin. He connected with a knife strike. A choking sound blew past my lips. It felt like I'd swallowed my own throat. I staggered and turned away. The Ghost took his time. He bent low and used an uppercut. His knuckles landed flush against my kidney. I dropped to my knees, nearly paralyzed
by the blow.

  He looked down at me. "Your posturing is getting on my nerves, Willie boy."

  I felt close to throwing up.

  "We need to contact your brother," he went on. "That's why you're here."

  I looked up. "I don't know where he is."

  The Ghost slid away from me. He moved behind Katy's chair. He gently, almost too gently, put his hands on her shoulders. She winced at his touch. He reached with both index fingers and stroked the bruises on her neck.

  "I'm telling the truth," I said.

  "Oh, I believe you," he said.

  "So what do you want?"

  "I know how to reach Ken."

  I was confused. "What?"

  "Have you ever seen one of those old movies where the fugitive leaves messages in classified ads?"

  "I guess."

  The Ghost smiled as though pleased with my response. "Ken is taking that one step further. He uses an Internet newsgroup. More specifically, he leaves and receives messages on something called rec.music.elvis. It is, as you might expect, a board for Elvis fans.

  So, for example, if his attorney needed to contact him, he would leave a date and time and post with a code name. Ken would then know when to IM said attorney."

  "IM?"

  "Instant message. I assume you've used it before. It's like a private chat room. Totally untraceable."

  "How do you know all this?" I asked.

  He smiled again and moved his hands closer to Katy's neck. "Information gathering," he said. "It's something of my forte."

  His hands slid off Katy. I realized that I'd been holding my breath.

  He reached into his pocket and took out the rope lasso again.

  "So what do you need me for?" I asked.

  "Your brother would not agree to meet his attorney," the Ghost said. "I believe he suspected a trap. We set up another IM appointment, though.

  We are very much hoping that you can persuade him to meet with us."

  "And if I can't?"

  He held up the rope. There was a handle attached to the end. "Do you know what this is?"

  I did not reply.

  "It's a Punjab lasso," he said as if beginning a lecture. "The Thuggees used it. They were known as the silent assassins. From India. Some people think they were all wiped out in the nineteenth century. Others, well, others are not so sure." He looked at Katy and held the primitive weapon up high. "Need I go on here, Will?"

  I shook my head. "He'll know it's a trap," I said.

  "It's your job to convince him otherwise. If you fail" he looked up, smiling "well, on the positive side, you'll be able to see firsthand how Julie suffered all those years ago."