by Harlan Coben
Morty was dealt a six up, seven down. He hit and got a ten. Busted.
He lost the next hand too. Damn. He needed this money. Locani, a classic leg-breaking bookie, wanted his cash. Morty, a loser's loser when you really think about it, had stalled him by offering up information. He had told Locani about the masked man and injured woman. At first, Locani did not seem to care, but the word spread and all of a sudden someone wanted details.
Morty told them almost everything.
He did not, would not, tell them about the passenger in the backseat.
He did not have a clue what was going on, but there were some things even he would not do. Low as he had sunk, Morty would not tell them about that.
He was dealt two aces. He split them. A man sat next to him. Morty felt rather than saw him. He felt him in his old bones, as though the man were an incoming weather front. He did not turn his head, afraid, as irrational as this sounded, even to look.
The dealer hit both hands. A king and a jack. Morty had just gotten two blackjacks.
The man leaned close and whispered, "Quit while you're ahead, Morty."
Morty slowly turned and saw a man with eyes of washed-out gray and skin that went beyond white, too translucent really, so that you felt as though you could see his every vein. The man smiled.
"It might be time," the silvery whisper continued, "to cash in your chips."
Morty tried not to shudder. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"We need to chat," the man said.
"About what?"
"About a certain patient who recently visited your esteemed practice."
Morty swallowed. Why had he opened his mouth to Locani? He should have stalled with something else, anything else. "I already told them everything I know."
The pale man cocked his head. "Did you, Morty?"
"Yes."
Those washed-out eyes fell on him hard. Neither man spoke or moved.
Morty felt his face redden. He tried to stiffen his back, but he could feel himself wither under the gaze.
"I don't think you have, Morty. I think you're holding back."
Morty said nothing.
"Who else was in the car that night?"
He stared at his chips and tried not to shudder. "What are you talking about?"
"There was someone else, wasn't there, Morty?"
"Hey, leave me alone, will you? I'm on a roll here."
Rising from his seat, the Ghost shook his head. "No, Morty," he said, touching him gently on the arm. "I would say that your luck is about to take a turn for the worse."
Chapter Twenty-Four.
The memorial service was held in the Covenant House auditorium.
Squares and Wanda sat on my right, my father on my left. Dad kept his arm behind me, sometimes rubbing my back. It felt nice. The room was packed, mostly with the kids. They hugged me and cried and told me how much they'd miss Sheila. The service lasted almost two hours. Terrell, a fourteen-year-old who'd been selling himself for ten dollars a pop, played a song on the trumpet that he'd composed in her memory. It was the saddest, sweetest sound I'd ever heard. Lisa; who was seventeen years old and diagnosed bipolar, spoke of how Sheila had been the only one she could talk to when she learned that she was pregnant. Sammy told a funny story about how Sheila tried to teach him how to dance to that "crappy white-girl" music. Sixteen-year-old Jim told the mourners that he had given up on himself, that he'd been ready to commit suicide, and when Sheila smiled at him, he realized that there was indeed good in this world. Sheila convinced him to stay another day.
And then another.
I pushed away the pain and listened closely because these kids deserved that. This place meant so much to me. To us. And when we had doubts about our success, about how much we were helping, we always remembered that it was all about the kids. They were not cuddly. Most were unattractive and hard to love. Most would live terrible lives and end up in jail or on the streets or dead. But that did not mean you gave up. It meant just the opposite, in fact. It meant we had to love them all the more.
Unconditionally. Without a flinch. Sheila had known that. It had mattered to her.
Sheila's mother at least, I assumed it was Mrs. Rogers came in about twenty minutes into the ceremony. She was a tall woman. Her face had the dry, brittle look of something left too long in the sun. Our eyes met. She looked a question at me, and I nodded a yes. As the service continued, I turned and glanced at her every once in a while. She sat perfectly still, listening to the words about her daughter with something approaching awe.
At one point, when we rose as a congregation, I saw something that surprised me. I'd been gazing over the sea of familiar faces, when I spotted a familiar figure with a scarf covering most of her face.
Tanya.
The scarred woman who took "care" of that scum Louis Castman. Again I assumed that it was Tanya. I was fairly certain. Same hair, same height and build, and even though most of her face was covered, I could still see something familiar in the eyes. I had not really thought about it before, but of course there was a chance that she and Sheila had known each other from their days on the street.
We sat back down.
Squares spoke last. He was eloquent and funny and brought Sheila to life in a way I knew I never could. He told the kids how Sheila had been "one of you," a struggling runaway who'd fought her own demons. He remembered her first day here. He remembered watching Sheila bloom.
And mostly, he said, he remembered watching her fall in love with me.
I felt hollow. My insides had been scooped out, and again I was struck with the realization that this pain would be permanent, that I could stall, that I could run around and investigate and dig for some inner truth, but in the end, it would change nothing. My grief would forever be by my side, my constant companion in lieu of Sheila.
When the ceremony ended, no one knew exactly what to do. We all sat for an awkward moment, no one moving, until Terrell started playing his trumpet again. People rose. They cried and hugged me all over again.
I don't know how long I stood there and took it all in. I was thankful for the outpouring, but it made me miss Sheila all the more. The numb slid back up because this was all too raw. Without the numb, I wouldn't get through it.
I looked for Tanya, but she was gone.
Someone announced that there was food in the cafeteria. The mourners slowly milled toward it. I spotted Sheila's mother standing in a corner, both hands clutching a small purse. She looked drained, as if the vitality had leaked out from a still-open wound. I made my way toward her.
"You're Will? "she said.
"Yes."
"I'm Edna Rogers."
We did not hug or kiss cheeks or even shake hands.
"Where can we talk?" she asked.
I led her down the corridor toward the stairs. Squares picked up that we wanted to be alone and diverted foot traffic. We passed the new medical facility, the psychiatric offices, the drug treatment areas.
Many of our runaways are new or expectant mothers. We try to treat them. Many others have serious mental problems. We try to help them too. And of course, a whole slew of them have a potpourri of drug problems. We do our best there too.
We found an empty dorm room and stepped inside. I closed the door.
Mrs. Rogers showed me her back. "It was a beautiful service," she said.
I nodded.
"What Sheila became " She stopped, shook her head. "I had no idea. I wish I could have seen that. I wish that she'd called and told me."
I did not know what to say to that.
"Sheila never gave me a moment of pride when she was alive." Edna Rogers tugged a handkerchief out of her bag as though someone inside were putting up a fight. She gave her nose a quick, decisive swipe, and then tucked it away again. "I know that sounds unkind. She was a beautiful baby. And she was fine in elementary school. But somewhere along the way" she looked away, shrugged "she changed. She became surly. Always complaining. Always unhappy. She sto
le money from my purse. She ran away time after time. She had no friends. The boys bored her. She hated school. She hated living in Mason. Then one day she dropped out of school and ran away. Except this time she never came back."
She looked at me as if expecting a response.
"You never saw her again?" I asked.
"Never."
"I don't understand," I said. "What happened?"
"You mean what made her finally run away?"
"Yes."
"You think there was some big event, right?" Her voice was louder now, challenging. "Her father must have abused her. Or maybe I beat her.
Something that explains it all. That's the way it works. Nice and tidy. Cause and effect. But there was nothing like that. Her father and I, we weren't perfect. Far from it. But it wasn't our fault either."
"I didn't mean to imply "
"I know what you were implying."
Her eyes ignited. She pursed her lips and looked a dare at me. I wanted off this subject.
"Did Sheila ever call you?" I said.
"Yes."
"How often?"
"The last time was three years ago."
She stopped, waiting for me to continue.
I asked, "Where was she when she called?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
"What did she say?"
This time it took her a long while to respond. Edna Rogers began to circle the room and look at the beds and the dressers. She fluffed a pillow and tucked in a sheet corner. "Once every six months or so, Sheila would call home. She was usually stoned or drunk or high, whatever. She'd get all emotional. She'd cry and I'd cry and she'd say horrible things to me."
"Like what?"
She shook her head. "Downstairs. What that man with the tattoo on his forehead said. About you two meeting here and falling in love. That true?"
"Yes."
She stood upright and looked at me. Her lips curled into what might pass for a smile. "So," she said, and I heard something creep into her voice, "Sheila was sleeping with her boss."
Edna Rogers curled the smile some more, and it was like looking at a different person.
"She was a volunteer," I said.
"Uh-huh. And what exactly was she volunteering to do for you, Will?"
I felt a shiver skitter down my back.
"Still want to judge me?" she asked.
"I think you should leave."
"Can't take the truth, is that it? You think I'm some kind of monster.
That I gave up on my kid for no good reason."
"It's not my place to say."
"Sheila was a miserable kid. She lied. She stole "
"Maybe I'm beginning to understand," I said.
"Understand what?"
"Why she ran away."
She blinked and then glared at me. "You didn't know her. You still don't."
"Didn't you hear a thing that was said down there?"
"I heard." Her voice grew softer. "But I never knew that Sheila.
She'd never let me. The Sheila I knew "
"In all due deference, I'm really not in the mood to hear you trash her any further."
Edna Rogers stopped. She closed her eyes and sat on the edge of a bed.
The room grew very still. "That's not why I came here."
"Why did you come?"
"I wanted to hear something good, for one thing."
"You got that," I said.
She nodded. "That I did."
"What else do you want?"
Edna Rogers stood. She stepped toward me, and I fought off the desire to move away. She looked me straight in the eye. "I'm here about Carly."
I waited. When she did not elaborate, I said, "You mentioned that name on the phone."
"Yes."
"I didn't know any Carly then, and I don't know any now."
She showed me the cruel, curled smile again. "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, Will?"
I felt a fresh shiver. "No."
"Sheila never mentioned the name Carly?"
"No."
"You're sure about that?"
"Yes. Who is she?"
"Carly is Sheila's daughter."
I was struck dumb. Edna Rogers saw my reaction. She seemed to enjoy it.
"Your lovely volunteer never mentioned that she had a daughter, did she?"
I said nothing.
"Carly is twelve years old now. And no, I don't know who the father is. I don't think Sheila did either."
"I don't understand," I said.
She reached into her purse and took out a picture. She handed it to me. It was one of those newborn hospital shots. A baby wrapped in a blanket, new eyes blinking out, unseeing. I flipped it over. The handwriting said "Carly." The date of birth was written under it.
My head began to spin.
"The last time Sheila called me was on Carly's ninth birthday," she said. "And I spoke to her myself. Carly, that is."
"So where is she now?"
"I don't know," Edna Rogers said. "That's why I'm here, Will. I want to find my granddaughter."
Chapter Twenty-Five.
When I stumbled back home, Katy Miller was sitting by my apartment door, her knapsack between her splayed legs.
She scrambled to her feet. "I called but..."
I nodded.
"My parents," Katy told me. "I just can't stay in that house another day. I thought maybe I could crash on your couch."
"It's not a good time," I said.
"Oh."
I put the key in the door.
"It's just that I've been trying to put it together, you know. Like we said. Who could have killed Julie. And I started wondering. How much do you know about Julie's life after you two broke up?"
We both stepped inside the apartment. "I don't know if now is a good time."
She finally saw my face. "Why? What happened?"
"Someone very close to me died."
"You mean your mother?"
I shook my head. "Someone else close to me. She was murdered."
Katy gasped and dropped the knapsack. "How close?"
"Very."
"A girlfriend?"
"Yes."
"Someone you loved?"
"Very much."
She looked at me.
"What? "I said.
"I don't know, Will. It's like someone murders the women you love."
The same thought I'd earlier pushed away. Vocalized, it sounded even more ridiculous. "Julie and I broke up more than a year before her murder."
"So you were over her?"
I did not want to travel that route again. I said, "What about Julie's life after we broke up?"
Katy fell onto the couch the way teenagers do, as if she had no bones.
Her right leg was draped over the arm, her head back with the chin tilted up. She wore ripped jeans again and another top that was so tight it looked like the bra was on the outside. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail. A few of the strands fell loose and onto her face.
"I started thinking," she said, "if Ken didn't kill her, someone else did, right?"
"Right."
"So I started looking into her life at the time. You know, calling old friends, trying to remember what was going on with her, that kind of thing."
"And what did you find?"
"That she was pretty messed up."
I tried to focus on what she was saying. "How so?"
She dropped both legs to the floor and sat up. "What do you remember?"
"She was a senior at Haverton."
"No."
"No?"
"Julie dropped out."
That surprised me. "You're sure?"
"Senior year," she said. Then she asked, "When did you last see her, Will?"
I thought about it. It had indeed been a while. I told her so.
"So when you broke up?"
I shook my head. "She ended it on the phone."
"For real?"
"Yes."
"Cold," Katy said. "An
d you just accepted that?"
"I tried to see her. But she wouldn't let me."
Katy looked at me as though I'd just spouted the lamest excuse in the history of mankind. Looking back on it, I guess maybe she was right.
Why hadn't I gone to Haverton? Why hadn't I demanded to meet face-to-face?
"I think," Katy said, "Julie ended up doing something bad."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Maybe that's going too far. I don't remember much, but I remember she seemed happy before she died. I hadn't seen her that happy in a long time. I think maybe she was getting better, I don't know."
The doorbell rang. My shoulders slumped at the sound. I was not much in the mood for more company. Katy, reading me, jumped up and said, "I'll get it."
It was a deliveryman with a fruit basket. Katy took the basket and brought it back into the room. She dropped it on the table. "There's a card," she said.
"Open it."
She plucked it out of the tiny envelope. "It's a condolence basket from some of the kids at Covenant House." She pulled something from an envelope. "A mass card too."
Katy kept staring at the card.
"What's the matter?"
Katy read it again. Then she looked up at me. "Sheila Rogers?"
"Yes."
"Your girlfriend's name was Sheila Rogers?"
"Yeah, why?"
Katy shook her head and put down the card.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Don't give me that. Did you know her?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Nothing." Katy's voice was firmer this time. "Just drop it, okay?"
The phone rang. I waited for the machine. Through the speaker I heard Squares say, "Pick it up."
I did.
Without preamble, Squares said, "You believe the mother? About Sheila having a daughter?"
"Yes."
"So what are we going to do about it?"
I had been thinking about it since I first heard the news. "I have a theory," I said.
"I'm a-listening."