by Harlan Coben
Cops, Nash knew, believed that criminals followed a certain spe- cific pattern. That may be so—most criminals are morons—but Nash did the opposite. He had beaten Marianne beyond recognition, but this time he had not touched Reba’s face. Part of that was just logistics. He knew that he could hide Marianne’s true identity. Not so with Reba. By now her husband had probably reported her missing. If a fresh corpse was found, even one bloodied and battered, the police would realize that the odds it belonged to Reba Cordova were strong.
So change the MO: Don’t let the body be found at all.
That was the key. Nash had left Marianne’s body where they could find it, but Reba would simply vanish. Nash had left her car in the hotel lot. The police would think that she had gone there for an illicit tryst. They would focus on that, work that avenue, investigate her background to see if she had a boyfriend. Maybe Nash would get extra lucky. Maybe Reba did have someone on the side. The police would zero in on him for certain. Either way, if no body was found, they would have nothing to go on and probably assume that she had been a runaway. There would be no tie between Reba and Marianne.
So he would keep her here. For a while at least.
Pietra had the dead back in her eyes. Years ago, she had been a gorgeous young actress in what used to be called Yugoslavia. There had been ethnic cleansing. Her husband and son were killed before her eyes in ways too gruesome to imagine. Pietra was not so lucky—she survived. Nash had worked as a military mercenary back then. He had rescued her. Or what was left of her. Since then Pietra only came to life when she had to act, like back in the bar when they grabbed Marianne. The rest of the time there was nothing there. It had all been scooped out by those Serbian soldiers.
“I promised Cassandra,” he said to her. “You understand that, don’t you?”
Pietra looked off. He studied her profile.
“You feel bad about this one, don’t you?”
Pietra said nothing. They put Reba’s body in a mixture of wood chips and manure. It would keep for a while. Nash did not want to risk stealing another license plate. He took out the black electrical tape and changed the F to an E—that might be enough. In the corner of the shed, he had a pile of other “disguises” for his van. A magnetic sign advertising Tremesis Paints. Another that read CAMBRIDGE INSTITUTE. He chose instead to put on a bumper sticker he’d bought at a religious conference entitled The Lord’s Love last October. The sticker read:
GOD DOESN’T BELIEVE IN ATHEISTS
Nash smiled. Such a kind, pious sentiment. But the key was, you noticed it. He put it on with two-sided tape so he could easily peel it off if he so desired. People would read the bumper sticker and be offended or impressed. Either way, they’d notice. And when you notice things like that, you don’t notice the license plate number.
They got back in the car.
Until he met Pietra, Nash had never bought that the eyes were the window to the soul. But here, in her case, it was obvious. Her eyes were beautiful, blue with yellow sparkles, and yet you could see that there was nothing behind them, that something had blown out the candles and that they would never be relit.
“It had to be done, Pietra. You understand that.”
She finally spoke. “You enjoyed it.”
There was no judgment. She knew Nash long enough for him not to lie.
“So?”
She looked off.
“What is it, Pietra?”
“I knew what happened to my family,” she said.
Nash said nothing.
“I watched my son and my husband suffer in horrible ways. And they watched me suffer too. That was the last sight they saw before dying—me suffering with them.”
“I know this,” Nash said. “And you say I enjoyed this. But normally, so do you, right?”
She answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
Most people assumed that it would be the opposite—that the victim of such horrific violence would naturally be repulsed by any future bloodshed. But the truth was, the world does not work that way. Violence breeds violence—but not just in the obvious, retaliatory way. The molested child grows up to become the adult molester. The son traumatized by his father abusing his mother is far more likely to one day beat his own wife.
Why?
Why do we humans never really learn the lessons we are supposed to? What is in our makeup, in fact, that draws us to that which should sicken us?
After Nash saved her, Pietra had craved vengeance. It was all she thought about during her recuperation. Three weeks after she was discharged from the hospital, Nash and Pietra tracked down one of the soldiers who’d tortured her family. They managed to get him alone. Nash tied and gagged him. He gave Pietra the pruning shears and left her alone with him. It took three days for the soldier to die. By the end of the first, the soldier was begging Pietra to kill him. But she didn’t.
She loved every moment.
In the end, most people find revenge to be a wasted emotion. They feel empty after doing something so horrible to another human being, even one who maybe deserved it. Not Pietra. The experience just made her thirst for more. And that was a big part of why she was with him today.
“So what’s different this time?” he asked.
Nash waited. She took her time, but eventually she got to it.
“The not knowing,” Pietra said in a hushed tone. “Never knowing. Inflicting physical pain . . . we do that, no problem.” She looked back at the storage unit. “But to make a man go through the rest of his life wondering what happened to the woman he loved.” She shook her head. “I think that is worse.”
Nash put a hand on her shoulder. “It can’t be helped right now. You understand that, right?”
She nodded, looked straight ahead. “But someday?”
“Yes, Pietra. Someday. When we finish this up, we will let him know the truth.”
22
WHEN Guy Novak pulled back into his driveway, his hands were at two and ten. His grip on the wheel turned his knuckles white. He just sat there, foot on the brake, wanting so much to feel anything but this tremendous impotence.
He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair was thinning. He was starting to let the part in his hair drift toward his ear. It wasn’t a noticeable comb-over, not yet, but isn’t that what everyone thinks? The part moves so slowly south you don’t notice it on a day-to-day or even week-to-week basis and the next thing you know, people are snickering at you behind your back.
Guy stared at the man in the mirror and couldn’t believe it was him. The part, however, would continue to drift. He knew that. Better the wisps of hair than that shiny chrome up top.
He took one hand off the wheel, shifted into park, turned the ignition key. He took another glance at the man in the rearview mirror.
Pathetic.
Not a man at all. Driving by a house and slowing down. Wow, what a tough guy. Show some balls, Guy—or are you too afraid to do anything to the scumbag who destroyed your child?
What kind of father is that? What kind of man?
A pathetic one.
Oh, sure, Guy had complained to the principal like some tattletale baby. The principal made all the right sympathetic sounds and did nothing. Lewiston still taught. Lewiston still went home at night and kissed his pretty wife and probably lifted his little girl in the air and listened to her giggle. Guy’s wife, Yasmin’s mother, had left when Yasmin was less than two. Most people blamed his ex for abandoning her family, but in truth, Guy hadn’t been man enough. So his ex started sleeping around and after a while, she didn’t really care if he found out or not.
That had been his wife. Not strong enough to hold on to her. Okay, that was one thing.
But now we were talking about his child.
Yasmin. His lovely daughter. The only manly thing he had accomplished in his entire life. Fathering a child. Raising her. Being her primary caretaker.
Wasn’t his first job to protect her?
Good job, Guy.
/> And now he was not even man enough to fight for her. What would Guy’s father have said about that? He’d sneer and give him that look that made Guy feel so worthless. He’d call him a sissy because if someone had done something like that to anyone in his old man’s inner circle, George Novak would have punched out his lights.
That was what Guy so badly wanted to do.
He stepped out of the car and started up the walk. He had lived here twelve years now. He remembered holding his ex’s hand as they approached it for the first time, the way she smiled at him. Had she already been screwing around behind his back then? Probably. For years after she left him, Guy would wonder if Yasmin was really his. He would try to block it, try to claim it wouldn’t matter, try to ignore that doubt eating away at him. But after a while he couldn’t take it anymore. Two years ago, Guy surreptitiously arranged a paternity test. It took three painful weeks to get the results, but in the end, it was worth it.
Yasmin was his.
This might again sound pathetic, but knowing the truth made him a better father. He made sure that she was happy. He put her needs ahead of his. He loved Yasmin and cared for her and never belittled her like his father had done to him.
But he hadn’t protected her.
He stopped and looked at the house now. If he was going to put it on the market, it could probably use a fresh coat of paint. The shrubs would need to be trimmed too.
“Hey!”
The female voice was unfamiliar. Guy turned and squinted into the sunlight. He was stunned to see Lewiston’s wife getting out of her car. Her face was twisted in rage. She started toward him.
Guy stood without moving.
“What do you think you’re doing,” she said, “driving past my house?”
Guy, never good with fast retorts, replied, “It’s a free country.”
Dolly Lewiston did not stop. She came at him so fast he feared that she might strike him. He actually put his hands up and took a step back. Pathetic weakling yet again. Afraid not only to stick up for his child but of her tormentor’s wife too.
She stopped and put a finger in his face. “You stay away from my family, you hear me?”
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Do you know what your husband did to my daughter?”
“He made a mistake.”
“He made fun of an eleven-year-old girl.”
“I know what he did. It was dumb. He is very sorry. You have no idea.”
“He made my daughter’s life a living hell.”
“And so, what, you want to do the same to us?”
“Your husband should quit,” Guy said.
“For one slip of the tongue?”
“He took away her childhood.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Do you really not remember what it was like back then—being the kid who got picked on every day? My daughter was a happy kid. Not perfect, no. But happy. And now . . .”
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But I want you to stay away from my family.”
“If he hit her—I mean, like slapped her or something—he’d be gone, right? What he did to Yasmin was even worse.”
Dolly Lewiston made a face. “Are you for real?”
“I’m not letting this go.”
She took a step toward him. This time he did not back up. Their faces were maybe a foot apart, no more. Her voice became a whisper. “Do you really think being called a name is the worst that can happen to her?”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“You’re going after my family, Mr. Novak. My family. The people I love. My husband made a mistake. He apologized. But you still want to attack us. And if that’s the case, we will defend ourselves.”
“If you’re talking about a lawsuit—”
She chuckled. “Oh, no,” she said, still in that whisper. “I’m not talking about courts.”
“Then what?”
Dolly Lewiston tilted her head to the right. “Have you ever been physically assaulted, Mr. Novak?”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a question. You said that what my husband did was worse than a physical assault. Let me assure you, Mr. Novak. It is not. I know people. I give them the word—I just hint that someone is trying to hurt me—they’ll come by here one night when you’re sleeping. When your daughter is sleeping.”
Guy’s mouth felt dry. He tried to stop his knees from turning to rubber.
“That definitely sounds like a threat, Mrs. Lewiston.”
“It isn’t. It’s a fact. If you want to go after us, we aren’t going to sit on our hands and let you. I will go after you with everything I have. Do you understand?”
He didn’t reply.
“Do yourself a favor, Mr. Novak. Worry about taking care of your daughter, not my husband. Let it go.”
“I won’t.”
“Then the suffering has just begun.”
Dolly Lewiston turned around and left without another word. Guy Novak felt the quake in his legs. He stayed and watched her get in her car and drive away. She did not look back but he could see a smile on her face.
She’s nuts, Guy thought.
But did that mean he should back down? Hadn’t he backed down his whole damn life? Wasn’t that the problem from the get-go here— that he was a man you walked all over?
He opened the front door and headed inside.
“Everything okay?”
It was Beth, his latest girlfriend. She tried too hard to please. They all did. There was such a shortage of men in this age group and so they all tried so hard to both please and not appear desperate and none of them could quite pull it off. Desperation was like that. You could try to mask it, but the smell permeates all covers.
Guy wished that he could get past that. He wished that the women could get past it too, so that they would see him. But that was how it was and so all these relationships stayed on a superficial level. The women would want more. They would try not to pressure and that just felt like pressure. Women were nesters. They wanted to get closer. He wouldn’t. But they would stay anyway until he broke it off with them.
“Everything is fine,” Guy said to her. “Sorry if I took too long.”
“Not at all.”
“The girls okay?”
“Yes. Jill’s mom came by and picked her up. Yasmin is up in her room.”
“Okay, great.”
“Are you hungry, Guy? Would you like me to fix you something to eat?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
Beth beamed a little, and for some reason that made him feel guilty. The women he dated made him feel both worthless and superior at the same time. Feelings of self-loathing consumed him once again.
She came over and kissed his cheek. “You go relax and I’ll start making lunch.”
“Great, I’m just going to quickly check my e-mail.”
But when Guy checked his computer, there was only one new e-mail. It came from an anonymous Hotmail account and the short message chilled Guy’s blood.
Please listen to me. You need to hide your gun better.
TIA almost wished that she’d taken up Hester Crimstein’s offer. She sat in her house and wondered if she had ever felt more useless in her entire life. She called Adam’s friends, but no one knew anything. Fear built in her head. Jill, no dummy when it came to her parents’ moods, knew something was seriously off.
“Where’s Adam, Mommy?”
“We don’t know, honey.”
“I called his cell,” Jill said. “He didn’t answer.”
“I know. We’re trying to find him.”
She looked at her daughter’s face. So adult. The second kid grows up so much differently from the first. You so overprotect your first. You watch his every step. You think his every breath is somehow God’s divine plan. The earth, moon, stars, sun—they all revolve around a firstborn.
Tia thought about secrets, about inner thoughts and fears, and how she’d been trying to find
her son’s. She wondered if this disappearance confirmed that she’d been right to do it or wrong. We all have our problems, she knew. Tia had anxiety issues. She religiously made the kids wear headgear when playing any sort of sport— eyewear too when it was called for. She stayed at the bus stop until they got in, even now, even when Adam was far too old for such treatment and would never stand it, so she hid and watched. She didn’t like them crossing busy streets or heading to the center of town on their bikes. She didn’t like carpooling because that other mother might not be as careful a driver. She listened to every story about every child tragedy—every car accident, every pool drowning, every abduction, every plane crash, anything. She listened and then she came home and looked it up online and read every article on it and while Mike would sigh and try to calm her down by talking about the long-shot odds, prove to her that her anxiety was unfounded, it would do no good.
Long odds still happened to someone. And now it was happening to her.
Had these been anxiety issues—or had Tia been right all along?
Once again Tia’s cell jangled and once again she grabbed it fast, hoping with everything she had that it was Adam. It wasn’t. The number was blocked.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Baye? This is Detective Schlich.”
The tall woman cop from the hospital. The fear struck yet again. You think that you can’t keep feeling fresh waves, but the stabs never make you numb. “Yes?”
“Your son’s phone was found in a trash can not far from where your husband got jumped.”
“So he was there?”
“Well, yes, we assumed that already.”
“And someone must have stolen his phone.”
“That’s another question. The most likely reason for tossing the phone was that someone—probably your son—saw your husband there and realized how he’d been tracked down.”