by Harlan Coben
'Hello?'
'T.C.?'
'Laura? Is that you? How's the honeymoon?'
'Listen, T.C., I need to talk to you.'
'What's up?'
She quickly recounted the past day's events. T.C. listened without interrupting and, like Laura knew he would, he immediately took control.
'Have you called the local police?' T.C. asked her.
'Yes.'
'Good. I'll catch the next plane out of here. Captain said I'm due for a vacation anyhow.'
'Thanks, T.C.'
'One more thing: stress to the police the importance of keeping this quiet. The last thing you need is a plane-load of reporters pounding on your door.'
'Okay.'
'Laura?'
'Yes?'
He heard the strain in her voice. 'He'll be all right.'
She hesitated, almost afraid to speak her mind. 'I'm not so sure. Suppose he has one of his . . .' The words stayed in her throat, the thought too unpleasant to be spoken. But T.C. was one of the few people David trusted. He would understand what she was talking about.
'T.C. is my closest friend,' David had said to her last year. 'I know he's rough around the edges and I know you don't easily trust, but when there's real trouble, T.C. is the one to call.'
'What about your family?' Laura had asked him.
David shrugged. 'I only have my older brother.'
'What about him? You never mention him.'
'We don't talk.'
'But he's your brother.'
'I know.'
'So why don't you two talk?'
'It's a long story,' David said. 'We had a problem. It's all in the past now.'
'So why don't you call him?'
'I will. But not yet. It's not time.'
Not time? Laura had not understood. She still didn't.
'Just get here fast, T.C.,' she said now, her voice quivering. 'Please.'
'I'm on my way.'
In Boston, Massachusetts, home of the beloved Celtics, T.C. placed the phone receiver back in its cradle. He glanced down at his dinner -- a Burger King Whopper and fries he had picked up on the drive home -- and decided he was no longer hungry. He reached for a cigar and lit it with a Bic lighter. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed. When the receiver was lifted on the other end, he spoke three words: 'She just called.'
Twenty-seven hours passed. Terry Conroy, known to his friends as T.C., a nickname given to him by David Baskin, fastened his seat belt as Qantas flight 008 made its final approach before landing in Cairns, Australia. It had been a long journey, beginning with an American Airlines flight from Logan to LAX then from Los Angeles to Honolulu with Qantas, and finally, the flight from Honolulu to Cairns. Almost twenty hours in the air.
T.C. pushed open his shade and looked down. The water of the southern Pacific was unlike any other he had ever beheld. The color was not merely blue. Describing it as blue would be like describing Michelangelo's Pieta as a piece of marble. It was so much more than simply blue, too blue really, gleaming in its purity. T.C. was sure he could see straight through the miles-deep water right to the bottom. Small islands dotted the ocean's canvas, beautiful landscapes formed from the rainbow corals of the Great Barrier Reef.
He loosened his seat belt because his newly formed gut was getting crunched. Too much junk food. He looked down at his rolls of flesh and shook his head. He was starting to get fat. Ah, face facts. For a guy under thirty he was already too flabby. Maybe he would start an exercise program when he got back to Boston.
Sure, right. And maybe he'd meet an honest politician.
He threw his back against his seat.
How did you know, David? How did you know for sure?
T.C. had turned twenty-nine last week, the same age as David. They had been roommates at the University of Michigan for four years, best friends, amigos, partners, equals; and yet David had always awed him. It wasn't his basketball ability -- awesome as it was -- that set him apart. It was the man, the man who seemed to let problems and unhappiness run over him like small ripples of water. Most felt David was carefree because he had everything going for him, that he had never known real hardship or conflict, but T.C. knew that was bullshit, that David had survived the early wallops to end up on top, that he still had his moments of private hell that fame and fortune could not counter.
'It's not real, T.C.,' David had told him during his rookie season with the Celtics.
'What's not?'
'The fame. The girls. The groupies. The adulation. The people who hang around you because you're famous. You can't let it mean anything.'
'Well, then what is?'
'The game,' he replied, his eyes lighting up. 'The feeling on the court. The competition. The moment when the game is on the line. A perfect pass. A fade-away jumpshot. A dunk. A clean block. That's what's it's all about, T.C.'
And years later, T.C. thought now, Laura was put on the top of that list.
The Boeing 747 landed with a thump and began to coast towards the small terminal building. David. T.C. shook his head, thinking he'd seen just about everything in the last few years but this . . . Hell, it wasn't his place to ask a lot of questions. It was his place to help. Explanations would come later.
He filled out the quarantine form, grabbed his suitcase off the rotating carousel, passed through customs and walked to the waiting area where Laura said she would meet him. The electronic doors slid open and T.C. found himself in front of a wall of faces. To his right, chauffeurs held up signs with names printed in capital letters. On the left, local guides wore shorts and T-shirts, their signs stating the name of a hotel or tour group. T.C.'s eyes searched for Laura.
A minute later, he spotted her.
T.C. felt something sharp slice through his stomach. Laura was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, still ravishing enough to knock any man to his knees, but David's disappearance had crawled all over her and attacked with a vengeance. She was practically unrecognizable. Her high cheekbones were sunken. Her eyes were dark circles staring out with bewilderment and fear, their bright blue color terrifyingly dim.
She ran to him and he hugged her reassuringly.
'Anything new?' he asked, but the answer was all over her face.
She shook her head. 'It's been two days, T.C. Where could he be?'
'We'll find him,' he said, wishing he was as confident as he sounded. He took her hand. There was no reason to stall the investigation. He might as well dive right in. 'But let me ask you something, Laura. Before David vanished, did he have -- ?'
'No,' she interrupted quickly, not wanting to hear that word. 'Not in more than eight months.'
'Good. Now where can I find the officer in charge of the investigation?'
'Palm's Cove only has two officers. The sheriff is waiting for you at his office.'
Forty minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of a wooden building marked 'Town Hall' and 'General Store.' There were no other buildings on the street. The lone structure looked like something out of Petticoat Junction, except for the surrounding lush tropics.
'Listen, Laura, I think it might be best if I speak to the sheriff alone.'
'Why?'
'Look at this place,' he said. 'It looks like something out of Bonanza, for chrissake. I doubt the sheriff here is much of a progressive thinker. Out here, women's lib is probably a concept for the distant future. He may be more willing to talk if I speak to him alone, cop-to-cop sort of thing.'
'But -- '
'I'll let you know the moment I learn anything.'
She hesitated. 'If you think it's best . . .'
'I do. Just wait out here, okay?'
She nodded mechanically, her eyes wet and glassy. T.C. got out of the car and walked down the path. His head was down, his eyes finding the weeds popping through the cracks in the worn cement. He raised his line of vision and stared at the building. It was old, the paint chipped, the structure looking as if a good push would topple it over. T.C. wondered if it
was age or the climate of the tropics that made the wood look so weathered. Probably both.
The front door was open. T.C. leaned his head through the frame.
'May I come in?' he asked.
The Australian accent was the first he had heard since landing. 'You Inspector Conroy?'
'That's right.'
'Graham Rowe,' the man said, standing. 'I'm sheriff of this town.'
While his words were those of a sheriff in a cheap Western, his accent and size were not. Graham Rowe was huge, a mountain of a man who looked like Grizzly Adams or some professional wrestler. A gray-blonde beard captured his entire face, his hazel eyes serious and piercing. His green uniform with shorts made him resemble an overgrown Boy Scout, but T.C. wasn't suicidal so he kept that thought to himself. A bushwhacker hat with its right side tilted up rested on his head. A rather large gun and an equally large knife adorned his belt. His skin was leathery and lined but not aged. T.C. guessed him to be in his mid-forties.
'Call me Graham,' he said, extending a giant hand/ paw. T.C. shook it. It was like shaking hands with a catcher's mitt.
'They call me T.C.'
'You must be tired after that long flight, T.C.'
'I slept on the plane,' he said. 'What can you tell me about your investigation?'
'Kind of anxious, huh?'
'He's my best friend.'
Graham moved back behind his desk and beckoned T.C. to take a seat. The room was bare except for a twirling fan and the many rifles hung on the walls. A small holding cell was in the left-hand corner.
'Not much really,' the sheriff began. 'David Baskin left a note for his wife saying he was going swimming, and he hasn't been seen since. I questioned the lifeguard at the hotel. He remembers seeing Baskin shooting baskets by himself at around three in the afternoon. Two hours later, he saw Baskin walking up the beach heading north.'
'Then David didn't go for a swim?'
Graham shrugged. 'He might have. There are swimming areas all over the place but there's no supervision where he was walking and the current is mighty powerful.'
'David's a great swimmer.'
'So his missus tells me, but I've lived here all my life and I can tell you when one of those damn currents wants to drag you down, there's not much a man can do but drown.'
'Have you begun a search for the body?'
Graham nodded his head. 'Sure have, but not a trace of the lad so far.'
'If he had drowned, should the body have shown up by now?'
'Normally, yes, but mate, this is northern Australia. More things could happen to a man in that ocean than on your subways. He could have washed up on one of the small unmanned islands or gotten snared on jagged coral in the Barrier Reef or been eaten by Lord-knows-what. Any one of a million things could have happened to him.'
'What's your theory, Graham?'
The large Aussie stood and crossed the room. 'Coffee?' 'No, thanks.'
'In this heat, I don't blame you. How about a Coke?'
'Sounds good.'
Graham reached into a small refrigerator behind his desk and took out two bottles, handing one to T.C.
'You say you're mates with this Baskin, right?'
'For many years.'
'Do you think you can be objective?'
'I think so.'
The sheriff sat back down with a long sigh. 'T.C., I'm just a sheriff of a small, friendly community. That's the way I like it. Nice, quiet, peaceful. You know what I mean?'
T.C. nodded.
'I'm not looking to be a big hero. I don't want no glory and I don't like complicated cases like you mates in Boston handle. You know what I'm saying?'
'Sure.'
'Now, being a simple man, let me tell you how I see it. I don't think Baskin drowned.'
'You don't?'
Graham shook his head. 'I may have made a nice speech about all the possibilities for a corpse in the Pacific but the truth is almost always much simpler. If he had drowned, his body should have been here by now. Not one hundred percent of the time, mind you, but almost.'
'What then?'
The large man took a swig of Coke. 'Could he have developed a classic case of cold feet? It wouldn't be the first time a mate has run away on his honeymoon. Almost did it myself once.'
T.C.' s answer was a grin. 'Have you taken a good look at his wife?'
Graham whistled his appreciation. 'Never seen anything like that in my life, mate. My eyes almost popped out of the sockets.' He took another sip of his Coke, lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak tree. 'I guess we can assume he's not on the run. But let me ask you something else, T.C. I've been doing some research on this Baskin -- part of the job, you know -- and he seems to be quite the joker. Any chance he's just out for a last kick or something?'
'And worry her like this? It wouldn't be like him, Graham.'
'Well, I've radioed all the nearby towns and the coast guard. None of them wants a lot of press around either so they'll keep mum. Other than that, I'm not sure there's much we can do.'
'I'd like to ask a favor, Graham.'
'Name it.'
'I know I'm out of my jurisdiction, but I'd like to help out with the investigation if I can. David Baskin is my best friend and I know him better -- '
'Whoa, whoa, slow down there,' Graham interrupted. The sheriff stood. His gaze traveled north to south, from T.C.' s face to his scuffed-up Thom McCann loafers. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. 'I'm undermanned as it is,' he continued slowly, 'and I guess it wouldn't hurt any to deputize you for this case.' He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to T.C. 'Here's a list of places I want you to call. Report back to me if you hear anything.'
'Thanks. I really appreciate this.'
'No worries. But let me ask you one last question: is there anything wrong with Baskin?'
T.C. felt his pulse begin to pound in his throat. Memories flashed across his brain. 'Wrong?'
'Yeah, you know, does he have any injuries, a bad heart or something?'
'Not that I know of,' T.C. lied.
'And who would know better?' Graham grinned. 'After all, you're his best mate.'
T.C.' s eyes met the big sheriff's for a brief moment. They revealed nothing.
Laura and T.C. remained silent during the short ride back to the hotel. T.C. checked in, left his bags at the front desk, and followed Laura to the honeymoon suite.
'So what do we do now, T.C.?'
He drew in a deep breath. He scratched his head, his fingertips wading through the thinness of the strands as they made their way to his scalp. No gray hairs yet, he thought, though he hoped his hair would last long enough to develop some. He doubted it. The light brown strands were quickly losing ground, his forehead taking over his scalp like Sherman through Atlanta.
T.C. looked out the window of the suite and felt in his pocket for a cigar. None were there.
'Call around. Search the area.'
Laura's voice was surprisingly steady and matter-of-fact. 'By calling around, you mean the morgues.'
'Morgues, hospitals -- that kind of thing.'
'And by searching the area, you mean the ocean and beaches to see if David's body has washed up.'
He nodded.
Laura walked over to the telephone. 'Do you want to change or rest up before we get started? You look like hell.'
He turned and smiled. 'I just got off a long flight. What's your excuse?'
'I'm not exactly ready for a cover shot, huh?'
'You'd still put the competition to shame.'
'Thanks. Now do me a favor.'
'Name it.'
'Go down to the lobby and buy a couple of boxes of their finest cheap cigars.'
'Huh?'
She lifted the receiver. 'Stack up your supplies. We might be here a while.'
First, she called the morgues.
Laura had purposely wanted to call them first, to get them out of the way as fast as possible. Better to dash m
adly through the valley of the shadow of death than to take a casual stroll. Her head sat on a guillotine from the moment the coroner said, 'Hold on a moment, luv,' until a hellish decade later -- or so it seemed -- when he came back on to say, 'No one fitting that description here.' Then relief would flood her veins for a few seconds before T.C. gave her the next number to dial.
The room reeked of cigar stench like a poker table on the boy's night to play, but Laura did not notice. She felt trapped, suffocated -- not by the smoke but by each ring of the phone, her body constantly crossing between hope and dread as she now began to call the hospitals. She wanted so much to know -- needed to know -- while at the same time, she was afraid to find out. It was like living in a nightmare, one where you are terrified to wake up because then the nightmare might become reality.
An hour later, the calls were completed.
'Now what?'
T.C. flicked an ash onto the table-top. He had smoked many cigars in his day but this Australian stogy was like smoking duck manure. One puff from this baby would have done to Fidel what Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs could not. He decided this would be his last one.
'I'm going to run downstairs and get you a few more numbers to call from the phone book,' he said. 'Then I'm going to start questioning the staff. No reason for both of us to sit by a phone.'
He stood, walked to the door, sighed, turned slowly back around. He reached back and grabbed his Australian cigars. What the hell. His taste buds were dead already.
A little while later, as Laura sat alone in her room waiting for T.C. (or better yet, David) to return, she decided to call home. Glancing at the clock, she realized that it was around eleven p.m. in Boston.
Her father, Dr James Ayars, would be sitting in his immaculate study at his immaculate desk. Medical files for tomorrow morning's rounds would be neatly stacked, the right side for those already reviewed, the left for the ones not yet read. He would be wearing his gray silk robe over neatly buttoned pajamas, his reading glasses gripping the end of his nose tightly so they would not slide off during one of his frequent sighs.
Her mother, the lovely socialite Mary Ayars, would probably be upstairs waiting for her husband's nocturnal voyage to their bedroom. She would be propped up in bed, reading the latest provocative novel assigned for her reading group, a clan really, containing some of Boston's most influential pseudo-intellectuals. They enjoyed spending each Thursday evening dissecting the 'in' books and attributing meanings that even the most creative of authors could not have imagined on the loftiest of drug trips. Laura had gone to one session (they were sessions, her mother had told her, not meetings), and decided that Webster's Dictionary should have a picture of this group next to the word 'bullshit'. But this was merely her mother's latest in a long series of Thursday-night attempts at female bonding, running the gambit from bridge games to sexual-awareness encounter groups.