Never Look Away: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  I considered that. “That could be.”

  “And you’re asking this because …?” Duckworth asked.

  “I’m not saying this is what’s happened, but I think it’s just possible that—”

  “No, wait, let me guess,” Duckworth said. “Your wife is a witness in hiding. And her cover’s been blown, and now she’s taken off.”

  “Is this a joke to you? I thought you’d want to know about this.”

  “No, no, that’s a very serious thing,” he said. “Very serious.”

  “You think I’m full of shit,” I said.

  I thought maybe he’d deny the accusation, and when he didn’t, I said, “I think Jan may not be who she says she is.”

  Another glance. Then, “And just who is she, really? Tell me, I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve … I’ve found out some things in the last day that don’t make a whole lot of sense to me. And they may have something to do with why Jan’s missing.”

  “And what are these things you’ve found out?”

  “I went to Rochester and found the people who are listed on Jan’s birth certificate as her parents.”

  “And that’s who?”

  “Horace and Gretchen Richler. The thing is, they had a daughter named Jan, but she died when she was five.”

  The tongue was moving around inside Duckworth’s cheek again. “Okay,” he said.

  “It was an accident. Her father hit her with the car, backing out of the driveway.”

  “Man,” Duckworth said. “How do you live with that the rest of your life?”

  “Yeah.” I gave him a minute for it to sink in. “What do you make of that?”

  “You know what? Let me make a call when we get to the station. And while someone’s looking into that, we can talk about some other things.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the plain chair at the plain desk in the plain room.

  “Isn’t this an interrogation room?” I asked.

  “It’s a room,” Duckworth said. “A room is a room. I want to talk to you privately, it’s as good a place as any. But hang on for a second while I make a call about that witness protection thing. You want a coffee or a soft drink or something?”

  I said I was okay.

  “Be right back, then.” He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  I walked over to the table, stood there a moment, finally sat down on one of the metal chairs.

  This didn’t feel right.

  Duckworth brings me in, says he wants to talk about something but doesn’t say what, puts me in a room, leaves me alone.

  There was a mirror on one wall. I wondered whether Duckworth was on the other side, watching through one-way glass to see how I behaved. Was I fidgeting, pacing, running my fingers nervously through my hair?

  I stayed in the chair, tried to calm down. But inside I was churning.

  After about five minutes, the door opened. Duckworth had a coffee in one hand, and a bottled water tucked under his arm so he could turn the knob.

  “Got myself a coffee,” he said. “I grabbed you a water, just in case.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” I said.

  “Say what?”

  “I’m not an idiot. The way this is going. Bringing me down here. Leaving me in here to sweat it out for a while on my own. I get it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Duckworth said, pulling up a chair and setting the coffee and water on the table.

  “Look, I’m not the greatest reporter in the world. If I were, I wouldn’t be at the Standard. They stopped caring about journalism a long time ago. But I’ve been around long enough to know the score. You think I’m some kind of suspect or something.”

  “I never said that.”

  “So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t think I have anything to do with this.”

  “How about you tell me about this trip you took up to Lake George two days ago?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never mentioned it. Why’s that?”

  “Why would I? Jan went missing the following day. Why would I bring up what happened on Friday?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it now?”

  “Why is this important?”

  “Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me, Mr. Harwood?”

  “No, of course not, but—fine. Jan and I drove up to Lake George to meet with a source. Actually, I was meeting with the source. Jan just came along.”

  “A source?”

  “For a story I’ve been working on.”

  “What story is that?”

  I hesitated before continuing. Could I discuss with the police stories I was working on for the Standard? Was it ethical? Did it violate journalistic principles?

  Did I really, at this moment, give a flying fuck?

  “I’ve been working on stories about Star Spangled Corrections wanting to come to Promise Falls. The company has been doing favors for at least one council member that I know of. Someone sent me an email, that there were others taking payoffs or kickbacks, or whatever, to buy their votes when the prison comes up before council for zoning approvals.”

  “Who sent you the email?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Oh,” said Duckworth, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes but restraining himself. “Confidentiality. Protecting your source.”

  “No,” I said. “The email was anonymous.”

  “But if you met with this person, you must know who it is.”

  “She didn’t show up,” I said.

  “She?”

  “She said in her email that I was to look for a woman in a white truck. No woman in a white truck showed up.”

  “Where was she supposed to meet you?”

  “At a general store/gas station place north of Lake George. Ted’s, it was called.”

  “So you drove up there?”

  “That’s right. Friday afternoon. She was supposed to come at five.”

  “And you took your wife with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you do that? Do you normally take your wife along when you’re going to interview someone?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Have you ever taken your wife with you before when you were on an assignment?”

  I thought. “I’m sure I have, but I can’t actually think of an instance. There was an awards dinner a couple of years ago.”

  “You were covering the awards? Or you were up for one?”

  “I was up for one. For spot news reporting.”

  “So that wasn’t really an assignment. That was the sort of thing anyone would take their spouse to.”

  “I suppose so,” I conceded.

  “Did you win?” Duckworth asked.

  “No.”

  “So then, why did you take your wife on this outing?”

  “Like I told you, she’s been feeling depressed the last few weeks, and she told me she was going to take Friday off, so I suggested she come along for the ride. She could keep me company on the way up and back.”

  “Okay,” Duckworth said. “What did you talk about on the way up?”

  I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t know, we just—What’s the point of this, Detective?”

  “I’m just getting a full picture of the events that led up to your wife’s disappearance.”

  “Our drive to Lake George did not lead up to her disappearance. It’s just something we did the day before Five Mountains. Unless—”

  Duckworth cocked his head to one side. “Unless?”

  The car. The one Jan had spotted following us. The one that did a couple of drive-bys of the place where I was supposed to meet the woman.

  “I think we were followed,” I said.

  Duckworth leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows went up. “You were followed.”

  I nodded. “Jan noticed a car following us up. But I wasn’t that sure. Then, when we were waitin
g in the parking lot for this contact to show up, the car drove by a couple of times. Went up the road, turned around and came back. I ran out to it at one point, trying to get a look at who it was, but then the car sped off.”

  Duckworth folded his arms across his chest. His forearms sat on his belly like it was a countertop. He hadn’t touched his coffee yet, and I hadn’t cracked the top of the bottled water.

  “You were followed,” he said again.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said.

  “Who would have followed you?”

  “I don’t know. At the time, I figured it was someone who found out this woman had arranged to meet me. I thought maybe that was what scared her off. She saw that car snooping about and chickened out.”

  “But now you have a different theory?”

  “I don’t know. You’re so interested in what happened Friday, and after what I found out from these people I thought were Jan’s parents, maybe the person in that car was following Jan. Maybe that’s what this is all about. She’s a relocated witness, someone figured out who she was, was following her, and she had to disappear.”

  Duckworth, finally, took a sip of his coffee. He smiled. “You’re not going to believe this, but this coffee is fantastic. We’ve got this one guy, he works burglary, makes the best pot of coffee. Better than Starbucks. What are the odds, in a police station, you know? You sure you don’t want a cup?”

  “No thanks.”

  “So, what did you tell your wife about where you were going?”

  “I told her what I’ve told you. That I was going up there to meet with this woman.”

  “Who was going to tell you all the council members who’re taking payoffs from this prison outfit.”

  “That’s what she suggested in her email.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t have any trouble producing this email for me,” Duckworth said. “When did you receive it?”

  “Last Thursday,” I said. “And … I deleted it.”

  “Oh,” Duckworth said. “That seems like an odd thing to do. Why’d you do it?”

  “Because,” I said slowly, “I didn’t want it left in the system.”

  “At your own office? Why?”

  I thought before answering. “I don’t think everyone at the Standard shares my enthusiasm for pursuing this story.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just that I’m learning not to present stories on this prison thing unless they’re completely nailed down. I want to make it hard for my superiors to say no to printing something. I like to play my cards close to the chest. So I don’t leave emails around for them to read.”

  Duckworth looked unconvinced, but went in another direction. “Do you remember the email address?”

  I took a look around the room and shook my head, disgusted with myself. “No. It was just random numbers and letters strung together. A Hotmail address.”

  “I see. Okay then,” Duckworth said, “tell me about this car that was following you. Make, model?”

  “It was dark blue. It was a Buick with tinted windows. A four-door sedan.”

  Duckworth nodded, impressed. “Did you happen to get a plate number?”

  “I tried,” I said. “But it was covered with mud. But it was a New York plate.”

  “I see. Was the whole car covered in mud, or just the plate?”

  “The car was pretty clean, actually. Just the plate was dirtied up. Doesn’t that tell you they probably did it deliberately?”

  “Absolutely,” Duckworth said.

  “Don’t patronize me,” I said. “You don’t believe a word I’m saying. I can tell. I can see it in your face. But we were there. If you don’t believe me talk to whoever was working in the store that day. It’s called …” I struggled to remember the exact name of the place. “Ted’s Lakeview General Store. That was it. Jan went in to buy something to drink. Someone there might remember her.”

  Duckworth looked at me without saying anything.

  “What?” I said.

  “I believe you were there,” he said. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

  He was good at keeping me off guard. Just when I was sure he didn’t trust what I was saying, he seemed to accept that last part.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “So when did you drive home?”

  “I stayed until around five-thirty, and when I was sure the woman wasn’t going to show, we drove back.”

  “Both of you,” Duckworth said.

  “Of course both of us.”

  “Any stops along the way?”

  “Just to my parents’ place. To pick up Ethan.”

  “So both of you went to get your son.”

  I could tell he already knew the truth here. “No,” I said. “I went alone to get Ethan.”

  “I’m confused,” he said, although I doubted that. “How did you end up going to your parents’ house alone?”

  “Jan wasn’t feeling well,” I said. “She had a headache. She asked me to drop her off at our house first. She didn’t feel well enough to see my parents. Or maybe she didn’t want to see them, and just said she had a headache.”

  Duckworth nodded a little too hard. “Okay, okay. But isn’t your parents’ place on the way home? I mean, you’d have to pass your parents’ house to get to yours coming back from Lake George, then double back to get your son.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But sometimes my parents … they like to talk. They would have thought it rude not to at least come out to the car to talk to Jan. And she wasn’t up to that. That’s why I took her home first. What are you getting at? You think I left her up in Lake George?”

  When Duckworth didn’t say anything right away, I said, “Do I have to bring my son in here? Do I need Ethan as a witness? To tell you my wife came back with me that day?”

  “I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Duckworth said. “I wouldn’t want to put a four-year-old through anything like that.”

  “Why’s that? Because if he backed me up, you wouldn’t believe it anyway? Because he’s a kid? And you’d think I coached him?”

  “I never said anything of the kind,” Duckworth said, taking another sip of coffee.

  “At least go up there,” I said. “Talk to whoever was working at Ted’s store that day.”

  Duckworth said. “There’s no problem there, Mr. Harwood. Your wife’s been identified as being in the store at the time you say.”

  I waited.

  “Trouble is what she had to say when she was in there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She said you’d driven up there for some sort of surprise. She said she had no idea what she was doing up there.”

  “What?”

  “She didn’t know why you were taking her up there. She seemed not to know what you had in mind.”

  It felt like a punch to the gut.

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “Jan knew why we were going up there. Whoever told you that’s lying.”

  “Why would someone lie about that?” Duckworth asked.

  “I have no idea. But it’s not true. Jan wouldn’t have said that. It makes no sense for her to have said that.”

  “Why did Mrs. Harwood tell you that you’d be happier if she was gone? Maybe even dead?”

  “What?” I said again.

  “You heard me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Are you denying she ever said that?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not for several seconds. Finally, quietly, I said, “Gina’s.”

  “Yes?”

  “Almost two weeks ago, I think. We were having dinner—we were going to have dinner—at Gina’s. This is what you’re referring to.”

  “Suppose you tell me.”

  “Jan was very distraught through dinner. She said some crazy things. And then she had this outburst—probably loud enough for anyone in the restaurant to hear—that I’d be happy to be rid of her. Something along tho
se lines. But not that I wanted her dead. She never said that.”

  “So you would be happy if you could be rid of her, but not if it meant she had to die.”

  “No! None of it’s true. I mean, yes, she said I’d be happier without her, but it’s not true. I don’t know why she’d think that, unless it’s all tied in to her depression. Did you talk to Gina? Because if she’s saying Jan said I wanted her dead, that’s horseshit.”

  “About Jan’s depression,” Duckworth said, “it’s kind of interesting that the only one who’s noticed your wife has been suffering from that is you.”

  I was shaking my head violently. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all. Talk to her doctor. Talk to Dr. Samuels. He’ll tell you.”

  Duckworth gave me a pitying look. “Your wife never went to see Dr. Samuels.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” I said. “Get him on the phone.”

  “I’ve talked to him,” Duckworth said. “Jan Harwood never went to see him about her depression.”

  I think I did a pretty good impression of a slack-jawed idiot at that moment. I stared at him, openmouthed, trying to make sense of the news.

  Finally, I said, “That’s a load of horseshit, too.”

  But it only took me another couple of seconds to realize it was possible Jan could have lied to me about going to see the doctor, just so I’d get off her case. But this clown at the Lake George store, suggesting Jan didn’t know why I’d brought her along, that person was a goddamn liar, there was no doubt in my mind about that.

  “So everyone’s full of shit,” Duckworth said. “What about the security cameras and the computers at Five Mountains? Are they full of shit, too?”

  “The ticket thing?” I asked. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Why were only two tickets charged to your wife’s card, Mr. Harwood? One adult, one child. Was it because you knew you wouldn’t be taking your wife with you? Did you take her card out of her purse when you were online, or had you written down the details earlier?”

  “I didn’t order them,” I said. “Jan ordered them. And she was there, at the park. I can’t explain the ticket thing. Maybe … maybe, when she came back from the car, she realized she’d printed out the wrong thing, that there wasn’t a ticket for her, and she paid cash to get in.”