Never Look Away: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  “If you were smart, you’d give her a call right now,” Dad said.

  “When I get back on the road.”

  “Is my car okay?” Dad asked. Even with all that was going on, Dad never lost sight of the things that mattered to him.

  “The car’s fine,” I said.

  “If you’re not going to call her now, she did have one piece of advice for you in the meantime.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said not to say a goddamn thing to the police.”

  Ted’s had come into view. Leaning up against Dad’s car was Detective Barry Duckworth.

  “Nice day for a walk,” Duckworth said as I approached. His unmarked cruiser was parked off to one side. That must have been what Welland saw before he decided to keep on driving. Unmarked police cruisers had a certain look about them.

  “Yeah,” I said. Was there anyone who hadn’t followed me up here?

  I fished the car keys out of my pocket, hoping to send the message that I was on my way.

  “What are you doing up here?” Duckworth asked.

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “But if I don’t answer, it doesn’t look suspicious,” he said.

  “I came up to talk to Ted.”

  “What were you doing leaving your car here and strolling down the highway? Not much down there to see.”

  I wanted to tell him about my ride with Sebastian. But the prison boss had intimidated me to the point that I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Plus, I didn’t think Duckworth would believe me anyway.

  “I was just walking, and thinking.”

  “About what Ted told you?”

  “So you’ve already spoken to him.”

  “Briefly,” Duckworth said. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Approaching witnesses, giving them a hard time. That’s bad form.”

  “He told you things that didn’t make any sense to me. I wanted to hear them for myself.”

  And did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still think he’s lying?”

  “He says it’s on the security video. What Jan said to him.”

  “That’s right,” Duckworth said. “It’s a little muddy in places, but we got people who can clean that up. But what he said basically checks out.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “I think I do,” Duckworth said.

  “You would,” I said, “because you think I know what’s happened to Jan. But I don’t.”

  “Who was it took you for a ride and dropped you off down the road?”

  So. He already knew about that, too. Ted must have told him about seeing Welland grab hold of me.

  “It was Elmont Sebastian,” I said. “And his driver.”

  “The prison guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s he doing up here?”

  “He wanted to talk to me. I’ve been trying to get some quotes from him.”

  “And he drove all the way up here to give them to you?”

  “Look,” I said, “I want to get back home. Things don’t sound good there.”

  “Yeah,” Duckworth said. “There’s a bit of a media frenzy building. I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I didn’t set it off. I think it was your pal Reeves. Once the media started calling, we’ve had no choice but to field their questions. It’s not my style, to get something like this going.”

  “For what it’s worth, thank you,” I said. “So you followed me up here?”

  “Not exactly,” Duckworth said.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I was on my way up to something else and decided to pop in and have a word with Ted myself. Another Promise Falls officer came up earlier to get the surveillance video off him, but I thought a face-to-face was in order. Ted mentioned you’d just been in, and that your car was still here.”

  “So you decided to wait for me.”

  Duckworth nodded slowly.

  “What was the other thing you were coming up here for?” I asked.

  Duckworth’s cell phone rang. He put it to his ear and said, “Duckworth … Okay … Is the coroner there yet? … I don’t think I’m any more than a couple of miles away…. See you shortly.”

  He ended the call and put the phone away.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What was that about the coroner?”

  “Mr. Harwood, there’s been a discovery just up the road from here.”

  “A discovery?”

  “A shallow grave just off the side of the road. Freshly dug and covered over.”

  I reached my hand out and used the car to support myself. My throat went dry and my temples began to pulse.

  “Whose body’s in it?”

  Duckworth nodded.

  “Who?” I asked. “Is it Jan?”

  “Well, they don’t know anything for sure yet,” Duckworth said.

  I closed my eyes.

  It’s not supposed to end this way.

  Duckworth said, “Why don’t we take my car.”

  We headed north, the way I’d been taken by Sebastian and Welland, but in under a mile Duckworth put on his blinker and turned down a narrow gravel road that went down, then up, winding all the time. The inside of Duckworth’s car smelled of french fries. The smell made me feel sick to my stomach.

  Not far up ahead, several police cars and vans blocked our path.

  “We’ll walk in from here,” Duckworth said, slowing and putting his car into park.

  “Who saw this grave?” I asked. I’d felt my hands shaking a moment ago, and had grabbed the door handle with my right and tucked my left under my thigh, hoping Duckworth wouldn’t notice. I felt I needed to disguise how nervous I was, worried Duckworth would take that to mean I was guilty of something.

  But wouldn’t any man, especially an innocent man whose wife was missing, be distraught after learning a body had been found?

  “What the locals tell me,” Duckworth said, “is there’s a couple of cabins down at the end of this road, and a guy who lives in one of them spotted something suspicious at the side, went to check it out, realized what was buried there, and he called the police.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Couple of hours,” Duckworth said. “Local cops secured the scene, then they contacted us. We’d already been in touch, putting them on alert about your wife.”

  “I told you nothing happened with Jan when we were up here,” I said.

  “You’ve made that very clear, Mr. Harwood,” he said. He opened his door, then looked at me. “You can stay right here if you’d like.”

  “No,” I said. “If it’s Jan, I have to know.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate your assistance.”

  Fuck you.

  We got out of the car and started up the road, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes. A uniformed officer coming from the direction of the crime scene approached.

  “You Detective Duckworth?” he said.

  Duckworth nodded and extended a hand. “Thanks for the quick heads-up on this,” he said. The cop looked at me. Before I had a chance to introduce myself, Duckworth said, “This is Mr. Harwood. He’s the one whose wife is missing.” The two of them exchanged a quick glance. I could only imagine what this cop had been told already.

  “Mr. Harwood,” he said. “My name is Daltrey. I’m very sorry. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

  “Is it my wife?” I asked.

  “We don’t know that at this stage.”

  “But it’s a woman?” I asked. “A woman’s body?”

  Daltrey glanced at Duckworth, as though looking for permission. When Duckworth didn’t say anything, Daltrey replied, “Yes, it’s a woman.”

  “I need to see her.”

  Duckworth reached over and lightly touched my arm. “I really don’t know that that’s a good idea.”

  “Where’s the grave?” I asked.

  Daltrey pointed. “Just beyond those cars, on
the left side. We haven’t moved her yet.”

  Duckworth tightened his grip on me. “Let me go up there first. You wait here with Daltrey.”

  “No,” I said, breathing in short gasps. “I have to—”

  “You wait. If there’s a reason for you to come up, I’ll come back and get you.”

  I looked him in the eye. I couldn’t get a read on him. I didn’t know whether he was trying to be compassionate here, or whether somehow I was being played.

  “Okay,” I said.

  As Duckworth went ahead, Daltrey positioned himself in front of me, in case I decided to run after him. He said, “Looks like it might rain.”

  I walked to Duckworth’s car, ambled around it a couple of times, always glancing back for him.

  He was back in about five minutes, caught my eye, beckoned with his index finger. I ran over to him.

  “If you’re up to it,” he said, “I think it would help if you make an identification.”

  “Oh God,” I said. I felt weak in the knees.

  He gripped my arm. “I don’t know for certain that this is your wife, Mr. Harwood. But I think you need to be prepared for that fact.”

  “It can’t be her,” I said. “There’s no reason for her to be up here….”

  “Take a minute,” he said.

  I took a couple of breaths, swallowed, and said, “Show me.”

  He led me between two police cars that had acted as a privacy shield. Once we got past them, I looked to the left and saw that where the opposite side of the ditch sloped up, there was a five-foot ridge of earth. It was in full view of the road. Draped over the ridge was a pale, dirt-splotched white hand and part of an arm. Whoever that arm belonged to was on the other side of the dirt pile.

  I stopped, and stared.

  “Mr. Harwood?” Duckworth said.

  I took another couple of breaths. “Okay,” I said.

  “I can’t have you disturbing anything,” he said. “You can’t … touch her. Sometimes, people, when they’re overcome with grief …”

  “I understand,” I said.

  He led me up to the grave. When we were close enough that we could see beyond the ridge, Duckworth stopped me.

  “Here we are,” Duckworth said. I could feel him watching me.

  I looked at the dirt-smeared face of the dead woman lying in that grave and fell to my knees, then pitched forward, catching myself with my hands.

  “Oh God,” I said. “Oh God.”

  Duckworth knelt down next to me, held on to my shoulders. “Talk to me, Mr. Harwood.”

  “It’s not her,” I whispered. “It’s not Jan.”

  “You’re sure?” he said.

  “It’s Leanne,” I said. “It’s Leanne Kowalski.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  In the short time she’d been going by the name Kate, she’d never gotten used to it. Maybe she needed a few more days for it to feel like her own. Taking Leanne’s middle name, shortening it, it was the first idea that came to her. Just seemed natural.

  The funny thing was, she couldn’t even think of herself by her own name these days. If someone called out “Hey, Connie!” she wasn’t even sure she’d turn around. It had been years since anyone had known her as Connie.

  Her worry now was if someone shouted out “Jan!,” she’d turn around reflexively, wouldn’t even think about it.

  But that was still how she thought of herself. You spend six years with a name, you start to get comfortable with it. That was the name she’d been answering to for a very long time.

  That, and “Mom.”

  When she’d told Dwayne Jan was dead, she’d been telling herself more than him. She wanted to put that person, that life, behind her. She wanted to lay Jan to rest. Give her the last rites. Say a few words in her memory.

  But she wasn’t really gone. A large part of her still was Jan. But now she was moving into something new. She was evolving. She’d always been evolving, moving through one stage to get to another. It was just that some of those stages took longer to get through than others.

  She reached up, made another adjustment to the wig as they continued their journey to Boston.

  It was the same wig Jan had worn when she walked in—and out—of Five Mountains. She’d worn it long enough to get through the gates, then went in a ladies room stall to remove it before rejoining Dave and Ethan. The wig and a change of clothes had been stuffed into the backpack. The moment Dave had run off in search of Ethan, instead of heading straight to the gate as he’d instructed her, she’d turned in to the closest ladies’ room, taken a stall, and stripped down.

  She’d switched from shorts to jeans, traded the sleeveless top for a long-sleeved blouse. Even took off the running shoes and went with sandals. But the blonde wig was the accessory that really pulled it all together. She jammed her discarded outfit back into the backpack—couldn’t leave her clothes around for someone to find—and strolled back out of that ladies’ room like she hadn’t just had her son snatched out from under her. Walked, real cool-like, through those gates, through the parking lot, met up with Dwayne and got into his car. He’d wanted to take off the fake beard right then, said it itched like crazy, but she persuaded him to keep it on until they were beyond the park grounds.

  She’d never had to worry about Ethan. She knew that if Dave didn’t find him, someone else would. He’d be okay. The abduction thing, that was all a distraction, a way to make David’s story even more unbelievable. Ethan would be fine.

  She hoped the Dramamine-spiked juice box she’d given him put him out for most of it. Sure, there’d be plenty of teary moments later, in the days and weeks to come, but at least he didn’t have to go through the terror of an actual kidnapping.

  It was the least a mother could do.

  Having a kid, becoming a mother, that had never been part of the plan. But then, neither had getting married.

  She’d picked Promise Falls more or less at random. She saw it on a map, checked it out online. Nice upstate New York town. Quaint. Anonymous. A college town. It didn’t look like the kind of place where someone would hide out. New York, that was a place where someone would disappear. Buffalo, Los Angeles, Miami. Those were places where someone went to blend in, to vanish.

  Who’d go looking for someone in a place called Promise Falls?

  She had no ties there, no roots. There was no more reason for the courier to think she’d be in Promise Falls than in Tacoma, Washington.

  She could go there, find a job, a place to live, and bide her time until Dwayne had done his time. When he was out, they’d go back to Boston, exchange keys, open the safe-deposit boxes, and make their deal.

  It would be a long time to wait, but some things were worth it. Like enough money to go sit on a beach forever with nothing more to worry about than a bit of sand in your shorts. Living the dream like Matty Walker in Body Heat.

  It’s what she’d always wanted.

  So she came to Promise Falls, found a room over a pool hall in what was clearly not the best part of town, and went looking for work at the employment office at city hall. And ran into David Harwood, Boy Reporter.

  He was, she had to admit, adorable. Not bad-looking, very sweet. She didn’t want any part of his story, however. She was here to keep a low profile. If you gave an interview, the next thing they were going to ask you for was a picture.

  No thank you.

  But she chatted with him a little, and darned if he wasn’t out there when she came out, offering to give her a lift. Why not? she thought. When he saw where she lived, he just about had a fit. Can’t live here, he said, unless your employment plans include dealing crack and turning tricks. He actually said that.

  Don’t worry, she said. I’m a big girl. And, she told him with a smile, it’s good to have options.

  Later, when she opened the door and found him there with a list of other apartments for her to check out, well, she almost cried, except that wasn’t something she tended to do unless she was having to perform. But it
was sweet, no doubt about it. Not the sort of thing she was used to.

  She let him help her move. Then she let him take her to dinner.

  Not long after that, she let him take her to bed.

  After a couple of months, David, while not actually popping the question, made some vague comments along the lines of how there were worse things that could happen than spending the rest of their lives together.

  Jan sensed an opportunity presenting itself. She said to David that he might just be onto something there.

  The only thing more anonymous than living as a single woman in Promise Falls was living as a married woman in Promise Falls. She’d turn herself into June Cleaver, the mom in Leave It to Beaver, although Jan didn’t believe June ever did for Ward the things she did for David. Mayfield never had a girl who could fulfill a man’s dreams the way Jan could. (Jan had to admit, Cleaver would have been the perfect name for her, considering what she was running from.)

  With David, she could be the perfect wife with a perfectly boring job. She’d live in their perfect little house, and make a perfect little life for them. As the wife of a small-town newspaper reporter, she didn’t exactly fit the profile of a diamond thief.

  No one was going to find her here.

  And she’d been right. Not that the first year hadn’t been hell. Every time there was a knock at the door, she feared it would be him. But it was the meter reader, or someone looking for a donation to the cancer society, or the neighbor coming over to tell them they forgot to close their garage door.

  Girl Scouts selling cookies.

  But never him.

  After a year or so, she started to relax. Connie Tattinger was dead. Long live Jan Harwood.

  At least until Dwayne got out.

  She could do this. Play the role. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing since she was a little girl? Moving from one part to another? Imagining herself to be someone she wasn’t, even if the only one she was fooling was herself?

  That was certainly what she did when she was little. It was the only way she got through her childhood. Her father ragging on her all the time, blaming her for fucking up their lives, her mother too pissed or self-absorbed to run interference and tell her old man to lay off.