Never Look Away: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  Too bad he got that one long look at her face before passing out. Even tarted up with enough lipstick and eye shadow to paint a powder room, she never stopped worrying that he might remember her. Would have been a lot better—truth be told—if the son of a bitch had bled to death. Then she wouldn’t have had to put her life on hold for five years, marry a guy, have a kid, work at a goddamn heating and cooling business, for Christ’s sake, live a lie—

  Focus, she told herself.

  Let’s just take this a step at a time. We have all the diamonds. Now we just have to convert them to cash. Let’s see how things play out.

  They’d driven south out of Boston, and already Jan was feeling slightly more at ease. She knew the odds of running into Oscar Fine in a city as big as Boston were remote, but it didn’t make her feel any less nervous. Now that they were out of downtown, she felt she could breathe a little. They had to find this Banura-of-Braintree dude, find out what the jewels were worth, negotiate a price, get their cash, start their new life together.

  Start her new life. One way or another, Dwayne was going to be history.

  Not that he didn’t have his merits. He had a fabulously taut, sinewy body, and if he could stop fucking like he was expecting the warden to walk in at any moment, he might have some actual potential in that department. And he’d been the perfect one to help her out when she got wind of the diamond courier. He had the guts—or lack of sense, depending on how you looked at it—to help her set it up, get the dart gun, drive the limo. So maybe she was the only one with the balls to cut the guy’s hand off. You couldn’t have everything.

  But she’d needed him to get into the safe-deposit boxes. And she needed him now to connect with Banura.

  But after that, well, Dwayne really wasn’t what Jan was looking for in a man. The only man she wanted to see in her future was the one delivering her drink to her cabana.

  One thing you had to give David, he was a hell of a lot smarter than Dwayne. There was no denying that. Smart enough to be working at a paper better than the Promise Falls Standard. He’d had that one offer, a couple of years back, to go to Toronto to work for the largest-circulation paper in the country, but Jan was nervous about moving to Canada. Her phony credentials were rock solid, but the idea of crossing a border when she wasn’t who she said she was, that gave her pause. Jan had told David she didn’t think it was a good idea to move so far away from his parents, and he had come around to her way of thinking.

  Once she had her money, she’d start this identity thing all over again and invest in some foolproof passports—real high-class stuff—and then get the hell out of the States. Maybe this Banura guy could put her onto someone who did good work. Then, off to Thailand, or the Philippines. Someplace where the money would last forever. Shit, it might be enough money to last right here in the good ol’ US of A, but you’d always be looking over your shoulder, never able to relax.

  David, you poor bastard.

  The guy thought he was some hotshot reporter, but how hotshot could you be at the Standard? Not exactly a risk taker. Always played it safe. Made sure there were new batteries in the smoke detectors, a fresh filter in the furnace. Paid the bills on time. When a shingle came loose, he got up there on the roof—or got his dad up there with him—and nailed it down. He remembered anniversaries and Valentine’s Day and brought home flowers some days for no reason at all.

  The guy was goddamn perfect.

  Perfect husband.

  Perfect father.

  Don’t go there.

  Dwayne, driving south on Washington and peering through the windshield at street signs, shifted in his seat and ripped off a fart.

  “Where the fuck is Hobart?” he said.

  They found the house. A small story-and-a-half with white siding. Dwayne wheeled the truck into the driveway behind a Chrysler minivan.

  “See?” Dwayne said. “The guy’s smart, doesn’t attract attention. He could afford a goddamn Porsche but then the neighbors are going to say, hey, where’s he get off driving a car like that? And he could live in a bigger house than this, right? But again, he knows how to keep a low profile.”

  “What’s the point getting rich if you have to live the way you’ve always lived?” Jan asked.

  Dwayne shook his head, like the question was too deep. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s got another place. In the Bahamas or something.”

  Dwayne had his hand on the door. Half the diamonds were still tucked into his jeans, while Jan had her share in her purse.

  “He said come in around the back,” Dwayne said, nodding toward the end of the drive, which ran down the side of the house.

  “You’re not worried, us walking in here with everything we’ve got?” Jan asked. “What if he decides to take the diamonds off us? What are we supposed to do then?”

  “Hey, he’s a businessman,” Dwayne said. “You think he’s going to throw away his reputation, fucking over a client like that?”

  Jan wasn’t convinced.

  “Okay, if you’re worried …” Dwayne reached under the seat and pulled out a small, short-barreled revolver.

  “Jesus,” Jan said. “How long you had that?”

  “Pretty much since I got out,” he said. “Got it from my brother when he let me have the truck.”

  One more thing that could have sunk us if we’d gotten pulled over, Jan thought. But knowing they had a weapon did offer some comfort.

  He reached into the small storage area behind the seats and grabbed a jean jacket. Awkwardly, he slipped it on while still behind the wheel, then tucked the gun into the right pocket. “Don’t want to walk in waving the thing. But you’re right, it’s good to have it along. Okay, let’s go get rich.”

  They got out of the truck and walked up the drive past the minivan. Dwayne turned at the back of the house, found a ground-level wood door with a peephole, and pressed a tiny round white button to the left of it. They didn’t hear the buzz inside through the thick door, but seconds later there was the sound of a substantial deadbolt being turned back.

  A tall, wiry man with very dark brown skin opened the door. His T-shirt was several sizes too large, and a rope belt cinched around his waist kept his baggy cargo pants up. He smiled, exposing two rows of yellowed teeth. “You are Dwayne,” he said.

  Great, Jan thought. Real names.

  “Banura,” Dwayne said, shaking hands. He went to introduce Jan. “This is … Kate?”

  She smiled nervously. She couldn’t be Jan. And she couldn’t be Connie. So Kate it was. “Hi.”

  Banura extended a hand to her and drew them both into the house. Inside the door was a narrow flight of stairs heading down. There was no access, at least from the back door, to any other part of the house. Once inside, they watched as Banura returned to position a massive bar that spanned the width of the door. He led them down the stairs, hitting a couple of light switches on the way.

  The stairway wall was lined with cheaply framed photos—some in color and some, mercifully, in black and white. Most of them were of young black men, some just children, barefoot and dressed in tattered clothes, photographed against bleak African landscapes of ruin and poverty. They were wielding rifles, raising hands together in victory, mugging for the camera. In several, the men posed over bloody corpses. One that made Jan look away showed a black child, probably no more than twelve, waving a severed arm as though it were a baseball bat.

  Banura took them into a crowded room with a long, brilliantly lit workbench. Spread out on the bench was a black velvet runner, and over it three different magnifiers on metal arms.

  “Have a seat,” Banura said in his thick African accent, gesturing to a ratty couch that was half-covered in boxes and two IKEA-type office chairs that probably cost five bucks new.

  “Sure,” Dwayne said, dropping onto a narrow spot on the couch.

  “You won’t be needing your gun,” Banura said, his back to Dwayne as he sat on the stool at the workbench.

  “What’s that?”


  “The one in your right pocket,” he said. “I’m not going to take anything from you. And you are not going to take anything from me. That would be totally foolish.”

  “Hey, sure, I get that,” Dwayne said, laughing nervously. “I just like to be cautious, you know?”

  Banura pulled his magnifiers into position, flicked another switch. They had lights built in to them.

  “Let me see what you have,” he said.

  Jan, who had chosen not to sit, reached into her purse and withdrew her bag. Dwayne leaned back on the couch to make it easier to reach into his pants and fished out his half. He tossed the bag over to Jan, like having a bag of diamonds was no biggie, and she presented both of them to Banura.

  Delicately, he opened both bags and emptied them onto the black velvet. He examined no more than half a dozen of the stones, putting each one under bright light and magnification.

  “So, you know this stuff pretty good, huh?” Dwayne said.

  “Yes,” Banura said.

  “So whaddya think?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  “Dwayne, let the man do his job,” Jan said.

  Dwayne made a face.

  Once he’d finished looking at the half dozen stones, Banura slowly turned on his stool and said to them, “These are very good.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Dwayne.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked. “I’m just curious.”

  “Come on, Banny Boy, we went through this before. I’m not telling you that.”

  Banura nodded. “That’s fine, then. Sometimes it is better not to know. What counts is the quality of the merchandise. And this is superb. And you have a lot of it.”

  “So, what do you think it’s worth?” Jan asked.

  Banura turned his head and studied her. “I am prepared to offer you six.”

  Jan blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Million?” Dwayne said, sitting up at attention.

  Banura nodded solemnly. “I think that’s more than generous.”

  Jan had never expected to be offered anything remotely close to six million dollars. She thought maybe two or three million, but this, this was unbelievable.

  Dwayne stood, struggled not to look excited. “You’ll never guess what my lucky number happens to be.” He slapped his own ass where he’d been tattooed. “Well, you know, I think that’s a figure that my partner and I can work with. But we’ll need to talk about it.”

  “We’ll take it,” Jan said.

  Banura nodded again, then turned back to his table. He began selecting more of the diamonds at random for study. “The quality is consistent,” he said.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Dwayne said. “So, where’s the money?”

  Banura frowned without taking his eyes off the jewels. “I don’t keep funds of that nature around here,” he said. “I will have to make some arrangements. You may take your product with you, and later this afternoon we can make an exchange.”

  “Here?” Dwayne said. “We come back here?”

  “Yes,” Banura said. “And I should tell you, that for a transaction of this size, I will have an associate present, and you will not be permitted to enter my premises with that gun on you.”

  “No problem, no problem,” Dwayne said. “We want to do everything straight up.”

  Banura glanced at his watch. It looked, to Jan, like a cheap Timex. “Come back at two,” he said.

  Dwayne said, “So it’ll be cash, right? I don’t want a check.”

  Banura sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” Jan said. “We’re just … a little excited, to be honest.”

  “Of course,” Banura said. “You have plans?”

  “Yes,” Jan said, without elaborating.

  “Oh yeah,” Dwayne said.

  Banura gathered the jewels and returned them all to one bag, since they fit easily enough. “That’s okay?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Jan said.

  He held out the bag and Jan took it before Dwayne could get his hands on it. She dropped it into her purse.

  “So, two o’clock, then,” Jan said.

  Banura followed them up the stairs, peered through the peephole, then pulled back the bar across the door.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “And when you come back, you don’t bring your gun in here. I won’t have it.”

  The bar could be heard clinking back in place once they were outside.

  “Six mil!” Dwayne said. “Did you hear the man? Six fucking mil!”

  He threw his arms around her. “It was all worth it, baby. All fucking worth it.”

  Jan smiled, but she wasn’t feeling it.

  It was too much money.

  When he was back at his workbench, Banura picked up a cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed a number.

  He put the phone to his ear. It rang once.

  “Yes?”

  “It was them,” Banura said.

  “When?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” Oscar Fine said and ended the call.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Natalie Bondurant said, “Either somebody’s setting you up, or you killed your wife.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” I said. “I don’t know for sure something’s even happened to her.”

  “Something has happened to her,” Bondurant said. “She’s gone. She may very well be alive, but something has happened to her.”

  I’d told my new lawyer everything I knew, and everything that had happened to me in the last couple of weeks. That included my chats—and rides—with Elmont Sebastian.

  Natalie sat behind her desk and leaned back in her chair. She appeared to be looking up at the ceiling, but her eyes were closed.

  “I think it’s a stretch,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That Sebastian is somehow setting you up to take the fall for this. That he’s done something to her and found a way to make everything point your way.”

  “Because it’s a lot of trouble to go to just to silence one critic,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Not so much that. It’s not his style. From everything you’ve told me, Elmont Sebastian has a more direct approach. First, a cash inducement. The job offer. When you turned that down, he moved on to simple scare tactics. Mess with me and something’ll happen to you, or worse, to your child.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I think there’s a more obvious answer,” she said.

  “That’s staring us in the face?” I said.

  Natalie Bondurant opened her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s review a few things here. The ticket thing, going into Five Mountains.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “One child ticket, one adult ticket ordered online,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “You’re the only one who seems to know about your wife’s recent bout of depression. Jan says she went to the doctor but didn’t.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No one sees Jan from the time you left that store in Lake George. She didn’t go with you to your parents’ house to pick up your son. She tells that shopkeeper some tale about not knowing why you’ve driven her up there.”

  “Supposedly.”

  Natalie ignored that. “And Duckworth wasn’t lying to you. They’ve found hair and blood in the trunk of your car, plus a recent receipt for duct tape in the glove box, which is a kind of handy item to have around if you’re planning to kidnap someone and get rid of them.”

  “I didn’t buy any duct tape,” I said.

  “Somebody did,” Natalie said. “And guess what they found in the history folder of your laptop?”

  I blinked. “I don’t know. What?”

  “Sites that offered tips on how to get rid of a body.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I had a chat with Detective Duckworth before you arrived. Full disclosure and all.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “I never looked up anything like that.”


  “I told Duckworth the planets are all in alignment for him on this one. That should be his first clue that you’re being set up.”

  “Set up? Is that what he thinks?”

  “Hell no. The more obvious the clue, the more the cops like it. There’s also this business of the life insurance policy you recently took out on your wife.”

  “What? How do you know about that?”

  “I’ll give Duckworth this much. He can be thorough. Tell me about the policy.”

  “It was Jan’s idea. She thought it made sense, and I agreed.”

  “Jan’s idea,” Natalie repeated, nodding.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re not getting this, are you?”

  “Getting what? That I’m in a shitload of trouble? Yeah, I get that. And don’t talk to the press. I get that now, too.”

  She shook her head. “Just how well do you really know your wife, David?”

  “Really well. Very well. You don’t spend more than five years with someone and not know them.”

  “Except you’re not even sure what her real name is. Clearly it’s not Jan Richler. Jan Richler died when she was a child.”

  “There has to be an explanation.”

  “I’ve no doubt there is. But how can you claim to know your wife well if you don’t even know who she is?”

  The question hung there for several seconds.

  Finally, I said, “Duckworth may be covering for the FBI. She might be a relocated witness. Maybe she testified against someone and no one can say, for the record, that she had to take on a new identity.”

  “You told this to Duckworth,” she said.

  I nodded. “I don’t think, when I told him, he believed a word of it. I’d already told him about Jan’s depression, but that story was falling apart whenever he talked to anyone else.”

  “So he may not even have checked the FBI thing.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you explain the fact that you’re the only one who witnessed your wife’s change in mood?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I was the only one she felt she could be that honest with.”