Six Years

by Harlan Coben

I bit back the "you should see the other guy" because, in this case, the rejoinder was in serious bad taste. "I had a late night."

  "You look injured."

  "I'm fine."

  "You should get it looked at."

  "I have." I shifted in the seat. The meds were making everything hazy, as though my eyes were covered in thin strips of gauze. "What's this about, Jack?"

  He spread his hands for a moment and then brought them back to the desk. "Do you want to tell me about last night?"

  "What about last night?" I asked.

  "You tell me."

  So we were playing that game. Fair enough. I'd go first. "I went drinking with a friend at a bar. Had too much. When I came back to my place, two men jumped me. They, uh, kidnapped me."

  His eyes widened. "Two men kidnapped you?"

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "They said their names were Bob and Otto."

  "Bob and Otto?"

  "That's what they said."

  "And where are these men now?"

  "I don't know."

  "Are they in custody?"

  "No."

  "But you've reported the matter to the police?"

  "I have," I said. "Do you mind telling me what this is about?"

  Tripp lifted his hand, as if he'd suddenly realized the desktop was sticky. He placed the lower parts of his palms together and let the fingertips bounce off one another. "Do you know a student named Barry Watkins?"

  My heart skipped a beat. "Is he okay?"

  "You know him?"

  "Yes. One of the men who grabbed me punched him in the face."

  "I see," he said, as though he didn't see at all. "When?"

  "We were standing by the van. Barry called out to me and ran over. Before I could so much as turn around, one of the guys punched him. Is Barry okay?"

  The fingertips bounced some more. "He is in the hospital with facial fractures. That punch did serious damage."

  I sat back. "Damn."

  "His parents are rather upset. They are talking about a lawsuit."

  Lawsuit--the word that strikes terror in the heart of every bureaucrat. I half expected some lame horror-movie music to start up.

  "Barry Watkins also doesn't recall two other men. He remembers calling out to you, running toward you, and that's it. Two other students recall seeing you flee in a van."

  "I didn't flee. I got in the back."

  "I see," he said in that same tone. "When these other two students arrived, Barry was lying on the ground bleeding. You drove off."

  "I wasn't driving. I was in the back."

  "I see."

  Again with the "I see." I leaned closer to him. The desk was completely bare except for one too-neat stack of papers and, of course, the requisite family photograph with the blond wife, two adorable kids, and a dog with floppy hair like Tripp's. Nothing else. Big desk. Nothing on it.

  "I wanted to get them as far away from campus as possible," I said, "especially after that display of violence. So I quickly cooperated."

  "And by them, you mean the two men who . . . were they abducting you?"

  "Yes."

  "Who were these men?"

  "I don't know."

  "They were just, what, kidnapping you for ransom?"

  "I doubt it," I said, realizing how crazy it all sounded. "One had broken into my home. The other waited in the van. They insisted I come with them."

  "You are a very large man. Powerful. Physically intimidating."

  I waited.

  "How did they persuade you to go with them?"

  I skipped the part about Natalie and dropped the bombshell instead. "They were armed."

  The eyes widened again. "With guns?"

  "Yes."

  "For real?"

  "They were real guns, yes."

  "How do you know?"

  I decided not to mention that one had taken shots at me. I wondered whether the police might find bullets near the highway. I'd have to check.

  "Did you tell anyone else about this?" Tripp asked when I didn't answer.

  "I told the cops, but I'm not sure that they believe me."

  He leaned back and started picking at his lip. I knew what he was thinking: How would the students, their parents, and important alumni react if they knew that gunmen had been on campus? Not only had they been on campus, but if I were telling the truth--questionable at best--they had kidnapped a professor and assaulted a student.

  "You were quite inebriated at the time, were you not?"

  Here we go. "I was."

  "We have a campus security camera in the middle of the quad. Your walk was rather more of a weave."

  "That's what happens when you have too much to drink."

  "We also have reports that you left the Library Bar at one A.M. . . . and yet you weren't seen weaving across campus until three."

  Again I waited.

  "Where were you for those two hours?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm investigating an assault on a student."

  "That we know took place after three A.M. What, you think I planned it for two hours?"

  "I see very little need for sarcasm, Jacob. This is a serious matter."

  I closed my eyes and felt the room spin. He had a point. "I left with a young lady. It's totally irrelevant. I'd never punch Barry. He visits my office every week."

  "Yes, he defended you too. He said that you're his favorite professor. But I have to look at the facts, Jacob. You understand that, don't you?"

  "I do."

  "Fact: You were drunk."

  "I'm a college professor. Drinking is practically a job requirement."

  "That's not funny."

  "But true. Heck, I've been to parties right here. You're not afraid to hoist a glass or two yourself."

  "You're not helping yourself."

  "I'm not trying to. I'm trying to get at the truth."

  "Then, fact: While you are being vague, it appears as though after drinking you had a one-night stand."

  "We shouldn't be vague," I said. "That's exactly what I'm saying. She was over thirty and does not work for the college. So what?"

  "So after these episodes, a student got assaulted."

  "Not by me."

  "Still, there is a connection," he said, leaning back. "I don't see where I have any choice but to ask for you to take a leave of absence."

  "For drinking?"

  "For all of it," he said.

  "I'm in the middle of teaching classes--"

  "We will find coverage."

  "And I have a responsibility to my students. I can't just abandon them."

  "Perhaps," he said, with an edge in his voice, "you should have thought of that before you got drunk."

  "Getting drunk isn't a crime."

  "No, but your actions afterward . . ." His voice trailed off, and a smile came to his lips. "Funny," he said.

  "What?"

  "I heard about your run-in with Professor Trainor years ago. How can you not see the parallel?"

  I said nothing.

  "There is an old Greek saying," he went on. "The humpback never sees the hump on his own back."

  I nodded. "Deep."

  "You're making jokes, Jacob, but do you really think you're blameless here?"

  I wasn't sure what to think. "I didn't say I was blameless."

  "Just a hypocrite?" He sighed a little too deeply. "I don't like doing this to you, Jacob."

  "I hear a but."

  "You know the but. Are the police investigating your claim?"

  I wasn't sure how to answer so I went with the truth. "I don't know."

  "Then maybe it's best that you take a leave of absence until this is resolved."

  I was about to protest, but then I pulled up. He was right. Forget all the political mumbo jumbo or legal claims here. The truth was, I was indeed putting students in harm's way. My actions had, in fact, already gotten one student seriously injured. I could make all the excuses I wanted to, but if I had kept my pr
omise to Natalie, Barry would not be lying in a hospital bed with facial fractures.

  Could I take the risk of letting it happen again?

  Lest I forgot, Bob was still out there. He might want vengeance for Otto or, at the very least, to finish the job or silence the witness. By staying, wouldn't I be endangering the welfare of my students?

  President Tripp started sorting the papers on his desk, a clear sign we were done here. "Pack your things," he said. "I'd like you off campus within the hour."

  Chapter 16

  By noon the next day, I was back in Palmetto Bluff.

  I knocked on the door of a home located on a quiet cul-de-sac. Delia Sanderson--Todd Sanderson's, uh, widow, I guess--opened it with a sad smile. She was what some might call a handsome woman in a sinewy, farmhand kind of way. She had strong facial features and big hands.

  "Thank you so much for making the trip, Professor."

  "Please," I said, feeling a small ping of guilt, "call me Jake."

  She stepped aside and invited me inside. The house was nice, done up in that modern faux-Victorian style that seemed to be the rage of these spanking new developments. The property backed onto a golf course. The atmosphere was both green and serene.

  "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you coming all this way."

  Another ping. "Please," I said, "it's an honor."

  "Still. For the college to send a professor all this way . . ."

  "It's not a big deal, really." I tried to smile. "It's nice to get away too."

  "Well, I'm grateful," Delia Sanderson said. "Our children aren't home right now. I made them go back to school. You need to grieve but you need to do something, you know what I mean?"

  "I do," I said.

  I hadn't been specific when I made the call yesterday. I just told her that I was a professor at Todd's alma mater and that I hoped to stop by the house to talk about her late husband and offer condolences. Did I hint that I was sort of coming on behalf of the college? Let us say I didn't discourage that thinking.

  "Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

  I've found that people have a tendency to relax more when they are doing simple tasks and feeling as though they are making their guests feel comfortable. I said yes.

  We were standing in the foyer. The formal rooms, where you'd normally take guests, were on the right. The lived-in rooms--den and kitchen--were on the left. I followed her into the kitchen, figuring that the more casual setting might also make her more apt to open up.

  There were no signs of the recent break-in, but what exactly did I think I'd find? Blood on the floor? Overturned furniture? Open drawers? Yellow police tape?

  The sleek kitchen was expansive with great flow into an even more expansive "media" room. An enormous television hung on the wall. The couch was littered with remotes and Xbox controllers. Yes, I know Xbox. I have one. I love to play Madden. Sue me.

  She headed toward one of those coffeemakers that use individual pods. I took a seat on a stool at the kitchen's granite island. She showed me a surprisingly large display of coffee-pod options.

  "Which would you like?" she asked.

  "You tell me," I said.

  "Are you a strong-coffee guy? I bet you are."

  "You'd win that bet."

  She opened the machine's mouth and put in a pod called Jet Fuel. The machine seemed to eat the pod and piss out the coffee. Appetizing imagery, I know. "Do you take it black?" she asked.

  "Not that much a strong-coffee guy," I said, asking for a little milk and sweetener.

  She handed me the cup. "You don't look like a college professor."

  I get that a lot.

  "My tweed jacket is at the cleaner." Then: "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you."

  I took a sip of the coffee. Why was I here exactly? I needed to figure out if Delia Sanderson's Todd was Natalie's Todd. If he was the same man, well, how was that possible? What did his death mean? And what secrets was this woman in front of me maybe keeping?

  I had no idea, of course, but I was willing to take some chances now. That meant that I might have to push her. I didn't relish that--prodding a woman who was so clearly grieving. Whatever else I thought might be going on here--and really I didn't have a clue--Delia Sanderson was in obvious pain. You could see the pull in her face, the subtle slump in the shoulders, the shatter in the eyes.

  "I don't know how to ask this delicately . . . ," I began.

  I stopped, hoping she'd take the bait. She did. "But you want to know how he died?"

  "If I'm prying . . ."

  "It's okay."

  "The papers say it happened during a break-in."

  Her face lost color. She spun back toward the coffeemaker. She fiddled with a pod, picked one up, dropped it, chose another.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "We don't need to go into this."

  "It wasn't a break-in."

  I stayed quiet.

  "I mean, they didn't steal anything. Isn't that unusual? If it was a break-in, wouldn't you take something? But they just . . ."

  She slammed down the mouth of the coffeemaker.

  I said, "They?"

  "What?"

  "You said 'they.' There was more than one burglar?"

  She still had her back to me. "I don't know. The police won't speculate. I just don't see how one guy could have done . . ." Her head dropped. I thought that maybe I saw her knees buckle. I started to rise and move toward her, but really, who the hell was I? I stopped and quietly slid back onto the stool.

  "We were supposed to be safe here," Delia Sanderson said. "A gated community. It was supposed to keep the bad out."

  The development was huge, acres upon acres of cultivated remoteness. There was a gate of sorts, a little hut at the development's entrance, a steel arm that had to be lifted to drive through, a rent-a-cop who nodded and pushed a button. None of that could keep the bad out, not if the bad was determined. The gate was possibly a deterrent for easygoing trouble. It maybe added an extra layer of hassle so that trouble chose to find an easier mark. But true protection? No. The gate was more for show.

  "Why do you think there was more than one?" I asked.

  "I guess . . . I guess I don't see how one man could cause that much damage."

  "What do you mean?"

  She shook her head. Using one finger, she wiped one eye, then the other. She turned around and faced me. "Let's talk about something else."

  I wanted to push it, but I knew that wouldn't play here. I was a college professor visiting from her late husband's alma mater. Plus, well, I was still a human being. It was time to back up and try another route.

  I stood as gently as I knew how and moved toward the refrigerator. There were dozens of family photographs done up in a magnetic collage. The photographs were wonderfully unspectacular, almost too expected: fishing trip, Disney visit, dance recitals, beach-Christmas photograph, school holiday concerts, graduations. The refrigerator missed none of life's little yard markers. I leaned in and studied Todd's face in as many of them as I could.

  Was he the same man?

  In every image on the refrigerator, he was clean-shaven. The man I had met had that fashionably annoying stubble. You could grow that in a few days, of course, but I found it odd. So again, I wondered: Was this the man I saw marry Natalie?

  I could feel Delia's eyes on my back.

  "I met your husband once," I said.

  "Oh?"

  I turned toward her. "Six years ago."

  She picked up her coffee--evidently she took it black--and sat at another stool. "Where?"

  I kept my eyes on her as I said, "In Vermont."

  There was no big jolt or anything like that, but her face did scrunch up a bit. "Vermont?"

  "Yes. In a town called Kraftboro."

  "You're sure it was Todd?"

  "It was in late August," I explained. "I was staying at a retreat."

  Now she looked openly confused. "I don't recall Todd ever going to Vermont."

&n
bsp; "Six years ago," I said again. "In August."

  "Yes, I heard you say that the first time." There was a hint of impatience in her tone now.

  I pointed back toward the refrigerator. "He didn't look exactly like this though."

  "I'm not following you."

  "His hair was longer," I said, "and he had stubble."

  "Todd?"

  "Yes."

  She considered that and a small smile found her lips. "I get it now."

  "Get what?"

  "Why you came all this way."

  This I was anxious to hear.

  "I couldn't figure it out. Todd hadn't been an active member of the alumni or anything like that. It wasn't as though the college would have much more than a passing interest in him. Now all this talk about a man from Vermont . . ." She stopped and shrugged. "You mistook my husband for another man. For this Todd you met in Vermont."

  "No, I'm pretty certain it was--"

  "Todd has never been to Vermont. I'm sure of that. And every August for the past eight years, he traveled to Africa to perform surgery on the needy. He also shaved every day. I mean, even on a lazy Sunday. Todd never went a day without shaving."

  I took another look at the photographs on the refrigerator. Could that be? Could it be that simple? I had the wrong man. I had considered that possibility before but now, finally, I was sort of believing it.

  In a sense, that didn't change much anymore. There was still the e-mail from Natalie. There was still Otto and Bob and all that happened. But now, maybe, I could put this connection to rest.

  Delia was openly studying me now. "What's going on? Why are you really here?"

  I reached into my pocket and plucked out the photograph of Natalie. Strangely enough, I have only one. She didn't like photographs, but I had snapped this one while she was asleep. I don't know why. Or maybe I do. I handed it to Delia Sanderson and waited for a reaction.

  "Strange," she said.

  "What?"

  "Her eyes are closed." She looked up at me. "Did you take this picture?"

  "Yes."

  "While she was sleeping?"

  "Yes. Do you know her?"

  "No." She stared down at the photograph. "She means something to you, doesn't she?"

  "Yes."

  "So who is she?"

  The front door opened. "Mom?"

  She put down the photograph and started toward the voice. "Eric? Is everything okay? You're home early."

  I followed her down the corridor. I recognized her son from his eulogy at the funeral. He looked past his mother, his gaze boring into me. "Who's this?" he asked. His tone was surprisingly hostile, as though he suspected that I'd come here to hit on his mom or something.

  "This is Professor Fisher from Lanford," she said. "He came to ask about your father."

  "Ask what?"