Harlan Coben (7 page)

My grandfather had
loved to hunt. I always found this strange because he was such a gentle, soft-spoken soul. He never talked about his passion. He didn't hang deer heads over the fireplace mantel. He did not keep trophy pictures or souvenir antlers or whatever else hunters liked to do with carcasses. He did not hunt with friends or family members. Hunting was a solitary activity for my grandfather; he did not explain, defend, or share it with others.

In 1956, Grandpa purchased a small cabin in the hunting woods of Montague, New York. The cost, or so I am told, was under three thousand dollars. I doubt that it would fetch much more today. There was only one bedroom. The structure managed to be rustic without any of the charm associated with that term. It was almost impossible to find—the dirt road stopped two hundred yards before the cabin. You had to hike along a root-infested trail the rest of the way.

When he died four years ago, my grandmother inherited it. At least, that is what I assumed. No one really thought about it much. My grandparents had retired to Florida almost a decade before. My grandmother was in the murky throes of Alzheimer's now. The old cabin, I guessed, was part of her estate. In terms of taxes and whatever expenses, it was probably deep in arrears.

When we were children, my sister and I spent one weekend each summer with our grandparents at the cabin. I did not like it. Nature to me was boredom occasionally broken up by an onslaught of mosquito bites. There was no TV. We went to bed too early and in too much darkness. During the day, the deep silence was too often shattered by the charming echo of shotgun blasts. We spent most of our time taking
walks, an activity I find tedious to this very day. One year, my mother packed me only khaki-colored clothes. I spent two days terrified that a hunter would mistake me for a deer.

Stacy, on the other hand, found solace out there. Even as a young child, she seemed to revel in the escape from our suburban rat-maze of school and extracurricular activities, of sport teams and popularity. She would wander for hours. She would pick leaves off the trees and collect inchworms in a jar. She would shuffle her feet across carpets of fallen pine needles.

I explained about the cabin to Tickner and Regan as we sped up Route 87. Tickner radioed the police department in Montague. I still remembered how to find the cabin, but describing it was harder. I did my best. Regan kept his foot on the gas pedal. It was four-thirty in the morning. There was no traffic and no need for the siren. We reached Exit 16 on the New York Thruway and sped past the Woodbury Common Outlet Center.

The woods were a blur. We were not far now. I told him where to turn off. The car wound up and down back roads that had not changed one iota in the past three decades.

Fifteen minutes later, we were there.

 

Stacy.

My sister had never been very attractive. That may have been part of her problem. Yes, that sounds like nonsense. It is silly, really. But I lay it out for you anyway. No one asked Stacy to any prom. Boys never called. She had very few friends. Of course, there are many adolescents with such hardships. Adolescence is always a war; no one gets out unscathed. And yes, my father's illness was a tremendous burden on us. But that doesn't explain it.

In the end, after all the theories and psychoanalyzing, after all the combing through her childhood traumas, I think what went wrong with my sister was more basic. She had some kind of chemical imbalance in her brain. Too much of one compound flowing here, not enough of another flowing there. We did not recognize the warning signs soon enough. Stacy was depressed in an era when such behavior was mistaken for sullen. Or maybe, yet again, I use this sort of convoluted rationale to justify my own indifference to her. Stacy was just my weird younger sister. I had my own problems, thank you very much.
I had the selfishness of a teenager, a truly redundant description if ever I've heard one.

Either way, be the origins of my sister's unhappiness physiological, psychological, or the deluxe combo plan, Stacy's destructive journey was over.

My little sister was dead.

We found her on the floor, curled up in a tight fetal position. That was how she had slept when she was a child, her knees up to her chest, her chin tucked. But even though there was not a mark on her, I could see that she was not sleeping. I bent down. Stacy's eyes were open. She stared straight at me, unblinking, questioning. She still looked so very lost. That wasn't supposed to be. Death was supposed to bring solitude. Death was supposed to bring the peace she had found so elusive in life. Why, I wondered, did Stacy still look so damn lost?

A hypodermic needle lay on the floor by her side, her companion in death as in life. Drugs, of course. Intentional or otherwise, I did not yet know. I had no time to dwell on it either. The police fanned out. I wrested my eyes away from her.

Tara.

The place was a mess. Raccoons had found their way in and made a little home for themselves. The couch where my grandfather had taken his naps, always with his arms folded, was torn up. The stuffing had bled onto the floor. Springs popped up looking for someone to stab. The entire place smelled like urine and dead animals.

I stopped and listened for the sound of a crying baby. There was none. Nothing in here. Only one other room. I dived into the bedroom behind a policeman. The room was dark. I hit the light switch. Nothing happened. Flashlights sliced through the black like saber swords. My eyes scanned the room. When I saw it, I nearly cried out.

There was a playpen.

It was one of those modern Pack 'N Plays with the mesh sides that fold up for easy transport. Monica and I have one. I don't know anyone with a baby who doesn't. The product tag dangled off the side. It had to be new.

Tears came to my eyes. The flashlight cut past the Pack 'N Play, giving it a strobe-light effect. It appeared to be empty. My heart sank. I ran over anyway, in case the light had caused an optical illusion, in case Tara was nestled so sweetly that she—I don't know—barely made a bump.

But there was only a blanket inside.

A soft voice—a voice from a whispery, inescapable nightmare—floated across the room: “Oh Christ.”

I swiveled my head toward the sound. The voice came again, weaker this time. “In here,” a policeman said. “In the closet.”

Tickner and Regan were already there. They both looked inside. Even in the dim glow, I saw their faces lose color.

My feet stumbled forward. I crossed the room, nearly falling, grabbing the closet doorknob at the last moment to regain my balance. I looked through the doorway and saw it. And then, as I looked down at the frayed fabric, I could actually feel my insides implode and crumble into ash.

There, lying on the floor, torn and discarded, was a pink one-piece outfit with black penguins.

Lydia saw the
widow sitting alone at Starbucks.

The widow was on a stool seat, gazing absently at the gentle trickle of pedestrians. Her coffee was near the window, the steam forming a circle on the glass. Lydia watched her for a moment. The devastation was still there—the battle-scarred, thousand-yard stare, the posture of the defeated, the hair with no sheen, the shake in the hands.

Lydia ordered a grande skim latte with an extra shot of espresso. The
barista
, a too-skinny black-clad youth with a goatee, gave her the shot “on the house.” Men, even ones this young, did stuff like that for Lydia. She lowered her sunglasses and thanked him. He nearly wet himself.

Lydia moved toward the condiment table, knowing he was checking out her ass. Again she was used to it. She added a packet of Equal to her drink. The Starbucks was fairly empty—there were plenty of seats—but Lydia slid up on the stool immediately next to the widow. Sensing her, the widow startled out of her reverie.

“Wendy?” Lydia said.

Wendy Burnet, the widow, turned toward the soft voice.

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” Lydia said.

Lydia smiled at her. She had, she knew, a warm smile. She wore a tailored gray suit on her petite, tight frame. The skirt was slit fairly high. Business sexy. Her eyes had that shiny-wet thing going, her nose small and slightly upturned. Her hair was auburn ringlets, but she could—and often did—change that.

Wendy Burnet stared just long enough for Lydia to wonder if she'd
been recognized. Lydia had seen that stare plenty of times before, that unsure I-know-you-from-somewhere expression, even though she had not been on TV since she turned thirteen. Some people would even comment, “Hey, you know who you look like?” but Lydia—she had been billed as Larissa Dane back then—would shrug it away.

But alas, this hesitation was not like that. Wendy Burnet was still shell-shocked from the horrible death of her beloved. It simply took her a while to register and assimilate unfamiliar data. She was probably wondering how to react, if she should pretend she knew Lydia or not.

After another few seconds, Wendy Burnet went for the noncommittal. “Thank you.”

“Poor Jimmy,” Lydia followed up. “Such an awful way to go.”

Wendy fumbled for the paper coffee cup and downed a healthy sip. Lydia checked out the little boxes on the side of the cup and saw that the Widow Wendy had ordered a grande latte too, though she'd chosen half decaf and soy milk. Lydia slid a little closer to her.

“You don't know who I am, do you?”

Wendy gave her a weak got-me smile. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to be. I don't think we ever met.”

Wendy waited for Lydia to introduce herself. When she didn't, Wendy said, “You knew my husband then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Are you in the insurance business too?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

Wendy frowned. Lydia sipped her beverage. The awkwardness grew, at least for Wendy. Lydia was fine with it. When it became too much, Wendy rose to leave.

“Well,” she said, “it was nice meeting you.”

“I . . .” Lydia began, hesitating until she was sure that she had Wendy's full attention, “I was the last person to see Jimmy alive.”

Wendy froze. Lydia took another sip and closed her eyes. “Nice and strong,” she said, gesturing toward the cup. “I love the coffee here, don't you?”

“Did you say . . . ?”

“Please,” Lydia said with a small sweep of her arm. “Have a seat so I can explain properly.”

Wendy glanced over at the
baristas
. They were busy gesticulating and whining about what they thought was the great world conspiracy that kept them from the most amazing of lives. Wendy slid back onto the stool. For a few moments, Lydia just stared at her. Wendy tried to hold her gaze.

“You see,” Lydia began, offering up a fresh, warm smile and tilting her to the side, “I'm the one who killed your husband.”

Wendy's face went pale. “That isn't funny.”

“True, yes, I'd have to agree with you on that, Wendy. But then again humor was not really my aim. Would you like to hear a joke instead? I'm on one of those joke e-mail lists. Most are duds, but every once in a while, they send a howler.”

Wendy sat stunned. “Who the hell are you?”

“Calm down a second, Wendy.”

“I want to know—”

“Shhh.” Lydia put her finger to Wendy's lip with too much tenderness. “Let me explain, okay?”

Wendy's lips trembled. Lydia kept her finger there for a few more seconds.

“You're confused. I understand that. Let me clarify a few things for you. First off, yes, I'm the one who put the bullet in Jimmy's head. But Heshy”—Lydia pointed out the window in the direction of an enormous man with a misshapen head—“he did the earlier damage. Personally, by the time I shot Jimmy, well, I think I might have been doing him in a favor.”

Wendy just stared.

“You want to know why, am I right? Of course, you do. But deep down inside, Wendy, I think you know. We're women of the world, aren't we? We know our men.”

Wendy said nothing.

“Wendy, do you know what I'm talking about?”

“No.”

“Sure you do, but I'll say it anyway. Jimmy, your dearly departed husband, owed a great deal of money to some very unpleasant people. As of today, the amount is just under two hundred thousand dollars.” Lydia smiled. “Wendy, you're not going to pretend you know nothing about your husband's gambling woes, are you?”

Wendy had trouble forming the words in her mouth. “I don't understand. . . .”

“I hope your confusion has nothing to do with my gender.”

“What?”

“That would be really narrow and sexist on your part, don't you think? This is the twenty-first century. Women can be whatever they want.”

“You”—Wendy stopped, tried again—“you murdered my husband?”

“Do you watch much television, Wendy?”

“What?”

“Television. You see, on television, whenever someone like your husband owes money to someone like me, well, what happens?”

Lydia stopped as if she really expected her to answer. Wendy finally said, “I don't know.”

“Sure you do, but again I'll answer for you. The someone-like-me—okay, usually the
male
someone-like-me—is sent to threaten him. Then maybe my cohort Heshy out there would beat him up or break his legs, something like that. But they never kill the guy. That's one of those TV-bad-guy rules. ‘You can't collect from a dead man.' You've heard that, haven't you, Wendy?”

She waited. Wendy finally said, “I guess.”

“But, see, that's wrong. Let's take Jimmy, for example. Your husband had a disease. Gambling. Am I right? It cost you everything, didn't it? The insurance business. That had been your father's. Jimmy took it over for him. It's gone now. Wiped out. The bank was ready to foreclose on your house. You and the kids barely had enough money for groceries. And still Jimmy didn't stop.” Lydia shook her head. “Men. Am I right?”

There were tears in Wendy's eyes. Her voice, when she was able to speak, was so weak. “So you killed him?”

Lydia looked up, shaking her head gently. “I'm really not explaining this well, am I?” She lowered her gaze and tried again. “Have you ever heard the expression that you can't squeeze blood from a stone?”

Again Lydia waited for an answer. Wendy finally nodded. Lydia seemed pleased.

“Well, that's the case here. With Jimmy, I mean. I could have Heshy out there work him over—Heshy is good at that—but what good would
that do? Jimmy didn't have the money. He would never be able to get his hands on that kind of cash.” Lydia sat a little straighter and put out her hands. “Now, Wendy, I want you to think like a businessman—check that, a business
person
. We don't have to be raving feminists, but I think we should at least keep ourselves on equal footing.”

Lydia gave Wendy another smile. Wendy cringed.

“Okay, so what am I—as a wise business
person
—what am I supposed to do? I can't let the debt go unpaid, of course. In my line of work, that's professional suicide. Someone owes my employer money, they have to pay. No way around that. The problem here is, Jimmy doesn't have a cent to his name but”—Lydia stopped and widened her smile—“but he does have a wife and three kids. And he used to be in the insurance business. Do you see where I'm going with this, Wendy?”

Wendy was afraid to breathe.

“Oh, I think you do, but again I'll say it for you. Insurance. More specifically,
life
insurance. Jimmy had a policy. He didn't admit it right away, but eventually, well, Heshy can be persuasive.” Wendy's eyes drifted toward the window. Lydia saw the shiver and hid a smile. “Jimmy told us he had two policies, in fact, with a total payout of nearly a million dollars.”

“So you”—Wendy was struggling to comprehend—“you killed Jimmy for the insurance money?”

Lydia snapped her fingers. “You go, girlfriend.”

Wendy opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“And, Wendy? Let me make this crystal clear. Jimmy's debts don't die with him. We both know that. The bank still wants you to pay the mortgage, am I right? The credit-card companies don't stop mounting the interest.” Lydia shrugged her small shoulders, palms to the sky. “Why should my employer be any different?”

“You can't be serious.”

“Your first insurance check should come in about a week. By that time, your husband's debt will be two hundred eighty thousand dollars. I'll expect a check for that amount on that day.”

“But the bills he left alone—”

“Shhh.” Again Lydia silenced her with a finger to her lips. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “That doesn't really concern me,
Wendy. I have given you the rare opportunity to get out from under. Declare bankruptcy, if you must. You live in a ritzy area. Move out. Have Jack—that's your eleven-year-old, correct?”

Wendy jolted at the sound of her son's name.

“Well, no summer camp for Jack this year. Have him get a job after school. Whatever. None of that concerns me. You, Wendy, will pay what you owe, and that will be the end of this. You will never see or hear from me again. If you don't pay, however, well, take a good look at Heshy over there.” She paused, letting Wendy do just that. It had the desired effect.

“We'll kill little Jack first. Then, two days later, we'll kill Lila. If you report this conversation to the police, we'll kill Jack and Lila and Darlene. All three, in age order. And then, after you bury your children—please listen, Wendy, because this is key—I'll still make you pay.”

Wendy couldn't speak.

Lydia followed up a deep, caffeinated sip with an “Ahh” of satisfaction. “Dee-lightful,” she said, rising from her seat. “I really enjoyed our little girl chat, Wendy. We should get together again soon. Say, your house at noon on Friday the sixteenth?”

Wendy kept her head down.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to pay the debt,” Wendy said.

Lydia smiled at her. “Again, my sincerest condolences.”

Lydia headed outside and breathed in the fresh air. She looked behind her. Wendy Burnet had not moved. Lydia waved good-bye and met up with Heshy. He was nearly six six. She was five one. He weighed 275 pounds. She was 105. He had a head like a misshapen pumpkin. Her features seemed to have been made in the Orient out of porcelain.

“Problems?” Heshy asked.

“Please,” she said with a dismissive wave. “On to more profitable ventures. Did you find our man?”

“Yes.”

“And the package is already out?”

“Sure, Lydia.”

“Very good.” She frowned, felt a gnawing.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I have a funny feeling, that's all.”

“You want to back out?”

Lydia smiled at him. “Not on your life, Pooh Bear.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

She thought about it. “Let's just see how Dr. Seidman reacts.”