Never Look Away (21 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

I broke away from Duckworth and headed for the door, glancing back only once to see Stan Reeves talking to the detective.

Dad pulled up to the curb in his blue Crown Victoria about five minutes later. I got in the passenger side and slammed the door.

"Watch it, you'll shatter the glass," he said.

"What's happening at the house?" I asked.

"It's like your mother told you on the phone. They took it away."

I had the keys on me, but the police wouldn't need them to remove the car, or get into it.

"It wasn't parked illegally," Dad said.

"That's not why they towed it," I said.

Dad looked at me with disappointment. "They repossessed it? Jesus, you didn't keep up your payments?"

I suppose it was a sign of faith in me that Dad would suspect me of being a deadbeat before he'd think of me as a murderer.

"Dad, the police are looking for evidence."

"Evidence?"

"I think the police are ... I think the police are looking at me as a suspect."

"A suspect in what?" he asked.

"They think maybe I did something with Jan."

"Jesus!" he said. "Why the hell would they think that?"

"Dad, take me by my house."

"She's your wife, David! What's wrong with them? You'd never hurt Jan. And why do they think something's happened to her?" Suddenly it registered. "Oh my God, son, they haven't found her, have they? Have they found a body?"

"No," I said. "Cops, they always look at the husband when a wife goes missing." Was I trying to make Dad feel better, or myself? Maybe my interrogation by Duckworth was just standard operating procedure. Something the cops did as a matter of course.

No. There was more to it than that. The circumstances of Jan's disappearance were working against me. The fact that only two tickets had been ordered online. The fact that no one--other than Ethan and me--had seen Jan since before the trip up to Lake George. The fact that Jan had not disclosed to anyone else how depressed she'd been feeling the last couple of weeks.

I believed most of those things could be explained. What I couldn't figure out was why the person working at Ted's Lakeview General Store was lying. Why would someone tell police Jan had said she didn't know where she was going, that her husband had brought her up there for some sort of surprise?

That was crazy.

Jan had gone in to buy a couple of drinks. Nothing more, nothing less. How likely was it that she would strike up a conversation with whoever was behind the counter about anything, let alone why she was up there with her husband? I could imagine a short exchange about the weather, but what possible reason could Jan have for telling someone she'd been brought up there for reasons unknown? Given that I'd gone up there to meet a source, it stood to reason that Jan would have said very little, even if asked what she was doing up at Lake George.

If that's what the proprietor at Ted's told the police, he or she was lying.

Unless, of course, Detective Duckworth was lying.

Was he making the whole thing up to rattle me? To see how I'd respond? But how did he know in the first place that we'd been up there, that Jan had gone inside to buy drinks? The person she'd bought them from must have contacted the police, after seeing the news reports about Jan.

"What?" Dad said. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know what to think," I said. "Just get me home."

I saw the police cars out front as we turned the corner. Jan's car was no longer in the driveway, so they must have scooped it the same time as they were taking mine from my parents' house. Dad barely had the car stopped before I was out the door, running across the lawn and up the steps. The front door was open and I could hear people talking inside.

"Hello!" I shouted.

A woman, in uniform, appeared at the top of the stairs. I recognized her as the officer who had looked after Ethan at Five Mountains yesterday while I talked to Duckworth. Campion, her name was.

"Mr. Harwood," she said.

"I want to see the warrant," I said.

"Alex!" she called, and a small, slender man who couldn't have been much more than thirty emerged from the bedroom I shared with Jan. His hair was bristle short, and he was dressed in a sport jacket, white dress shirt, and jeans.

"This is Mr. Harwood," she told him.

The man came down the stairs but didn't extend a hand. I supposed those sorts of pleasantries were dispensed with when you were turning a man's house upside down for evidence that he'd offed his wife. "Detective Alex Simpson," he said, reaching into his jacket. He handed me a paper folded in thirds. "This is a warrant to search these premises."

I took the paper from him and glanced at it, unable to see through my anger to the words on the page. "Just tell me what the hell you're looking for and I'll show it to you," I said.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," Simpson said.

I bounded up the stairs. Campion was looking through my and Jan's dresser, rooting through socks and underwear. I saw her linger a moment on a garter belt in one of Jan's drawers, then keep going. "Is this necessary?"

Campion did not answer. I noticed that the laptop that had been in the kitchen was in the middle of the bed. "What's that doing there?" I asked.

"I'm going to be taking that with me," Campion said.

"You have to be kidding," I said. "That's got all our finances and addresses and everything--"

"David."

I turned. My father was standing in the doorway. "David, you have to see what they've done with Ethan's room."

I crossed the hallway. My son's bed had been stripped, and the mattress was up on its side, leaning against the wall. All the plastic bins where he kept his toys had been dumped and strewn across the floor.

"Come on!" I said. "Why the hell do you have to tear apart my son's room?"

Simpson came up the stairs. "Mr. Harwood, you have the right to be here while we do this, but you can't interfere as we do our work, or you will be removed."

I was speechless with rage. I was about to say something else when the cell in my jacket rang.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Hey, Dave, it's Samantha. What the hell is going on?"

"I can't talk right now, Sam."

"Dave, listen, I've got to be up-front with you. This isn't just a friend calling. I'm looking for a quote. I need something now."

The
Standard's
Monday edition wouldn't go to press until tonight, so Sam was looking for something for the online edition. I hadn't had a chance to check the website today, but it was reasonable to assume something was on there, given that Jan had made the TV news the night before.

I took a look into Ethan's room, a glance back into mine. What I felt most like saying at that moment was that the Promise Falls police were a bunch of morons and assholes who were wasting time harassing me while my wife remained unfound.

But instead I said, "Go ahead, Sam."

"Is it true," she asked, "that you're a suspect in this investigation into what happened to your wife?"

It hadn't been thirty minutes since I'd left the station. How could the
Standard
already know that--

Reeves
.

I doubted Duckworth would have told the councilor anything, and the detective wouldn't have had time to call any sort of news conference since I'd left him. But my stupid overheard comment would be all Reeves needed to put in a call to the paper. Undoubtedly an anonymous call. Reeves was a weasel if there ever was one. A simple call to the assignment desk to say that one of the
Standard's
own people was spotted at police headquarters, angrily denying that he'd killed his wife, would be enough to get the newsroom buzzing.

The moment Reeves was finished with the
Standard
, his next calls were probably to the TV and radio stations.

"Sam, where did you get this?"

Dad was looking at me, mouthing, "Who is it?"

"Dave, come on," Samantha Henry said. "You know how this works. I'm sorry, really, but I have to ask. Is it true? Are you about to be arrested? Are you a suspect? Are you a
person of interest?
Has Jan's body been found?"

"Jesus, Sam. Look, just tell me this. What are the police saying? What's their official comment?"

"I don't have anything yet from--"

"So this is just a rumor. Someone phone into the desk, not leave his name?"

"Dave, I'm not doing anything you wouldn't do. We got a tip, and I'm following it up. Look, if you're going to talk to anybody, you should talk to me. This is your own paper. If anyone's going to give you a good shake, it's going to be us."

I wasn't so sure about that.

Outside, I heard the squeal of brakes. Still holding the phone to my head, I slipped past my father and down the stairs and looked out the front door.

It was a TV news van.

"I have to go, Sam," I said, and ended the call.

"Isn't that News Channel 13?" Dad said.

"Yeah, thanks, Dad," I said. "We need to get out of here. If they start showing up at your place, I don't want them bothering Ethan."

"Okay."

"We're just going to walk out calmly and get in your car," I said.

"Gotcha."

We walked out together, paying little attention as a driver and reporter got out of the van. I recognized the reporter as Donna Wegman. Late twenties, brunette, always pulling hair away from her eyes during remote newscasts.

"Excuse me," she called over. "Are you David Harwood?"

I pointed back to the house. "Check with the cops. They might know where to find him."

On the way, Dad said, "I don't know if you've thought of this, son, but maybe you need to talk to a lawyer or something."

"Yeah," I said. "I might have to do that."

"You could try Buck Thomas. You remember him? When we were having that trouble with the Glendons' driveway encroaching onto our lot? He's a good man."

"I might need someone with a different area of expertise," I said.

Dad nodded, conceding the point. "Lawyers charge a pretty penny, you know. If money's a problem, your mom and I, well, we have a bit tucked away. If you need it."

"Thank you, Dad," I said. "The thing is, the police haven't actually charged me with anything. I think if Detective Duckworth really had something on me, he never would have let me walk out of that station."

Dad nodded again, not taking his eyes off the road. "You're probably right. And since you haven't done anything wrong, it's not like they're going to find any evidence against you after tearing apart your house and your cars."

If that comment was meant to put me at ease, it didn't work.

"Jesus," Dad said, looking ahead. "Son of a bitch didn't even signal."

TWENTY-SIX

They were cruising along the Mass Pike in Dwayne's tan pickup, which his brother lent to him when he was released from prison. It was a fifteen-year-old Chevy, and despite all the rust around the wheel wells, it ran okay. But it sucked gas, even with the air conditioner off, which was all the time, because it didn't work.

"Are you sure it's not working?" Kate asked.

"Just put the fan on."

"I did and it's nothing but hot air."

"You're nothing but hot air," Dwayne said. "Just open the window."

Kate said, "Your brother really hate you? That why he gave you this clunker?"

"You want to walk?"

At least, if his brother gave it to him, chances were the truck was legit. If they did happen to get pulled over--God knows Dwayne had a history of getting arrested at the most inopportune times--the plates were in order. Dwayne even had a renewed driver's license, praise the Lord.

"You know," Dwayne said, "I used to know a Kate in high school, used to wear this low-cut thing, and when she'd bend over, she'd know you were looking and didn't give a shit. Wonder what she's doing now."

"I'll bet she's not sitting in some antique pickup truck driving on the Mass Pike with no A/C when it's a hundred degrees out. Maybe we should have hung on to the Explorer. It was old but the air worked."

Dwayne shot her a look. "What's with you? You still pissed about what happened back there?"

At Denny's. She'd given him shit for that as soon as they'd gotten back into the truck and were on the highway.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she'd said. "Probably somebody's already called the cops."

"It was no big deal," Dwayne had said. "I did that guy a favor."

"What?"

"From now on, he'll get those kids to behave, they won't grow up to be monsters."

For thirty miles she kept looking back, expecting to see flashing red lights. Maybe no one saw them leaving in the truck from Denny's.

This habit Dwayne had of losing it just when they needed to keep a low profile, it definitely was a problem. She just hoped he could keep a lid on things until they got their business done in Boston.

"Look, I'm sorry about that," Dwayne said as they continued along the highway. "So put the bitch back in the box and cut me some slack."

She held her hand out the window, felt the wind blow between her fingers. They didn't speak for several miles. She was the one to break the silence.

"What was it like?" she asked.

"What was what like?"

"Prison."

"What are you asking, exactly?"

"Not that," she said. "I mean, just like, everyday life, what was it like?"

"Wasn't so bad. You always knew what to expect. You had a routine. You knew when to get up and when to go to bed and when it was lunchtime and when you got to go out in the yard. You had stuff to look forward to."

This was not the answer she was expecting. "But you couldn't go anywhere," she said. "You were, you know, a prisoner."

Dwayne hung his left arm over the sill. "Yeah, but you didn't have to make a lot of decisions. What should I wear? What should I eat? What should I do? That kind of stuff wears you down, you know? I don't know sometimes how regular people do it, having to make so many decisions. Every day you got up, you knew what to expect. It was kind of comforting."

"So, it was paradise."

"Not always," he said, missing the sarcasm. "The food was shitty, and there wasn't enough of it. If you got in line last, there might not be anything for you. They cut back on how many times they did laundry. Ever since the place went private, the fuckers were looking to pinch pennies every place they could."

"Private?"

"The place was run by a company, not the state. Some of the guards, you'd listen to them, they got paid so lousy, they'd be talking about whether they were going to make it to payday, what with kids and the mortgage and car payments and all that shit. Almost made you count your blessings. Not that that's going to be a problem for us very soon."

Dwayne moved into the passing lane, went around a bus.

"You get what I'm saying?" he said. "About all those decisions? Only decision I want to make is how big a boat I'm gonna get."

She was thinking about what he'd said. She actually got it. Wasn't that what her life had been like the last few years? Decisions? Endless decisions? Having to make them not just for yourself but other people?

It did get tiring.

"Let me ask you this," she said. "You feel free?"

Dwayne squinted. "Yeah, sure, of course. Yeah, I'm free. I wouldn't trade this for being inside, if that's what you're thinking."

The thing was, she felt like she'd just gotten out of prison, too. She'd escaped, gone over the wall. Here she was, heading down the highway, feet up on the dashboard, the wind blowing her hair all over the place.

What a feeling. What a rush
.

She wondered why she didn't feel better about it.

The plan was pretty simple.

First, they had to go to the two banks. Then, once they had the merchandise from the safe-deposit boxes, they'd find this guy Dwayne heard about who'd assess the value of their goods, then make them an offer. If it wasn't good enough, Kate figured there'd be room for negotiation. Or they could go see another guy. Where was it written that you had to take the first offer?

She just hoped it would be worth the wait. Hard to figure how it wouldn't be. She--they--were going to be rich. The only question was how rich. It was the only thing that kept her going all these years. No doubt about it, money was a great motivator. Knowing that at the end, there was going to be--in all likelihood--millions of dollars.

Maybe, if she and Dwayne hadn't swapped keys, and the moron hadn't gotten himself thrown in jail on an assault charge, she'd have found a way to move the process along, even if it meant only getting a chance at her half. But when Dwayne got himself arrested, and the key to her safe-deposit box got tossed in with his personal effects where she couldn't get at it, what choice did she have, really, but to hang in?

Hang in, and hide out. That last part was particularly important. Because she knew someone was going to be looking for her. She'd read the news. She knew the courier had lived, against all odds. Once he recovered, it seemed a safe bet he'd go looking for the person who'd not only relieved him of a fortune in diamonds, but his left hand as well.

She'd always figured she was more at risk than Dwayne. The courier had seen her face. He'd looked right into her eyes before he passed out. She hadn't expected him to wake up.

The blood
.

It wouldn't take long, she figured, before the courier figured out how she'd gotten onto him.

It had been through his girlfriend, or rather, his ex-girlfriend. Alanna was her name. She'd worked late nights with Alanna at a bar outside Boston. Grabbing a smoke out back during breaks, Alanna would rag on about this guy, what an asshole he turned out to be. How he was always away, going over to Africa and shit, and he'd never let her come to his place, how he was all fucking mysterious about what he did for a living. One time she's with him, they're in his Audi, he has to pop into a building to meet somebody, tells her he'll be back in ten minutes, and she decides to check out this gym bag he's got tucked down on the floor behind the driver's seat. She didn't even know he worked out. First thing she notices is, it sure smells good for a gym bag. Or rather, it sure doesn't smell
bad
. What kind of guy has a gym bag that doesn't smell bad? She starts rooting around in there, doesn't find any shorts or track shoes or sweatbands, but damned if she doesn't find these little velvet-lined boxes. One of them's got half a dozen diamonds in it, and she's thinking, holy shit, is this stuff real? He comes back out sooner than expected, catches her, has a shit fit, hasn't called her since.

And the woman who now called herself Kate thought:
Diamonds?

She'd been hanging out with this guy Dwayne for a few weeks at that point, told him what she'd heard. They tracked down Alanna's ex, started watching him, figuring out his routine. Planned a bait-and-switch. They'd meet him with a limo when he came up from New York on Amtrak.

It wouldn't take the courier long, once the painkillers started wearing off, to figure out Alanna was the leak.

A couple of months after it all went down, there was a story on the
Globe
website about a woman named Alanna Dysart found floating off Rowes Wharf. There was every reason to think that before she died, she gave her killer the names of everyone she might ever have blabbed to about his line of work.

She might very well have given him the name Connie Tattinger.

And so she vanished.

"So you think you're on the news yet?" Dwayne asked.

She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts she didn't hear him the first time he asked.

"Get off at the next major intersection where there's some hotels," she said.

Dwayne aimed the truck down an off-ramp west of where 91 crossed 90, found a hotel with a business office where you could go in and check your email if you were the one business traveler in a thousand who didn't travel with a laptop.

Kate strolled into the office, told the girl her husband was at the front desk seeing about a room. But first, she needed to check on her sick aunt Belinda. Every time she phoned, the line was busy or she got voicemail. Maybe someone had sent an update to her email address. If Belinda had taken a turn for the worse, she said, laying it on thick, they'd just have to turn right around and go back to Maine, no sense finding that out after they'd registered and--

Go ahead, the girl said. Use this computer, no charge.

She went first to the
Standard
website, as well as the sites of a couple of the local TV stations.

There were two things she wanted to know.

Was Jan Harwood's disappearance getting a lot of play?

Had they found the body?

She scanned all the stories she could find, then said to the woman at the desk, "Thanks. She's taken a turn for the worse. We're going to have to turn back."

"I'm so sorry," the woman said.

Back in the truck, she said to Dwayne, "They haven't found her yet."

"That's not good, is it?" he said.

"It's only a matter of time," she said.

Dwayne thought about that for three seconds, then said, "I could definitely go for something to eat."