Three Harlan Coben Novels (56 page)

When Regan and
Tickner got the call about the shooting at the Seidman residence, both men leapt to their feet. They were nearing the elevator when Tickner’s cell phone rang.

A stiff, overly formal female voice said, “Special Agent Tickner?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher.”

Tickner knew the name. He may have even met her once or twice. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Where are you right now?” she asked.

“New York Presbyterian Hospital, but I’m heading out to New Jersey.”

“No,” she said. “Please come down to One Federal Plaza immediately.”

Tickner checked the time. It was only five in the morning. “Now?”

“That is what immediately means, yes.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo would like to see you.”

Pistillo? That made him pause. Pistillo was the top agent on the East Coast. He was the boss of Tickner’s boss’s boss. “But I’m on the way to a crime scene.”

“This isn’t a request,” Fisher said. “Assistant Director Pistillo is waiting. He expects you here within the half hour.”

The phone went dead. Tickner lowered his hand.

“What the hell was that about?” Regan asked.

“I gotta go,” Tickner said, heading down the corridor.

“Where?”

“My boss wants to see me.”

“Now?”

“Right now.” Tickner was already halfway down the hall. “Call me when you know something.”

“This isn’t easy to talk about,” Rachel said.

I drove. The unanswered questions had started to gather, weighing us both down, sapping our energy. I kept my eyes on the road and waited.

“Was Lenny with you when you saw the photos?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Was he surprised by them?”

“Looked that way to me.”

She settled back. “Cheryl probably wouldn’t have been.”

“Why’s that?”

“When you asked for my number, she called to warn me.”

“About what?” I asked.

“About us.”

No further explanation required. “She warned me too,” I said.

“When Jerry died—that was my husband’s name, Jerry Camp—when he died, let’s just say it was a very hard time for me.”

“I understand.”

“No,” she said. “Not like that. Jerry and I, we hadn’t worked in a very long time. I don’t know if we ever did. When I went for training at Quantico, Jerry was one of my instructors. More than that, he was a legend. One of the best agents ever. You remember that KillRoy case a few years back?”

“He was a serial killer, right?”

Rachel nodded. “That capture was mostly due to Jerry. He had one of the most distinguished records in the bureau. With me . . . I don’t know how it happened exactly. Or maybe I do. He was older. Something of a father figure maybe. I loved the FBI. It was my life. Jerry had a crush on me. I was flattered. But I don’t know if I ever really loved him.”

She stopped. I could feel her eyes on me. I kept mine on the road.

“Did you love Monica?” she asked. “I mean, really love her?”

The muscles in my shoulder bunched. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”

She was still. Then she said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

The silence grew. I tried to slow my breathing. “You were telling me about the photos?”

“Yes.” Rachel started fidgeting. She only wore one ring. Now she twisted and tugged at it. “When Jerry died—”

“Was shot,” I interjected.

Again I could feel her eyes on me. “Was shot, yes.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“This isn’t good, Marc.”

“What isn’t?”

“You’re already angry.”

“I just want to know if you shot your husband.”

“Let me tell it my way, okay?”

There was a touch of steel in her voice now. I backed down, gave her a suit-yourself shrug. “When he died, I pretty much lost it. I was forced to resign. Everything I had—my friends, my work, hell, my life—was wrapped in the bureau. Now it was gone. I started drinking. I sank deeper into a funk. I hit bottom. And when you hit bottom, you look for a way to bounce back up. You look for anything. You get desperate.”

We slowed at an interchange.

“I’m not saying this right,” she said.

I surprised myself then. I reached through the red and put my hand on hers. “Just tell me, okay?”

She nodded, keeping her gaze down, staring at my hand on hers. I kept it there. “One night, when I had too much to drink, I dialed your number.”

I remembered what Regan had told me about the phone records. “When was this?”

“A few months before the attack.”

“Did Monica answer?” I asked.

“No. Your machine picked up. I—I know how stupid this sounds—I left a message for you.”

I slowly took my hand back. “What did you say exactly?”

“I don’t remember. I was drunk. I was crying. I think I said that I missed you and hoped you’d call back. I don’t think I went further than that.”

“I never got the message,” I said.

“I realize that now.”

Something clicked. “That means,” I said, “that Monica listened to it.”

A few months before the attack, I thought. When Monica was feeling her most insecure. When we were starting to have serious problems. I remembered other things too. I remembered how often Monica had cried at night. I remembered how Edgar had told me that she’d started seeing a psychiatrist. And there I was, in my oblivious little world, taking her to Lenny and Cheryl’s house, subjecting her to that picture with my old lover in it—my old lover who had called our house late at night and said she missed me.

“My God,” I said. “No wonder she hired a private investigator. She wanted to know if I was cheating on her. She probably told him about your call, about our past.”

She said nothing.

“You still haven’t answered the question, Rachel. What were you doing in front of the hospital?”

“I came to New Jersey to see my mother,” she began. There was a hitch in her voice now. “I told you that she has a condo now in West Orange.”

“So? Are you trying me to tell me she was a patient there?”

“No.” She went quiet again. I drove. I almost flipped on the radio, just out of habit, just to do something. “Do I really have to say this?”

“I think so, yeah,” I said. But I knew. I understood exactly.

Her voice was stripped off all passion. “My husband is dead. My job is gone. I’ve lost everything. I’d been talking to Cheryl a lot. I could tell from what she said that you and your wife were having problems.” She turned to me full. “Come on, Marc. You know we never got over each other. So that day I went to the hospital to face you. I don’t know what I expected. Was I really naïve enough to think you’d sweep me into your arms? Maybe, I don’t know. So I hung around and tried to work up the courage. I even went up to your floor. But in the end, I couldn’t go through with it—not because of Monica or Tara. I wish I could say I was that noble. I wasn’t.”

“So why then?”

“I walked away because I thought you’d reject me and I wasn’t sure I could handle that.”

We fell into silence then. I had no idea what to say. I don’t even know how I felt.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

We drove some more. I wanted so very much to do the right thing. I thought about it. We both stared straight ahead. The tension pressed against the windows. Finally I said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is finding Tara.”

I glanced at Rachel. I saw a tear on her cheek. The sign was up ahead now—small, discreet, nearly indiscernible. It read simply:
HUNTERSVILLE
. Rachel brushed the tear away and sat up. “Then let’s concentrate on that.”

Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo was at his desk, writing. He was large, barrel chested, big shouldered, and bald, the sort of old-timer that makes you think of dock workers and city-saloon fights—power without the show muscle. Pistillo was probably on the wrong side of sixty. Rumor had it that he’d be retiring soon.

Special Agent Claudia Fisher showed Tickner into the office and closed the door as she left. Tickner took his sunglasses off. He stood with his hands behind his back. He was not invited to sit. There was no greeting, no handshake, no salute, or anything such.

Without looking up, Pistillo said, “I understand you’ve been asking about the tragic death of Special Agent Jerry Camp.”

Alarm bells rang in Tickner’s head. Whoa, that was fast. He’d only started his inquiries a few hours ago. “Yes, sir.”

More scribbling. “He taught you at Quantico, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was a great teacher.”

“One of the best, sir.”

“
The
best, Agent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your inquiries into his death,” Pistillo went on, “do they have anything to do with your past relationship with Special Agent Camp?”

“No, sir.”

Pistillo stopped writing. He put down the pen and folded his rock-breaking hands on his desk. “Then why are you asking about it?”

Tickner looked for the traps and pitfalls he knew lurked in his answer. “His wife’s name has arisen in another case I’m working on.”

“That would be the Seidman murder-kidnapping case?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pistillo frowned. His forehead crinkled. “You think there’s a connection between the accidental shooting death of Jerry Camp and the Tara Seidman kidnapping?”

Careful, Tickner thought. Careful. “It’s an avenue I need to explore.”

“No, Agent Tickner, it is not.”

Tickner stayed still.

“If you can tie Rachel Mills to the Seidman murder-kidnapping, do it. Find evidence that connects her to the case. But you don’t need Camp’s death to do that.”

“They could be related,” Tickner said.

“No,” Pistillo said in a voice that left little room for doubt, “they’re not.”

“But I need to look—”

“Agent Tickner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve looked into the file already,” Pistillo said. “More than that, I helped investigate the death of Jerry Camp personally. He was my friend. Do you understand?”

Tickner did not reply.

“I am completely satisfied that his shooting was a tragic accident. That means you, Agent Tickner”—Pistillo pointed a meaty finger at Tickner’s chest—“are completely satisfied too. Do I make myself clear?”

The two men stared at each other. Tickner was not a foolish man. He liked working for the bureau. He wanted to rise up the ladder. It would not pay to upset someone as powerful as Pistillo. So in the end, Tickner was the first to look away.

“Yes, sir.”

Pistillo relaxed. He picked up his pen. “Tara Seidman has been missing for over a year now. Is there any proof she is still alive?”

“No, sir.”

“Then the case doesn’t belong to us anymore.” He started writing now, making no bones about the fact that this was a dismissal. “Let the locals handle it.”

New Jersey is our most densely populated state. That doesn’t surprise people. New Jersey has cities, suburbs, and plenty of industry.
That doesn’t surprise people either. New Jersey is called the Garden State and has plenty of rural areas. That surprises people.

Even before we hit the border of Huntersville, signs of life—human life, that is—had already started fading away. There were few houses. We had passed one general store straight out of
Mayberry RFD
, but that was boarded up. During the next three miles we hit six different roads. I saw no houses. I passed no cars.

We were in the thick of the woods. I made my final turn and the car climbed up the side of a mountain. A deer—the fourth I’d seen by my count—sprinted out of the road, far enough up so I wasn’t in any danger of hitting it. I was beginning to suspect that the name Huntersville was to be taken literally.

“It’ll be on the left,” Rachel said.

A few seconds later, I could see the mailbox. I began to slow, searching for a house or building of some kind. I saw nothing but trees.

“Keep driving,” Rachel said.

I understood. We couldn’t just pull into the driveway and announce ourselves. I found a small indentation off the road about a quarter of a mile up. I parked and turned off the engine. My heart started to triphammer. It was six in the morning. Dawn was here.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” Rachel asked me.

“I used to fire my dad’s at the range.”

She jammed a weapon into my hand. I stared down at it as if I’d just discovered an extra finger. Rachel had her gun out too. “Where did you get this?” I asked.

“At your house. Off the dead guy.”

“Jesus.”

She shrugged as if to say,
Hey, you never know.
I looked at the gun again and suddenly a thought hit me: Was this the weapon used to shoot me? To kill Monica? I stopped there. There was no time for this squeamish nonsense. Rachel was already out the door. I followed. We started into the woods. There was no path. We made our own. Rachel took the lead. She tucked her weapon into the back of her pants. For some reason, I didn’t do the same. I wanted to hold the gun. Faded orange signs tacked to trees warned trespassers to stay away. They had the word
NO
in giant font and a surprising amount of finer print, overexplaining what seemed to me to be pretty obvious.

We angled closer to where we thought the driveway was. When we spotted it, we had our guiding star. We stayed near the unpaved stretch and continued on our way. A few minutes later, Rachel stopped. I nearly bumped into her. She pointed ahead.

A structure.

It looked like a barn of some sort. We were more careful now. We kept low. We darted from tree to tree and tried to stay out of sight. We did not speak. After a bit, I started hearing music. Country, I think, but I’m no expert. Up ahead, I spotted a clearing. There was indeed a barn that appeared to be in mid-demolition. There was another structure too—a ranch or maybe extended trailer.

We moved a little closer, right to the end of the woods. We pressed ourselves against trees and peeked out. There was a tractor in the yard. I saw an old Trans Am up on cement blocks. Directly in front of the ranch was a white, overly sporty car—some might call it a “hot rod,” I guess—with a thick black stripe up the hood. It looked like a Camaro.