Three Harlan Coben Novels (92 page)

G
race dove toward him. “Jack? Jack?”

His eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his forehead. Her hands were still bound, but she was able to hold his face. Jack’s skin was clammy. His lips were dry and caked over. There was duct tape around his legs. A handcuff hung around his right wrist. She could see scabs on his left wrist. It had been cuffed too, for a long time judging by the marks.

She called his name again. Nothing. She lowered her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She could see that. Shallow, but he was breathing. She shifted around and put his head in her lap. Her rib pain screamed but that was irrelevant now. He lay flat on his back, her lap his pillow. Her mind fell back to the grape groves in that vineyard in Saint-Emilion. They’d been together about three months by then, totally infatuated, jammed neatly in that sprint-across-the-park, thumping-of-the-heart-whenever-you-see-the-person stage. She packed some pâté, some cheese, wine of course. The day had been sun-kissed, the sky the kind of blue that made you believe in the angels. They’d lain down on a red tartan blanket, his head in her lap like this, she stroking his hair. She’d spent more time staring at him than the natural wonders that surrounded them. She’d traced his face with her fingers.

Grace made her voice soft, tried to ease up on the panic.

“Jack?”

His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were too large. It took him a moment to focus, and then he saw her. For a moment his caked lips cracked into a smile. Grace wondered if he too was flashing back to that same picnic. Her heart burst, but she managed to smile back. There was a serene moment, no more, and then reality flooded in. Jack’s eyes widened in panic. The smile vanished. His face crumbled into anguish.

“Oh God.”

“It’s okay,” she said, even though that was about as dumb a statement as one could make under the circumstances.

He was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

Jack’s eyes searched like beacons, finding their captor. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said to the man. “Let her go.”

The man took a step closer. He bent down on his haunches. “If you speak again,” he said to Jack, “I will hurt her. Not you. Her. I will hurt her very badly. Do you understand?”

Jack closed his eyes and nodded.

He stood back up. He kicked Jack off her lap, grabbed Grace by the hair, and pulled her to a standing position. With his other hand he clutched Jack by the neck.

“We need to take a ride,” he said.

P
erlmutter and Duncan had just gotten off the Garden State Parkway at Interstate 287, no more than five miles from the house in Armonk, when the call was radioed in:

“They were here—Lawson’s Saab is still in the driveway—but they’re gone now.”

“How about Beatrice Smith?”

“Nowhere in sight. We just got here. We’re still checking the residence.”

Perlmutter thought about it. “Wu would figure that Charlaine Swain would report seeing him. He’d know he had to get rid of the Saab. Do you know if Beatrice Smith had a car?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Is there any other car in the driveway or garage?”

“Hold on.” Perlmutter waited. Duncan looked at him. Ten seconds later: “No other car.”

“Then they took hers. Find out the make and license plate. Get an APB out right away.”

“Okay, got it. Wait, hold on a second, Captain.” He was gone again.

Scott Duncan said, “Your computer expert. She thought that Wu was maybe a serial killer.”

“She thought it was a possibility.”

“You don’t believe it though.”

Perlmutter shook his head. “He’s a pro. He doesn’t pick victims for jollies. Sykes lived alone. Beatrice Smith is a widow. Wu needs a place to stay and operate. This is how he finds those places.”

“So he’s a gun for hire.”

“Something like that.”

“Any thoughts on who he’s working for?”

Perlmutter held the wheel. He took the Armonk exit. They were only about a mile away now. “I was hoping you or your client might have an idea.”

The radio crackled. “Captain? You still there?”

“I am.”

“One car registered to Mrs. Beatrice Smith. A tan Land Rover. License plate 472-JXY.”

“Get an APB out on it. They can’t be far.”

T
he tan Land Rover stayed on side roads. Grace had no idea where they were headed. Jack was lying on the floor of the backseat. He had passed out. His legs were duct-taped together. His hands were cuffed behind him. Grace’s hands were still bound in front of her. Her captor, she figured, had seen no reason to make her put them back.

In the backseat Jack groaned like a wounded animal. Grace looked at their captor, his placid face, one hand on the wheel like a father taking the family out for a Sunday drive. She ached. Every breath was a reminder of what he’d done to her ribs. Her knee felt as if it’d been ripped apart by shrapnel.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

She tensed, awaiting the blow. She almost didn’t care. She was beyond that. But the man did not lash out. He did not stay silent either. He pointed with his thumb toward Jack.

“Not as much,” he said, “as he did to you.”

She stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Now, for the first time, she saw a genuine smile. “I think you know.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.

He still smiled, and maybe, somewhere deep inside of her, the gnawing started to grow. She tried to cast it off, tried to concentrate
on getting out of this, on saving Jack. She asked, “Where are you taking us?”

He did not reply.

“I said—”

“You’re brave,” he interrupted.

She said nothing.

“Your husband loves you. You love him. It makes this easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

He glanced toward her. “You both may be willing to risk pain. But are you willing to let me hurt your husband?”

She did not reply.

“The same thing I said to him: If you talk again, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt him.”

The man was right. It worked. She kept silent. She gazed out the window and let the trees blur. They veered onto a two-lane highway. Grace had no idea where. The area was rural. She could see that. They took two more roads and now Grace knew where they were—the Palisades Parkway heading south, back down toward New Jersey.

The Glock was still in the ankle holster.

The feel of it was constant now. The weapon seemed to be calling to her, mocking her, so close and yet out of reach.

Grace would have to figure a way to get to it. There was no other choice. This man was going to kill them. She was sure of that. He wanted some information first—the origin of that photograph, for one thing—but once he had it, once he realized that she was telling the truth on that score, he would kill them both.

She had to go for the gun.

The man kept sneaking glances at her. There was no opening. She thought about it. Wait until he stopped the car? She had tried that before—it hadn’t worked. Just go for it? Just pull it out and take her chances? A possibility but she really did not think she’d be fast enough. Pulling up the leg cuff, unsnapping that safety strap, getting her hand around the gun, withdrawing it . . . all before he reacted?

No way.

She debated the slow approach. Lower her hands a little to the side. Try to work her cuff up a bit at a time. Pretend like she had an itch.

Grace shifted in her seat and looked down at her leg. And that was when she felt her heart slam into her throat. . . .

Her cuff had ridden up.

The ankle holster. It was visible now.

Panic spread through her. She cut a glance at her captor, hoping that he hadn’t seen it. But he had. His eyes suddenly widened. He was looking right at her leg.

Now or never.

But even as she reached, Grace could see that she had no chance. There was simply no way to get there in time. Her captor put his hand on her knee again and squeezed. Pain blasted violently through her, nearly knocking her unconscious. She screamed. Her body went rigid. Her hands dropped, useless now.

He had her.

She turned toward him, looked into his eyes, saw nothing. Then, without warning, there was movement coming from behind him. Grace gasped.

It was Jack.

Somehow he had risen up from the backseat like an apparition. The man turned, more curious than concerned. After all, Jack’s hands and legs were bound. He was totally spent. What harm could he do?

Wild-eyed and looking something like an animal, Jack reared back his head and whipped it forward. The surprise caught the man off guard. Jack’s forehead connected with the man’s right cheek. The sound was a deep, hollow clunk. The car shrieked to a stop. The man let go of Grace’s knee.

“Run, Grace!”

It was Jack’s voice. Grace fumbled for the gun. She unsnapped the safety strap. But the man was back up again. He used one hand to
grab Jack’s neck. With the other he went after her knee again. She pulled away. He tried again.

Grace knew that there was no time to get the gun. Jack could no longer help. He had used up everything, sacrificed himself, for that one blow.

It would all be for nothing.

The man punched Grace in the ribs again. Hot knives blasted through her. Nausea swam through her stomach and head. She felt consciousness start ebbing away.

She couldn’t hang on. . . .

Jack tried to thrash away, but he was little more than a nuisance. The man squeezed Jack’s neck. Jack made a sound and went still.

The man reached for her again. Grace grabbed the door handle.

His hand clasped her arm.

She could not move.

Jack’s lifeless head slid down the man’s shoulder. It stopped on the forearm. And there, with his eyes closed, Jack opened his mouth and bit down hard.

The man howled and released his grip. He started shaking his arm, trying to get Jack off. Jack clenched his jaw and hung on like a bulldog. The man slammed his free palm into Jack’s head. Jack slumped off.

Grace pulled the door handle, leaned her body against it.

She fell out of the car and landed on the pavement. She rolled away, anything to get farther away from her captor. She actually rolled into the other lane of the highway. A car swerved past her.

Get the gun!

She reached down again. The safety strap was off. She turned toward the car. The man was getting out. He pulled up his shirt. Grace saw his gun. She saw him reaching for it. Grace’s own gun came loose.

There was no question now. There was no ethical dilemma. There was no thought about maybe yelling out a warning, telling him to freeze, asking him to put his hands on his head. There was no moral
outrage. There was no culture, no humanity, no years of civilization or breeding.

Grace pulled the trigger. The gun went off. She pulled it again. And again. The man staggered. She pulled it again. The sound of sirens grew. And Grace fired again.

T
wo ambulances arrived. One whisked Jack away before Grace could even see him. Two paramedics worked on her. They were in constant motion, asking questions as they worked, but their words did not register. She was strapped to a stretcher and wheeled toward the ambulance. Perlmutter was there now.

“Where are Emma and Max?” she asked.

“At the station. They’re safe.”

An hour later Jack was in surgery. That was all they would tell her. He was in surgery.

The young doctor ran a battery of tests on Grace. The ribs were indeed cracked, but there was nothing you could really do for cracked ribs. The doctor wrapped them with an Ace bandage and gave her a shot. The pain began to subside. An orthopedic surgeon checked out her knee and just shook his head.

Perlmutter came into her room and asked a lot of questions. For the most part Grace answered. On some subjects she was intentionally vague. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep anything from the police. Or maybe, well, maybe she did.

Perlmutter was pretty vague too. Her dead captor’s name was Eric Wu. He had been in prison. In Walden. That did not surprise Grace. Wade Larue had been in Walden too. It was all linked. That old photograph. Jack’s group, Allaw. The Jimmy X Band. Wade Larue. And yes, even Eric Wu.

Perlmutter deflected most of her questions. She did not push it. Scott Duncan was in the room too. He stayed in the corner and did not speak.

Grace asked, “How did you know I was with this Eric Wu?”

Perlmutter clearly did not mind answering this one. “Do you know Charlaine Swain?”

“No.”

“Her son Clay goes to Willard.”

“Okay, right. I’ve met her.”

Perlmutter filled her in on Charlaine Swain’s own ordeal at the hands of Eric Wu. He was expansive on the subject, purposefully, Grace thought, so that he could keep mum about the rest of it. Perlmutter’s cell phone rang. He excused himself and headed into the corridor. Grace was alone with Scott Duncan.

“What are they thinking?” she asked.

Scott came closer. “The popular theory is that Eric Wu was working for Wade Larue.”

“How do they figure?”

“They know you went to Larue’s press conference today, so that’s link one. Wu and Larue were not only in Walden at the same time, but they were cellmates for three months.”

“Link two,” she said. “So what do they think Larue was after?”

“Revenge.”

“On?”

“On you, for starters. You testified against him.”

“I testified at his trial, but not really against him. I don’t even remember the stampede.”

“Still. There is a solid link between Eric Wu and Wade Larue—we checked the prison phone records, they’ve been in touch—and there is a solid link between Larue and you.”

“But even if Wade Larue was out for vengeance, why not take me? Why take Jack?”

“They think maybe Larue was trying to hurt you by hurting your family. Make you suffer.”

She shook her head. “And that weird photograph arriving? How do they figure that into the mix? Or your sister’s murder? Or Shane Alworth or Sheila Lambert? Or Bob Dodd getting killed in New Hampshire?”

“It is a theory,” Duncan said, “with lots of holes. But remember—and this plugs most of them—they don’t see all these connections the way we do. My sister may have been murdered fifteen years ago, but that doesn’t have anything to do with now. Neither does Bob Dodd, a reporter who was shot gangland style. For now they’re keeping it simple: Wu gets out of jail. He grabs your husband. Maybe he would have grabbed others, who knows?”

“And the reason he didn’t just kill Jack?”

“Wu was holding him until Wade Larue is released.”

“Which was today.”

“Right, today. Then Wu grabs you both. He was taking you to Larue when you escaped.”

“So Larue could, what, kill us himself?”

Duncan shrugged.

“That doesn’t make sense, Scott. Eric Wu broke my ribs because he wanted to know how I got that photograph. He stopped because he got an unexpected call. Then he suddenly packed us in that car. None of that was planned.”

“Perlmutter just learned all that. They may now alter their theory.”

“And where is Wade Larue anyway?”

“No one seems to know. They’re searching for him.”

Grace dropped back on her pillow. Her bones felt so damned heavy. The tears started flooding her eyes. “How bad is Jack?”

“Bad.”

“Is he going to live?”

“They don’t know.”

“Don’t let them lie to me.”

“I won’t, Grace. But try to get some sleep, okay?”

• • •

In the corridor Perlmutter spoke to the captain of the Armonk Police Department, Anthony Dellapelle. They were still combing through the home of Beatrice Smith.

“We just checked the basement,” Dellapelle said. “Someone was kept locked up down there.”

“Jack Lawson. We know that.”

Dellapelle paused and said, “Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s still a set of handcuffs against a pipe.”

“Wu unlocked him. He probably left them there.”

“That could be. There’s also blood down there—not much of it, but it’s fairly fresh.”

“Lawson had some cuts on him.”

There was a pause.

“What’s going on?” Perlmutter asked.

“Where are you right now, Stu?”

“Valley Hospital.”

“How long would it take you to get here?”

“Fifteen minutes with the sirens,” Perlmutter said. “Why?”

“There’s something else down here,” Dellapelle said. “Something you might want to see for yourself.”

• • •

At midnight Grace pulled herself out of bed and started down the corridor. Her children had visited briefly. Grace insisted that they let her get out of bed for that. Scott Duncan bought her some regular clothes—an Adidas sweat suit—because she did not want to greet her children in a hospital gown. She took a major pain injection so as to quiet the screaming in her ribs. Grace wanted the children to see that she was all right, that she was safe, that they were safe. She put on a brave face that lasted right up until the moment she saw that Emma had brought her poetry journal. Then she started crying.

You can only be strong for so long.

The children were spending the night in their own beds. Cora would stay in the master bedroom. Cora’s daughter, Vickie, would
sleep in the bed next to Emma. Perlmutter had assigned a female cop to stay the night too. Grace was grateful.

The hospital was dark now. Grace managed to stand upright. It took her forever. The hot scream was back in her ribs. Her knee felt more like shards of shattered glass than a joint.

The corridor was quiet. Grace had a specific destination in mind. Someone would try to stop her, she was sure, but that didn’t really concern her. She was determined.

“Grace?”

She turned toward the female voice, readying to do battle. But that wouldn’t be the case here. Grace recognized the woman from the playground. “You’re Charlaine Swain.”

The woman nodded. They moved toward each other, eyes locked, sharing something neither one of them could really articulate.

“I guess I owe you a thanks,” Grace said.

“Vice versa,” Charlaine said. “You killed him. The nightmare is over for us.”

“How is your husband?” Grace asked.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Grace nodded.

Charlaine said, “I hear yours isn’t doing well.” They were both beyond phony platitudes. Grace appreciated the honesty.

“He’s in a coma.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I’m going there now.”

“Sneaking in?”

“Yes.”

Charlaine nodded. “Let me help you.”

Grace leaned on Charlaine Swain. The woman was strong. The corridor was empty. In the distance they heard the sharp clack of heels on tile. The lights were low. They passed an empty nurse station and got into the elevator. Jack was on the third floor, in intensive care. Having Charlaine Swain with her felt oddly right to Grace. She could not say why.

This particular section of the intensive care unit had four rooms
with glass walls. A nurse sat in the middle, thus able to monitor them all at once, but right now, only one room had a patient in it.

They both pulled up. Jack was in the bed. The first thing Grace noticed was that her powerful husband, the gruff six-two hunk who’d always made her feel safe, looked so small and fragile in that bed. She knew that it was her imagination. It had only been two days. He had lost some weight. He had been totally dehydrated. But that wasn’t what this was.

Jack’s eyes were closed. He had a tube coming out of his throat. There was another tube in his mouth. Both were taped with white adhesive. Yet another tube was in his nose. Still another in his right arm. There was an IV. There were machines surrounding him, straight out of some futuristic nightmare.

Grace felt herself starting to fall. Charlaine held her up. Grace steadied herself and moved toward the door.

The nurse said, “You can’t go in there.”

“She just wants to sit with him,” Charlaine said. “Please.”

The nurse glanced around then back at Grace. “Two minutes.”

Grace let go of Charlaine. Charlaine pushed opened the door for her. Grace went in alone. There were beeps and dings and a hellish sound like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Grace sat down next to the bed. She did not reach for Jack’s hand. She did not kiss Jack’s cheek.

“You’re going to love the last verse,” Grace said.

She opened Emma’s journal and started reading:

“Baseball, baseball,

Who’s your best friend?

Is it the bat,

Who hits your rear end?”

Grace laughed and turned the page, but the next page—in fact, the rest of the journal—was blank.