Harlan Coben (14 page)

Lydia liked to
stare at old photographs.

She did not know why. They offered her little comfort. The nostalgia factor was, at best, limited. Heshy never looked back. For reasons that she could never properly articulate, Lydia did.

This particular photograph had been taken when Lydia was eight years old. It was a black-and-white still from the beloved classic TV sitcom
Family Laughs
. The show ran for seven years—in Lydia's case, from the age of six until just near her thirteenth birthday.
Family Laughs
starred ex–movie hunk Clive Wilkins as the widowed father of three adorable children: twin boys, Tod and Rod, who were eleven when the series began, and an adorable pixie of a little sister named, cutely enough, Trixie, played by the irrepressible Larissa Dane. Yes, the show was at least three steps beyond precious. Old repeats of
Family Laughs
still run on TV Land.

Every once in a while, the
E! True Hollywood Story
runs a piece on the old cast of
Family Laughs
. Clive Wilkins died from pancreatic cancer two years after the show ended. The narrator would note that Clive was “just like a father on the set,” which, Lydia knew, was a load of crap. The guy drank and smelled liked tobacco. When she hugged him for the cameras, it took all her considerable young acting skills not to gag from the stench.

Jarad and Stan Frank, the real-life identical twins who played Tod and Rod, had been trying to get a music career going since the show's cancellation. On
Family Laughs
, they had a groovy garage band with a repertoire of songs written by others, instruments played by others, and voices so echoed and distorted by synthesizers that even Jarad and Stan,
who could not hold a key if it was tattooed into their palms, started to believe that they were genuine musical artistes. The twins were both nearing forty now, both clearly clients of the Hair Club, both deluding themselves that, even though they claimed to be “tired of the fame,” they were one break away from the return to stardom.

But the true draw here, the gripping enigma of the
Family Laughs
saga, involved the fate of the adorable “Pixie named Trixie,” Larissa Dane. Here is what is known about her: During the show's final season, Larissa's parents got divorced and fought bitterly over her earnings. Her dad ended up blowing his brains out. Her mother remarried a con artist who disappeared with the money. Like most child actors, Larissa Dane became an immediate has-been. Rumors of promiscuity and drug abuse swirled, though—this being before the nostalgia craze—no one really cared enough to be interested. She overdosed and nearly died when she was just fifteen. She was sent to a sanitarium of some sort and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. No one really knows what became of her. Many believe that she died from a second drug overdose.

But of course, she had not.

Heshy said, “You ready to make the call, Lydia?”

She did not answer right away. Lydia moved to the next photograph. Another shot from
Family Laughs
, this time Season Five, Episode 112. Little Trixie wore a cast on her arm. Tod wanted to draw a guitar on it. Father didn't really approve. Tod protested, “But, Dad, I promise only to draw it, not play it!” The laugh track howled. Young Larissa didn't understand the joke. Grown-up Lydia didn't either. What she did remember, however, was how she had broken her arm that day. Typical kid stuff really. She was horsing around and fell down the stairs. The pain was tremendous, but they needed to get this show in the can. With that in mind, the studio doctor shot her up with Lord-knows-what and two hack screenwriters incorporated the injury into the script. She was barely conscious when they filmed.

But please, do not start up the violins.

Lydia had read Danny Partridge's book. She had listened to the whining of Willis on
Diff'rent Strokes
. She had heard all about the plight of the child star, the abuse, the stolen money, the long hours. She had seen all the talk shows, heard all the complaints, seen all the crocodile tears from her colleagues—and their dishonesty sickened her.

Here was the truth about the child star dilemma. No, it's not the
abuse, though when Lydia was young and foolish enough to believe a shrink could help, he kept telling her how she must be “blocking,” that she had in all likelihood been molested by one of the show's producers. And no, don't blame parental neglect for what child stars become. Or, in reverse, parental pushing. It's not the lack of friends, the long hours, the poor socialization skills, the stream of studio tutors. No, it is none of that.

It is, quite simply, the loss of the spotlight.

Period. The rest are excuses because no one wants to admit that they are that shallow. Lydia began working on the show when she was six. She had few memories that dated back before then. All she remembers, thus, is being a star. A star is special. A star is royalty. A star is the closest thing on earth to a god. And for Lydia, there had never been anything else. We teach our children that they are special, but Lydia lived it. Everyone thought she was adorable. Everyone thought she was the perfect daughter, loving and kind and yet properly sassy. People stared at her with a bizarre longing. People wanted to be near her, to know about her life, spend time with her, touch the hem of her cloak.

And then, one day, poof—all gone.

Fame is more addictive than crack. Adults who lose fame—one-hit wonders, for example—usually tailspin into depression, though they try to act like they're above it. They don't want to admit the truth. Their whole life is a lie, a desperate scramble for another dose of that most potent of drugs. Fame.

Those adults had a mere sip of the nectar before it was snatched away. But for a child star, that nectar is mother's milk. It's all they've ever known. They can't comprehend that it's fleeting, that it won't last. You can't explain that to a child. You can't prepare them for the inevitable. Lydia had never known anything but adulation. And then, pretty much overnight, the spotlight went out. She was, for the first time in her life, alone in the dark.

That was what screws you up.

Lydia recognized that now. Heshy had helped her. He had gotten her off the junk once and for all. She had hurt herself, had been a slut, had snorted and shot up more narcotics than one could imagine. She did none of these things to escape. She did them to lash out, to hurt something or someone. Her mistake, she realized in rehab after a truly horrific and violent incident, was that she was hurting
herself
. Fame raises
you up. It makes others lesser. So why on earth was she hurting the one who should be on top? Instead, why not hurt the pitiful masses, those who had worshiped her, who had given her such heady power, who had turned on her? Why harm the superior species, the one who'd been worthy of all this praise?

“Lydia?”

“Hmm.”

“I think we should call now.”

She turned to Heshy. They had met in the loony bin, and right away, it was as if their mutual misery could reach out and embrace. Heshy had rescued her when two orderlies had pinned her down. At the time, he had merely pushed them off her. The orderlies threatened them, and they both promised not to say anything. But Heshy understood how to bide his time. He waited. Two weeks later, he ran over one of the goons with a stolen car. While the goon lay wounded, Heshy backed up over his head and then, positioning the tire near the base of the neck, hit the accelerator. A month later, the second goon—the lead orderly—was found in his home. Four of his fingers had been ripped off. Not cut or sliced, but twisted. The ME could tell by the rotation tears. The fingers had been rotated around and around until the tendons and bone finally snapped. Lydia still had one of the fingers somewhere in the basement.

Ten years ago, they ran off together and changed their names. They altered their appearances just enough. They both started over, avenging angels, damaged but superior, above the riffraff. She didn't hurt anymore. Or at least, when she did, she found an outlet.

They had three residences. Heshy purportedly lived in the Bronx. She had a place in Queens. They both had working addresses and working phones. But that was all for show. Business offices, if you will. Neither of them wanted anyone to know that they were, in fact, a team, connected, lovers. Lydia, using an alias, had bought this bright yellow house four years ago. It had two bedrooms and one and a half baths. The kitchen, where Heshy now sat, was airy and happy. They were on a lake in the tippy north corner of Morris County, New Jersey. It was peaceful here. They loved the sunsets.

Lydia kept staring at the pictures of “Pixie Trixie.” She tried to remember what she'd felt like back then. The memories were pretty much gone. Heshy stood behind her now and waited with his usual patience. There were those who would claim that she and Heshy were cold-blooded
killers. That, Lydia quickly realized, was pretty much a misnomer, another Hollywood creation. Like the wonderfulness of Pixie Trixie. No one enters this violent business merely because it is profitable. There are easier ways to make a living. You may act like a professional. You may keep your emotions in check. You may even delude yourself into thinking it's just another day at the office, but when you look at it honestly, the reason you walk on this wrong side of the line is because you enjoy it. Lydia understood that. Hurting someone, killing someone, fading or turning out the light in a person's eyes . . . no, she did not need that. She did not crave it as she had the spotlight. But yes, no question, there was that pleasant jolt, that unmistakable thrill, a lessening of her own pain.

“Lydia?”

“I'm on it, Pooh Bear.” She picked up the cell phone with the stolen number and the scramble. She turned and faced Heshy. He was hideous, but she didn't see that. He nodded at her. She flipped on the voice changer and dialed the number.

When Lydia heard Marc Seidman's voice, she said, “Shall we try this again?”

Before I answered
the phone, Rachel put her hand over mine. “This is a negotiation,” she said. “Fear and intimidation are tools in that. You have to stay strong. If they intend to let her go, they will be flexible.”

I swallowed and flicked on the phone. I said hello.

“Shall we try this again?”

The voice had the same robotic hum. I felt a tick in my blood. I closed my eyes and said, “No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I want assurances that Tara is alive.”

“You received hair samples, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I looked over at Rachel. She nodded. “The match was inconclusive.”

“Fine,” the voice said. “I might as well hang up now.”

“Wait,” I said.

“Yes?”

“You drove off last time.”

“So we did.”

“How do I know you won't do that again?”

“Did you call the police this time?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Here is what I want you to do.”

“It's not going to work like that,” I said.

“What?”

I could feel my body begin to quake. “We make a swap. You don't get the money until I get my daughter.”

“You're not in any position to bargain.”

“I get my daughter,” I said, my words coming out slowly, dead weights. “You get your money.”

“It's not going to work like that.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to force bravado into my voice. “This ends here and now. I don't want you running away again and then coming back for more. So we make an exchange and end this.”

“Dr. Seidman?”

“I'm here.”

“I want you to listen to me carefully.”

The silence was too long, straining my nerves.

“If I hang up now, I won't call back for another eighteen months.”

I closed my eyes and hung on.

“Think about the repercussions for a moment. Aren't you wondering where your daughter has been? Aren't you wondering what will become of her? If I hang up, you won't know anything for another eighteen months.”

It felt like a steel belt was being tightened around my chest. I couldn't breathe. I looked at Rachel. She stared back steadily, urging me to stay strong.

“How old would she be then, Dr. Seidman? I mean, if we keep her alive.”

“Please.”

“Are you ready to listen?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I'm just asking for assurances.”

“We sent you the hair samples.”

“I bring the money. You bring my daughter. You get the money when I see her.”

“Are you trying to dictate terms, Dr. Seidman?”

The robotic voice had a funny lilt now.

“I don't care who you are,” I said. “I don't care why you did any of this. I just want my daughter back.”

“Then you'll make the drop exactly as I tell you.”

“No,” I said. “Not without assurances.”

“Dr. Seidman?”

“Yes.”

“Good-bye.”

And then the phone went dead.

Sanity is a
thin string. Mine snapped.

No, I did not scream. Just the opposite. I grew impossibly calm. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it as if it'd just materialized there and I had no idea what it was.

“Marc?”

I looked at Rachel. “They hung up.”

“They'll call back,” she said.

I shook my head. “They said not for another eighteen months.”

Rachel studied my face. “Marc?”

“Yes?”

“I need you to listen to me closely.”

I waited.

“You did the right thing here.”

“Thanks. Now I feel better.”

“I've had experience with this. If Tara is still alive and if they have any intention of giving her back, they'll give on this issue. The only reason not to make this exchange is because they don't want to—or can't.”

Can't. The tiny part of my brain that remained rational understood that. I reminded myself of my training. Compartmentalize. “So now what?”

“We get ready just as we planned before. I have enough equipment with me. We'll wire you up. If they call back, we'll be ready.”

I nodded dumbly. “Okay.”

“Meanwhile, is there anything else we can do here? Did you recognize the voice at all? Do you remember anything new about the man in flannel, about the van, anything?”

“No,” I said.

“On the phone, you mentioned finding a CD in your basement.”

“Yes.” I quickly told her the story about the disk and the label reading MVD. She took out a pad and jotted down notes.

“Do you have the disk with you?”

“No.”

“Doesn't matter,” she said. “We're in Newark now. We might as well see what we can learn from this MVD.”