Harlan Coben (32 page)

Now what do
I do?

I had been calling to tell Rachel about the shooting death of Steven Bacard. Now this man was holding her hostage. Okay, so what's my next step? I tried to think it through, to analyze the data carefully, but there was not enough time. The man on the phone had been right. I had been “cute” in the past. During the first ransom drop, I had let the police and FBI in on it. During the second, I'd enlisted the aid of an ex–federal agent. For a long time, I blamed the first drop-gone-wrong on my decision. Not anymore. I had played the odds both times, but now I think the game was fixed from the get-go. They had never intended to give me back my daughter. Not eighteen months ago. Not last night.

And not now.

Maybe I had been on a search for an answer that I knew all along. Verne had understood my quest with one caveat: “Long as a man ain't fooling himself.” But maybe I had been. Even now, even as we were uncovering this baby-smuggling scam, I had allowed myself fresh hope. Perhaps my daughter was alive. Perhaps she had gotten ensnared in this adoption con. Would that be horrible? Yes. But the obvious alternative—that Tara is dead—was a hell of a lot worse.

I no longer knew what to believe.

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes had passed. I wondered about how to play it. First things first. I called Lenny on the private line at his office.

“A man named Steven Bacard was just murdered in East Rutherford,” I said.

“Bacard the lawyer?”

“You know him?”

“I worked a case with him a few years ago,” Lenny said. Then: “Oh damn.”

“What?”

“You asked before about Stacy and an adoption. I didn't see a connection. But now that you say Bacard's name . . . Stacy asked me about him, what, three, four years ago.”

“What about him?”

“I don't remember anymore. Something about being a mother.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I really didn't pay that much attention. I just told her not to sign anything without showing it to me.” Then Lenny asked, “How do you know he's been murdered?”

“I just saw his body.”

“Whoa, don't say anything else. This line might not be secure.”

“I need your help. Call the cops. They need to get Bacard's records. He ran an adoption scam. There's a possibility that he had something to do with Tara's kidnapping.”

“How?”

“I don't have time to explain.”

“Yeah, okay, I'll call Tickner and Regan. Regan's been searching for you pretty much nonstop, you know.”

“I figured.”

I hung up before he could ask more. I am not really sure what I expected them to find. I couldn't make myself believe that the answer to Tara's fate lay in some file cabinet in a law office. But maybe. And if something went wrong here—and there was certainly a decent chance of that happening—I wanted someone to be able to follow up.

I was in Ridgewood now. I did not believe for a second that the man on the phone was telling the truth. They were not in the trade-information business. They were here to clean house. Rachel and I knew too much. They were drawing me there so that they could kill us.

So what do I do?

There was very little time. If I stalled—if it took me much longer than a half an hour—the man on the phone would start getting antsy. That would be bad. I thought again about calling the police, but I
remembered his warning about being “cute” and I still worried about a leak. I had a gun. I knew how to use it. I was a pretty good shot, but that was at a range. Shooting at people would, I assumed, be different. Or maybe not. I no longer had qualms about killing these people. I'm not sure I ever had.

A block away from Denise Vanech's house, I parked the car, grabbed the gun, and started down the street.

 

He called her Lydia. She called him Heshy.

The woman had arrived five minutes ago. She was petite and pretty, her baby-doll eyes wide with excitement. She stood in front of Denise Vanech's corpse and watched the blood still trickling out. Rachel sat still. Her hands had been bound behind her back with duct tape. The woman named Lydia turned to Rachel.

“That stain is going to be a bitch to get out.”

Rachel stared at her. Lydia smiled.

“You don't think that's funny?”

“Inside,” Rachel said. “Inside I'm cracking up.”

“You visited a young girl named Tatiana today, yes?”

Rachel said nothing. The big man named Heshy began to pull down the shades.

“She's dead. Just thought you'd like to know.” Lydia sat next to Rachel. “Do you remember the TV show
Family Laughs
?”

Rachel wondered how to play this. This Lydia was insane, no doubt about it. Tentatively she said,“Yes.”

“Were you a fan?”

“The show was puerile nonsense.”

Lydia threw back her head and laughed. “I played Trixie.”

She smiled at Rachel. Rachel said, “You must be very proud.”

“Oh I am. I am.” Lydia stopped, tilted her face, moved it closer to Rachel's. “You know, of course, that you're going to die soon.”

Rachel did not blink. “Then how about telling me what you did with Tara Seidman?”

“Oh please.” Lydia stood. “I was an actress, remember? I was on television. So, what, is this the part of the show where we tell all so that the audience can catch up and your hero can sneak up on us? Sorry, sweetie.” She turned to Heshy. “Gag her, Pooh Bear.”

Heshy used the duct tape and wrapped it around Rachel's mouth and the back of her head. He moved back toward the window. Lydia bent close to Rachel's ear. Rachel could feel the woman's breath.

“I will tell you this,” she whispered, “because it's funny.” Lydia bent in a little closer. “I have no idea what happened to Tara Seidman.”

 

Okay, I wasn't about to drive up and knock on the door.

Let's face it. They were out to kill us. My only chance was to surprise them. I didn't know the layout of the house, but I figured that I could find a side window and try to sneak in. I was armed. I was confident I could shoot without hesitation. I really wished that I had a better plan, but even if I had more time, I doubt that I'd come up with anything.

Zia had mentioned my surgeon's ego. I admit that it scared me. I actually felt confident that I could pull this off. I was smart. I knew how to be careful. I would look for an opening. If I didn't see one, I would offer them a trade—me for Rachel. I would not be sucked in by talk of Tara. Yes, I wanted to believe that she was still alive. Yes, I wanted to believe that they knew where she was. But I would no longer risk Rachel's life for a pipe dream. My life? Sure. But not Rachel's.

I moved closer to Denise Vanech's house, trying to duck behind trees while not looking conspicuous. In an upscale suburban neighborhood, this was impossible. People don't skulk. I imagined the neighbors watching me from behind the blinds, their fingers on the auto-911 dial button. I couldn't worry about it. Whatever was going to happen, one way or the other, would happen before any police could get here.

When my cell phone rang, I nearly jumped out my skin. I was three houses away now. I cursed under my breath. Dr. Cool—Dr. Confident—had forgotten to put his phone on vibrate. I realized with a sinking certainty that I was deluding myself. I was out of my element here. Suppose, for example, the phone had rung when I was right up against the house. What then?

I leapt behind a shrub and answered it with a snap of my wrist.

“You got a lot to learn about sneaking up on places,” Verne whispered. “I mean, you're godawful at it.”

“Where are you?”

“Check out the second-floor window, far back.”

I peeked out at Denise Vanech's house. Verne was in the window. He waved to me.

“Back door was unlocked,” Verne whispered. “I let myself in.”

“What's going on in there?”

“Stone-cold killing. I heard them say they killed that girl at the motel. They blew away that Denise woman. She's lying dead not three feet from Rachel.”

I closed my eyes.

“This is a trap, Marc.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“There's two of them—one man, one woman. I want you to hustle back to your car. I want you to drive and park on the street. You'll be far enough away so that they won't get a clear shot at you. Stay there. Don't get any closer. I just want you to draw their attention, you got me?”

“Yes.”

“I'll try to keep one alive, but I can't make any promises.”

He hung up. I hurried back to the car and did as he said. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. But there was hope now. Verne was there. He was inside the house and armed. I pulled up to the front of Denise Vanech's house. The blinds and curtains were drawn. I took a deep breath. I opened the car door and stood.

Silence.

I expected to hear shots. But that was not what came first. The first sound was shattering glass. And then I saw Rachel fall out the window.

 

“His car just pulled up,” Heshy said.

Rachel's hands were still bound behind her back, the duct tape over her mouth. She knew that this was it. Marc would come to the door. They would let him in, this mutant version of Bonnie and Clyde, and then they would shoot them both.

Tatiana was already dead. Denise Vanech was already dead. There was no other way to play this. Heshy and Lydia could not let them survive. Rachel had hoped that Marc would realize this and go to the police. She hoped that he wouldn't show up, but of course, that would not be an option for him. So he was here. He would probably try something foolhardy or maybe he was still so blinded by hope that he would simply walk into the trap.

Either way, Rachel had to stop him.

Her only chance was to surprise them. Even then, even if everything fell into place, the best she could realistically hope for was to save Marc. The rest was fool's gold.

Time to act.

They hadn't bothered to tie her feet. With her hands behind her back and her mouth taped shut, what harm could she do? Trying to run at them would be suicide. She'd make an easy target.

And that was what she was counting on.

Rachel got to her feet. Lydia turned around and pointed the gun at her. “Sit down.”

She didn't. And now Lydia had a dilemma. If she fired the gun, Marc would hear it. He would know something was wrong. A stalemate. But it wouldn't last. An idea—a pretty lame idea—came to Rachel. She broke into a run. Lydia would either have to shoot or give chase or . . .

The window.

Lydia saw what Rachel was doing, but there was no way to stop her. Rachel lowered her head like a battering ram and dived straight toward the picture window. Lydia raised her gun to shoot. Rachel braced herself. She knew that this would hurt. The glass broke with surprising ease. Rachel flew through it, but what she hadn't counted on was how far off the ground she was. Her hands were still tied behind her back. There was no way to break the fall.

She turned to the side and took the impact on her shoulder. Something popped. She felt a stabbing pain run down her leg. A shard of glass stuck out of her thigh. The sound would warn Marc, no question about it. He could be saved. But as Rachel rolled over, dread—deep, heavy dread—hit her next. Yes, she had warned Marc. He had seen her fall out the window.

But now, without thinking of the danger, Marc was running toward her.

 

Verne was crouched on the stairs.

He'd been about to make his move when Rachel suddenly stood up. Was she crazy? But no, he realized, she was just a brave lady. After all, she had no idea that he was hiding upstairs. She couldn't just sit there and let Marc walk in on this setup. She wasn't built that way.

“Sit down.”

The woman's voice. The pert thing named Lydia. She started to swing her gun up. Verne panicked. He wasn't in position yet. He wouldn't have a clear shot. But Lydia didn't pull the trigger. Verne watched in amazement as Rachel ran and jumped through the window.

Talk about a distraction.

Verne moved now. He had heard countless times about how time stands still in moments of extreme violence, that brief seconds can drag so that you can see everything clearly. In reality, that was total bull. When you looked back, when you ran it through your mind in safety and comfort, that's when you imagine it went by slowly. But in the heat of the moment, when he and three buddies had gotten into a firefight with some of Saddam's “elite” soldiers, time had actually sped up. That was what was happening here.

Verne spun around the corner. “Drop it!”

The big man had his gun aimed at the window where Rachel had fallen out. There was no time to call out another warning. Verne fired twice. Heshy went down. Lydia screamed. Verne ducked into a roll and disappeared behind the couch. Lydia screamed again.

“Heshy!”

Verne peered out, expecting to see Lydia aiming the gun at him. But that wasn't the case. She ditched the weapon. Still crying out, Lydia dropped to her knees and gently cradled Heshy's head.

“No! Don't die. Please, Heshy, please don't leave me!”

Verne kicked her gun away. He kept his pointed at Lydia.

Her voice was low now, soft and motherly. “Please, Heshy. Please don't die. Oh God, please don't leave me.”

Heshy said, “I never will.”

Lydia looked at Verne, her eyes pleading. He didn't bother calling 911. He could hear the sirens now. Heshy grabbed Lydia's hand. “You know what you have to do,” he said.

“No,” she said, her voice small.

“Lydia, we planned for this.”

“You're not going to die.”

Heshy closed his eyes. His breathing was labored.

“The world will think you were a monster,” she said.

“I only care what you think. Promise me, Lydia.”