Harlan Coben (36 page)

I looked up. “You killed him, Lenny.”

Rage seeped into his voice. “You think I wanted to?”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean, why? I was Bacard's get-out-of-jail-free card. When it all started to go wrong, he said he would turn state's evidence against me. He'd claim I shot you and Monica and brought him Tara. Like I said before, the cops hate me. I've gotten too many bad guys off. They'd go for the deal in a second.”

“You'd have gone to jail?”

Lenny looked near tears.

“Your kids would have suffered?”

He nodded.

“So you killed a man in cold blood.”

“What else could I do? You're looking at me like that, but deep down, you know the truth. This was your mess. I got stuck cleaning it up. Because I cared about you. I wanted to help your child.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and added, “And I knew that if I killed Bacard, maybe I could save you too.”

“Me?”

“Another cost-benefit analysis, Marc.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was over. Once Bacard was dead, he could take the fall. For everything. I was in the clear.” Lenny came over and stood in front of me. For a moment I thought he was going to try to hug me. But he just stood there.

“I wanted you to have peace, Marc. But that would never be. I knew that now. Not until you found your daughter. With Bacard dead, my family was safe. I could let you know the truth.”

“So you wrote up that anonymous note and left it on Eleanor's desk.”

“Yes.”

I nodded and Abe's words came back to me. “You did the wrong thing for the right reason.”

“Put yourself in my place. What would you have done?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“I did it for you.”

And the saddest part was, he was telling the truth. I looked at him.

“You were the best friend I ever had, Lenny. I love you. I love your wife. I love your children.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If I say I'm going to talk, will you kill me too?”

“Never,” he said.

But I wasn't sure, much as I loved him, much as he loved me, that I believed him.

A year has
passed.

During the first two months, I racked up the frequent flier miles coming out to St. Louis every week, trying to figure out with Abe and Lorraine what we were going to do. We started slowly. For the first few visits, I asked Abe and Lorraine to stay in the room. Eventually, Tara and I started going places alone—the park, the zoo, the merry-go-round at the mall—but she looked over her shoulder a lot. It took some time for my daughter to get comfortable with me. I understood that.

My father passed away in his sleep ten months ago. After his funeral, I bought a house on Marsh Lane, two down from Abe and Lorraine, and moved out here permanently. Abe and Lorraine are remarkable people. Get this: We call “our” daughter Tasha. Think about it. It's short for Natasha and close to Tara. The reconstructive surgeon in me likes that. I keep waiting for things to go wrong. They haven't. It's weird, but I don't question it much.

My mother bought a condo and moved out here too. With Dad gone, there was no reason for her to stay in Kasselton anymore. After all the tragedies—my father's poor health, Stacy, Monica, the attack, the abduction—we both needed a second act. I'm glad she's near us. Mom has a new boyfriend, a guy named Cy. She's happy. I like him, and not just because he has season tickets to the Rams. They laugh a lot. I almost forgot how hard my mom could laugh.

I talk to Verne a fair amount. He and Katarina brought Verne Junior and Perry out in an RV during the spring. We had a great week together. Verne took me fishing, a first for me. I liked it. Next time he wants to hunt. I told him no way, but Verne can be pretty persuasive.

I don't talk much to Edgar Portman. He sends presents on Tasha's birthday. He's called twice. I'm hoping he'll come out and see his granddaughter soon. But there is simply too much guilt there for both of us. It's like I said before. Maybe Monica was unstable. Maybe it was just a chemical thing. I know that a great deal of psychiatry problems stem more from the physical, from hormonal imbalances, than life experiences. Chances are there was nothing we could have done. But in the end, whatever may have been the origin, we both let Monica down.

Zia was initially hit hard by my leaving, but then she saw it as an opportunity. She has a new doctor in the practice. I hear he's pretty good. I've opened up a One World WrapAid branch office in St. Louis. So far, it seems to be going well.

Lydia—or Larissa Dane, if you prefer—is going to get off. She did a double-flip off a murder rap and stuck the “I was abused” landing with both feet. She is a celebrity again, what with the mysterious return of the Pixie named Trixie. Lydia appeared on
Oprah
, crying on cue about the years of torment at the hands of Heshy. They flashed his picture up on the screen. The audience gasped. Heshy is hideous. Lydia is beautiful. So the world believes. Rumor has it she is set to appear in a TV movie based on her life story.

As for the baby-smuggling case, the FBI decided to “enforce the law,” which meant bringing the bad guys to justice. Steven Bacard and Denise Vanech were the bad guys here. They're both dead. Officially, authorities are still searching for the records, but nobody wants to look too closely at what child ended up where. I think that's best.

Rachel fully recovered from her injuries. I ended up doing the reconstructive work on her ear myself. Her bravery got major play in the press. She received credit for smashing the baby-smuggling ring. The FBI rehired her. She requested and received a post in St. Louis. We live together. I love her. I love her more than you can imagine. But if you are expecting a totally happy ending, I'm not sure I can give you one.

As of now, Rachel and I are still together. I cannot imagine living without her. I think about losing her and it makes me physically ill. Yet I'm not sure that's enough. There is a lot of baggage here. It confuses things. I understand about her making that late-night call and showing up outside the hospital—and yet, I know those acts eventually led to death and destruction. I don't blame Rachel, of course. But there is something there. Monica's death has given our relationship a second
chance. That feels strange. I tried explaining all of this to Verne when he visited. He told me that I'm a dumb-ass. I think he's probably right.

The doorbell rings. There is a tug on my leg. Yes, it's Tasha. She is fully acclimated to having me in her life now. Children, after all, adapt better than adults. Across the room, Rachel is on the couch. She is sitting with her legs curled under her. I look at her, then at Tasha, and I feel the wondrous blend of bliss and fear. They—bliss and fear—are constant companions. Rarely does one venture out without the other.

“One second, pumpkin,” I say to her. “Let's go answer the door, okay?”

“Okay.”

The UPS man is there. He has packages. I bring them inside. When I look at the return address, I feel the familiar ache. The little sticker tells me that they are from Lenny and Cheryl Marcus of Kasselton, New Jersey.

Tasha looks up at me. “My present?”

I never told the police about Lenny. There was no evidence anyway—only his confession to me. That wouldn't stand up in court. But that's not why I decided not to say anything.

I suspect Cheryl knows the truth. I think maybe she knew from the beginning. I flash back to her face on the stairs, the way she snapped when Rachel and I arrived at their house that night, and now I wonder if it was out of anger or fear. I suspect the latter.

The fact is, Lenny was right. He did do it for me. What would have happened if he had just left the house? I don't know. It might have been even worse. Lenny asked me if I would have done the same in his place. Back then, probably not. Because maybe I wasn't that good a man. Verne, I bet, would have. Lenny was trying to protect my daughter without sacrificing his own family. He just messed up.

But man, I miss him. I think about how big a part of my life he was. There are times I reach for the phone and begin dialing his number. But I never finish the call. I won't speak to Lenny again. Not ever. I know that. And it hurts like hell.

But I also think about little Conner's inquisitive face at the soccer game. I think about Kevin playing soccer and Marianne's hair smelling of chlorine from her morning swim practice. I think about how beautiful Cheryl had become since she had the children.

I look down at my daughter now, safe and with me. Tasha is still
gazing up. It is indeed a present for her from her godfather. I remember the first time I met Abe, that strange day at the Airport Marriott. He told me that you shouldn't do the wrong thing for the right reason. I thought about that a lot before deciding what to do about Lenny.

In the end, well, chalk it up as “too close to call.”

I mix it up sometimes. Is it the wrong thing for the right reason or the right thing for the wrong reason? Or are they same? Monica needed to feel love, so she deceived me and got pregnant. That was how it all started. But if she hadn't done that, I wouldn't be staring down at the most wonderful creation I would ever know. Right reason? Wrong reason? Who's to say?

Tasha tilts her head and twitches her nose at me. “Daddy?”

“It's nothing, sweetheart,” I say softly.

Tasha gives me a big, elaborate kid shrug. Rachel looks up. I see the concern on her face. I take the package and place it high up in the closet. Then I close that door and pick up my daughter.

The author—man, I love referring to myself in the third person—would like to thank the following for their technical expertise: Steven Miller, M.D., Director of Pediatric Emergency Medicine, Children's Hospital of New York Presbyterian, Columbia University; Christopher J. Christie, United States Attorney for the state of New Jersey; Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D., Medical Director of Covenant House Newark; Lois Foster Hirt, R.D.H.; Jeffrey Bedford, FBI; Gene Riehl, FBI (retired); Andrew McDade, brother-in-law extraordinaire and renaissance man. Any mistakes are theirs and theirs alone. After all, they're the experts, right? Why should I take the heat?

 

I also want to acknowledge Carole Baron, Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Group (USA); Jon Wood, Susan Lamb, Malcolm Edwards, Anthony Cheetham, Juliet Ewers, Emily Furniss, and everyone at Orion; and the always reliable Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach Vance, Maggie Griffin, and Linda Fairstein.

 

Oh, and of course, a big thanks to Katharine Foote and Rachel Cooke for freeing me up so I could get over that final hurdle.

about the author

Harlan Coben is the winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, the first writer to win all three. He is the author of nine previous novels, including
Tell No One
, an international bestseller, as well as the recent blockbuster
Gone for Good
, a main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club. He lives with his family in New Jersey.