Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Read online

  There was no picket fence in the front, but there might as well have been. The basement was unfinished, but Matt was pretty good with his hands. He’d do it himself. The swing set in the back was old and rusty and would need to be thrown out. While they were two years away from purchasing a replacement, Olivia had already located the exact brand she wanted—something with cedar wood—because they guaranteed no splinters.

  Matt tried to see all that—that future. He tried to imagine living inside this three-bedroom abode with the kitchen that needed updating, a roaring fire, laughter at the dinner table, the kid coming to their bed because a nightmare had scared her, Olivia’s face in the morning. He could almost see it, like one of Scrooge’s ghosts was showing him the way, and for a second he almost smiled.

  But the image wouldn’t hold. Matt shook his head in the rain.

  Who had he been kidding?

  He didn’t know what was going on with Olivia, but one thing he knew for certain: It marked the end. The fairy tale was over. As Sonya McGrath had said, the images on the camera phone had been his wake-up call, the reality check, the “It’s all a joke on you!” moment, when deep down inside, he’d always known that.

  You don’t come back.

  Stephen McGrath was not about to leave his side. Every time Matt started to pull away, Dead Stephen was there, catching up from behind, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “I’m right here, Matt. Still with you . . .”

  He sat in the rain. He idly wondered what time it was. Didn’t much matter. He thought about that damned picture of Charles Talley, the mysterious man with the blue-black hair, his mocking whispers on the phone. To what end? That was what Matt could not get around or figure out. Drunk or sober, in the comfort of his home or heck, outside in the pouring rain, the drought finally over. . . .

  And that was when it struck him.

  Rain.

  Matt turned and looked up, encouraging the drops now. Rain. Finally. There was rain. The drought had ended with a massive fury.

  Could the answer be that simple?

  Matt thought about it. First thing: He needed to get home. He needed to call Cingle. Didn’t matter what the time. She’d understand.

  “Matt?”

  He hadn’t heard the car pull up, but the voice, even now, even under these conditions, well, Matt couldn’t help but smile. He stayed on the curb. “Hey, Lance.”

  Matt looked up as Lance Banner stepped out of a minivan.

  Lance said, “I heard you were looking for me.”

  “I was.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to fight you.”

  Now it was Lance’s turn to smile. “You wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Think I’m afraid?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’d kick your ass.”

  “Which would only prove me right.”

  “About?”

  “About how prison changes a man,” Lance said. “Because before you went in, I’d have beaten you with two broken arms.”

  He had a point. Matt stayed seated. He still felt pretty wasted and didn’t fight the feeling. “You always seem to be around, Lance.”

  “That I am.”

  “You’re just so damn helpful.” Matt snapped his fingers. “Hey, Lance, you know who you’re like now? You’re like that Block Mom.”

  Lance said nothing.

  “Remember that Block Mom on Hobart Gap Road?” Matt asked.

  “Mrs. Sweeney.”

  “Right. Mrs. S. Always peering out the window, no matter what time it was. Big sourpuss on her face, complaining about the kids cutting through her yard.” Matt pointed at him. “You’re like that, Lance. You’re like a great big Block Mom.”

  “You been drinking, Matt?”

  “Yup. That a problem?”

  “Not in and of itself, no.”

  “So why are you always out and about, Lance?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep the bad out.”

  “You think you can?”

  Lance didn’t reply to that.

  “You really think that your minivans and good schools are, what, some kind of force field, warding off evil?” Matt laughed too hard at that one. “Hell, Lance, look at me, for chrissake. I’m the poster boy proving that’s a load of crap. I should be on your warn-the-teens tour, you know, like when we were in high school and the cops would make us look at some car smashed up by a drunk driver. That’s what I should be. One of those warnings to the youngsters. Except I’m not sure what my lesson would be.”

  “Not to get into fights, for one.”

  “I didn’t get in a fight. I tried to break one up.”

  Lance fought back a sigh. “You want to retry the case out here in the rain, Matt?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then how about I give you a lift home?”

  “Not going to arrest me?”

  “Maybe another time.”

  Matt took one last look at the house. “You may be right.”

  “What about?”

  “About my belonging.”

  “Come on, Matt, it’s wet out. I’ll drive you home.”

  Lance came up behind him. He put his hands under Matt’s armpits and lifted. The man was powerful. Matt stumbled to a wobbly stand. His head spun. His stomach gurgled. Lance helped him to the car and into the front passenger seat.

  “You get sick in my car,” Lance said, “you’ll wish I arrested you.”

  “Ooo, tough guy.” Matt cracked the window, enough for a breeze but not enough to let in the rain. He kept his nose near the opening like a dog. The air helped. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. The glass was cool against his cheek.

  “So why the drinking binge, Matt?”

  “Felt like it.”

  “You do that a lot? Drink yourself stupid?”

  “You an AA counselor too, Lance? You know, along with your gig as the Block Mom?”

  Lance nodded. “You’re right. Change of subject.”

  The rain let up a little. The wipers slowed down a notch. Lance kept both hands on the wheel.

  “My oldest daughter is thirteen. You believe that?”

  “How many kids you got, Lance?”

  “Three. Two girls and a boy.” He took one hand off the wheel and fumbled for his wallet. He extracted three photographs and handed them to Matt. Matt studied them, searching as he always did, for echoes of the parent. “The boy. How old is he?”

  “Six.”

  “Looks just like you did at that age.”

  Lance smiled. “Devin. We call him Devil. He’s wild.”

  “Like his old man.”

  “Guess, yeah.”

  They fell into silence. Lance reached for the radio then decided against it. “My daughter. The oldest. I’m thinking of putting her in Catholic school.”

  “She at Heritage now?” Heritage had been the middle school they’d attended.

  “Yeah, but, I don’t know, she’s a little wild. I heard St. Margaret’s in East Orange is supposed to be good.”

  Matt looked out the window.

  “You know anything about it?”

  “About Catholic school?”

  “Yeah. Or St. Margaret’s.”

  “No.”

  Lance had both hands on the wheel again. “Say, do you know who went there?”

  “Went where?”

  “St. Margaret’s.”

  “No.”

  “Remember Loren Muse?”

  Matt did. It was that way with people you went to elementary school with, even if you never saw them after graduation. You recall the name and face instantly. “Sure. Tomboy, hung out with us for a while. Then she kinda faded away. Her father died when we were kids, right?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Her old man committed suicide. Blew his brains out in their garage when she was in like eighth grade. They kept it a secret.”

  “God, that’s
awful.”

  “Yeah, but she’s doing okay. She works in the prosecutor’s office in Newark now.”

  “She’s a lawyer?”

  Lance shook his head. “An investigator. But after what happened with her father, well, Loren hit a rough patch too. St. Margaret’s helped, I think.”

  Matt said nothing.

  “But you don’t know anybody who went to St. Margaret’s?”

  “Lance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This subtlety act. It’s not really playing. What are you trying to ask me here?”

  “I’m asking if you know anything about St. Margaret’s.”

  “You want me to write your daughter a letter of recommendation?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you asking me these questions?”

  “How about a Sister Mary Rose? Taught social studies there. Do you know her?”

  Matt shifted so that he faced Lance full on. “Am I a suspect in some kind of crime?”

  “What? We’re just having a friendly conversation here.”

  “I don’t hear a no, Lance.”

  “You have a very guilty conscience.”

  “And you’re still evading my question.”

  “You don’t want to tell how you knew Sister Mary Rose?”

  Matt closed his eyes. They weren’t far from Irvington now. He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Tell me more about your kids, Lance.”

  Lance did not reply. Matt closed his eyes and listened to the rain. It brought him back to what he’d been thinking before Lance Banner showed up. He needed to call Cingle as soon as he could.

  Because, strangely enough, the rain could hold the key to what Olivia was doing in that hotel room.

  Chapter 22

  MATT THANKED LANCE for the ride and watched him pull away.

  As soon as the minivan was out of sight, he headed inside, grabbed his phone, and started dialing Cingle’s cell. He checked the time. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He hoped that she was awake, but even if she wasn’t, well, once he explained, she’d understand.

  The phone rang four times and then went into Cingle’s simple voice mail message:

  “Me. You. Tone.”

  Damn.

  He left Cingle a message: “Call me back, it’s urgent.” He hit the button for “other options” and plugged in his home number. Maybe she’d get the page.

  He wanted to download the images from his camera phone onto his hard drive, but like a dummy he’d left the USB cord at work. He searched the computer room for the cord that came with Olivia’s phone, but he couldn’t find it.

  It was then that he noticed the phone’s message light was blinking. He picked it up and hit play. There was only one message and after the day he’d had, it hardly surprised him.

  “Matt, this is Loren Muse. I’m an investigator with the Essex County prosecutor’s office. We knew each other a lifetime ago, at Burnet Hill. Could you give me a call as soon as possible?”

  She left two numbers—office and cell.

  Matt put the phone back in its cradle. So Lance was trying to get a jump on his county counterpart. Or they were working together. Whatever. He wondered what it could be about. Lance had said something about St. Margaret’s in East Orange. Something about a nun there.

  What could it possibly have to do with him?

  Whatever, it couldn’t be good.

  He didn’t want to speculate. He also didn’t want to get caught unawares. So he headed into the computer room and ran a classic Google search. He searched for St. Margaret’s in East Orange and got too many hits. He tried to remember the nun’s name. Sister Mary Something. He added that into the mix. “Sister Mary” “St. Margaret’s” “East Orange.”

  No relevant hits.

  He sat back and thought it through. Nothing came to him. He wouldn’t call Loren back. Not yet. It could wait until morning. He could say that he was out drinking—Lance would back that up—and forgot to check his messages.

  His head started clearing. He thought about his next move. Even though he was alone in the house, Matt checked the corridor and closed the door. Then he opened the closet door, reached toward the back, and pulled out the lockbox. The combination was 878 because those numbers had absolutely no link to his life. He’d just made them up on the spot.

  Inside the lockbox was a gun.

  He stared at it. The semiautomatic was a Mauser M2. Matt had bought it off the streets—it’s not hard to do—when he got out of jail. He’d told no one—not Bernie, not Olivia, not Sonya McGrath. He was not sure how to explain why he owned it. One would again think that his past would have taught him the danger of such actions. It had, he supposed, but with a twist. Now that Olivia was having a baby, yes, he’d have to get rid of the gun. But he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to go through with it.

  The prison system has its share of critics. Most problems are obvious and, to some extent, organic, what with the fact that you are, for the most part, caging bad people with other bad people. But the one thing that was definitely true was that prison taught you all the wrong skills. You survive by being aloof, by isolating yourself, by fearing any alliance. You are not shown how to assimilate or become productive—just the opposite. You learn that no one can be trusted, that the only person you can truly count on is yourself, that you must be ready to protect yourself at all times.

  Having the gun gave Matt a strange feeling of comfort.

  He knew it was wrong. He knew the odds were much greater that the gun would lead to disaster rather than salvation. But there it was. And now, with the world caving in on him, he was eyeing it for the first time since he’d bought it.

  The phone startled him. He quickly closed the lockbox, as if someone had suddenly entered the room, and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Guess what I was doing when you called.”

  It was Cingle.

  “I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I know it was late.”

  “No, no. Guess. C’mon. Okay, forget it, I’ll tell you. I was putting out for Hank. He takes forever. I was getting so bored I almost picked up mid, er, thrust. But men, well, they’re so sensitive, you know?”

  “Cingle?”

  “What’s up?”

  “The pictures you downloaded from my phone.”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “You mean the files? They’re at the office.”

  “Did you blow them up?”

  “My tech guy did, but I haven’t had a chance to study them.”

  “I need to see them,” Matt said. “Blown up, that is.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a thought.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Yes, uh oh. Look, I know it’s late, really late, but if you could meet me down at your office—”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Time and a half,” Cingle said. “See you in forty-five minutes.”

  He grabbed his keys—he was sober enough now to drive—jammed his cell phone and wallet into his pocket, started for the door. Then he remembered the Mauser semiautomatic. It was still on the desktop. He considered his next move.

  He picked up the gun.

  Here was something that they never tell you: Holding a gun feels great. On television, the average person always acts all repulsed when the gun is first handed to them. They make a face and say, “I don’t want that thing!” But the truth is, having a gun in your hand—the cold steel against your skin, the weight in your palm, the very shape, the way your hand naturally coils around the grip, the way your index finger slides into the trigger loop—it feels not only good, but right and even natural.

  But no, he shouldn’t.

  If he somehow got caught carrying a piece, with his record, there would be huge problems. He knew that.

  But he still jammed the gun into the waist of his pants.
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  When Matt opened his front door, she was walking up the stoop. Their eyes met.

  Matt wondered if he would have recognized her had he not just heard her name from Lance and listened to the message on the machine. Hard to say. The hair was still short. That tomboyish quality remained. She looked very much the same to him. Again there was something to that—to running into adults you only knew as kids in elementary school, how you can still recognize them by seeing the small child there.

  Loren Muse said, “Hey, Matt.”

  “Hey, Loren.”

  “Long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  She managed a smile. “Do you have a second? I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Chapter 23

  STANDING ON HIS FRONT STOOP, Matt Hunter asked, “Is this about that nun at St. Margaret’s?”

  Loren was startled by that one, but Hunter held up his hand.

  “Don’t get excited,” he said. “I know about the nun because Lance already questioned me.”

  She should have known. “So you want to fill me in?”

  Matt shrugged, didn’t say anything. She pushed past him, stepped into his foyer, and took a look around. Books were piled everywhere. Some had fallen, looking like crumbling towers. There were framed photographs on the table. Loren studied them. She picked one up.

  “This your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty.”

  “Yes.”

  She put the picture down and turned to him. It would be corny to say that his past was written on his face, that prison had somehow not only changed the inside, but the outside as well. Loren wasn’t a fan of that stuff. She didn’t believe the eyes were the windows to the soul. She had seen killers with beautiful, kind eyes. She had met brilliant people who had that open-eyed vacancy thing going on. She had heard jurors say, “I knew he was innocent the minute he walked in the court—you can just tell” and knew that it was total, awful nonsense.

  But that said, there was something in Matt Hunter’s stance, in the tilt of the chin maybe, in the line of the mouth. The damage, the defensiveness, emanated from him. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it was there. Even if she hadn’t known that he’d served hard time after a fairly comfortable childhood, would she still feel this unmistakable vibe?