Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Read online

  This was not going to be easy.

  Matt pulled into the Harrisburg airport parking lot. The Mauser M2 was still in his pocket. No way he could take it with him. Matt jammed the weapon under the front passenger seat because, if things did not go as planned, he might be back. The Isuzu had served him well. He wanted to write a note to its owner, explaining what he had done and why. With luck there’d be a chance to explain in the future.

  Now to see if his plan worked. . . .

  But first, he needed sleep. He bought a baseball cap in the souvenir store. Then he found a free chair in the arrivals area, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, pulled the brim low across his face. People slept in airports all the time, he figured. Why would anyone bother him?

  He woke up an hour later, feeling like absolute hell. He headed upstairs to the departure level. He bought some extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin, took three of each. He cleaned up in the bathroom.

  The line at the ticket sales counter was long. That was good, if the timing worked. He wanted the staff to be busy. When it was his turn, the woman behind the desk gave him that distracted smile.

  “To Chicago, Flight 188,” he said.

  “That flight leaves in twenty minutes,” she said.

  “I know. There was traffic and—”

  “May I see your picture ID, please?”

  He gave her his driver’s license. She typed in “Hunter, M.” This was the moment of truth. He stood perfectly still. She frowned and typed some more. Nothing happened. “I don’t see you in here, Mr. Hunter.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Do you have your booking number?”

  “I sure do.”

  He handed the one he’d gotten when he made the reservation on the phone. She typed in the letters: YTIQZ2. Matt held his breath.

  The woman sighed. “I see the problem.”

  “Oh?”

  She shook her head. “Your name is misspelled on the reservation. You’re listed here as Mike, not Matt. And the last name is Huntman, not Hunter.”

  “Honest mistake,” Matt said.

  “You’d be surprised how often it happens.”

  “Nothing would surprise me,” he said.

  They shared a world-is-full-of-dopes laugh. She printed out his ticket and collected the money. Matt smiled, thanked her, and headed to the plane.

  There was no nonstop from Harrisburg to Reno, but that might work in his favor. He didn’t know how the airline computer system meshed with the federal government’s, but two short flights would probably work better than one long one. Would the computer system pick up his name right away? Matt doubted it—or maybe hope sprang eternal. Thinking logically, the whole thing would have to take some time—gathering the information, sorting it, getting it to the right person. A few hours at a minimum.

  He’d be in Chicago in one.

  It sounded good in theory.

  When he landed safely at O’Hare in Chicago, he felt his heart start up again. He disembarked, trying not to look conspicuous, planning an escape route in case he saw a row of police officers at the gate. But no one grabbed him when he came off the plane. He let out a long breath. So they hadn’t located him—yet. But now came the tricky part. The flight to Reno was longer. If they put together what he’d done the first time, they’d have plenty of time to nail him.

  So he tried something slightly different.

  Another long line at the airline purchasing desk. Matt might need that. He waited, snaking through the velvet ropes. He watched, seeing which employee looked most tired or complacent. He found her, on the far right. She looked bored past the point of tears. She examined IDs, but there was little spark in her eyes. She kept sighing. She kept glancing around, clearly distracted. Probably had a personal life, Matt thought. Maybe a fight with the husband or her teenage daughter or who knew what?

  Or maybe, Matt, she’s very astute and just has a tired-looking face.

  Still, what other options were there? When Matt got to the front of the line and his agent wasn’t free, he faked looking for something and told the family behind him to go ahead. He did that one more time and then it was his agent’s turn to say, “Next.”

  He approached as inconspicuously as possible. “My name is Matthew Huntler.” He handed her a piece of paper with the booking number on it. She took it and started typing.

  “Chicago to Reno/Tahoe, Mr. Huntler.”

  “Yes.”

  “ID, please.”

  This was the hardest part. He had tried to set it up as smoothly as possible. M. Huntler was a member of their frequent-flier club—Matt had signed him up a few hours ago. Computers don’t know from subtlety. Humans sometimes do.

  He gave her his wallet. She did not look at it at first. She was still typing into the computer. Maybe he’d get lucky here. Maybe she wouldn’t even check his ID.

  “Any luggage to check?”

  “Not today, no.”

  She nodded, still typing. Then she turned toward his ID. Matt felt his stomach tumble. He remembered something Bernie had sent him by e-mail several years ago. It said:

  Here’s a fun test. Read this sentence:

  FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.

  Now count the F’s in that sentence.

  He had done it and ended up with four. The real answer was six. You don’t see every letter. That’s not how we’re built. He was counting on something like that here. Hunter, Huntler. Would someone really catch the difference?

  The woman said to him. “Aisle or window.”

  “Aisle.”

  He’d made it. The security check went even easier—after all, Matt had already been ID’d at the counter, right? The security guard looked at his picture, at his face, but he didn’t come up with the fact that the ID said Hunter while the boarding pass read Huntler. Typos are made all the time anyway. You see hundreds or thousands of boarding passes each day. You really wouldn’t notice such a small thing.

  Once again Matt got to his plane right as the gate was about to close. He settled into his aisle seat, closed his eyes, and didn’t wake up until the pilot announced their descent into Reno.

  The door to Mother Katherine’s office was closed.

  This time there was no flashback for Loren. She pounded hard on the door and put her hand on the knob. When she heard Mother Katherine say, “Come in,” she was ready.

  The Mother Superior had her back to the door. She did not turn around when Loren entered. She merely asked, “Are you sure Sister Mary Rose was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  Mother Katherine nodded slowly. “Have you learned her real identity?”

  “Yes,” Loren said. “But it would have been easier if you’d just told me.”

  She expected Mother Katherine to argue, but she didn’t. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Unfortunately it was not my place.”

  “She told you?”

  “Not exactly, no. But I knew enough.”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  The old nun shrugged. “Some of her statements about her past,” she said. “They didn’t add up.”

  “You confronted her?”

  “No, never. And she never told me her true identity. She said it would endanger others. But I know that it was sordid. Sister Mary Rose wanted to move past it. She wanted to make amends. And she did. She contributed much to this school, to these children.”

  “With her work or with finances?”

  “Both.”

  “She gave you money?”

  “The parish,” Mother Katherine corrected. “Yes, she gave quite a bit.”

  “Sounds like guilt money.”

  Mother Katherine smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

  “So that story about chest compressions . . . ?”

  “I already knew about the implants. She
told me. She also told me that if someone learned who she really was, they’d kill her.”

  “But you didn’t think that happened.”

  “It appeared to be death by natural causes. I thought it best to leave it alone.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Gossip,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of our sisters confided to me that she had seen a man in Sister Mary Rose’s room. I was suspicious, of course, but I couldn’t prove anything. I also needed to protect the school’s reputation. So I needed this investigated quietly and without my betraying Sister Mary Rose’s trust.”

  “Enter me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now that you know she was murdered?”

  “She left a letter.”

  “For whom?”

  Mother Katherine showed her the envelope. “A woman named Olivia Hunter.”

  Adam Yates was closing in on panic.

  He parked a good distance from the old brewery and waited while Cal quickly cleaned up. The clues would be gone. Cal’s weapon could not be traced. The license plates they were using would lead to nowhere. Some crazy person might identify a huge man chasing a woman but there would be no practical way of linking them with the dead bartender.

  Perhaps.

  No, no perhaps about it. He had been in worse scrapes. The bartender had pulled a rifle on Cal. It would have his fingerprints on it. The untraceable gun would be left behind. They would both be out of state in a matter of hours.

  They would get through it.

  When Cal sat in the passenger seat, Adam said, “You messed up.”

  Cal nodded. “I did at that.”

  “You shouldn’t have tried to shoot her.”

  He nodded again. “A mistake,” he agreed. “But we can’t let her go. If her background comes out—”

  “It’s going to come out anyway. Loren Muse knows about it.”

  “True, but without Olivia Hunter, it doesn’t lead anyplace. If she’s caught, she will try to save herself. That may mean looking into what happened all those years ago.”

  Yates felt something inside him start to tear. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Adam?”

  He looked at the big man.

  “It’s too late for that,” Dollinger said. “Us or them, remember?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “We need to find Olivia,” Dollinger said. “And I do mean we. If other agents arrest her . . .”

  Yates finished it for him. “She may talk.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So we call her in as a material witness,” Yates said. “Tell them to keep an eye on the nearby airports and train stations but not to do anything until they notify us.”

  Cal nodded. “Already done.”

  Adam Yates considered his options. “Let’s head back to the county office. Maybe Loren found something useful on that Kimmy Dale.”

  They had driven about five minutes when the phone rang. Cal picked it up and barked, “Agent Dollinger.”

  Cal listened closely.

  “Let her land. Have Ted follow her. Do not, repeat, do not, approach. I’ll be on the next plane out.”

  He hung up.

  “What?”

  “Olivia Hunter,” he said. “She’s already on a plane to Reno.”

  “Reno again,” Yates said.

  “Home of the deceased Charles Talley and Max Darrow.”

  “And maybe the tape.” Yates made a right up ahead. “All the signs are pointing west, Cal. I think we better get to Reno too.”

  Chapter 51

  THE TAXI DRIVER WORKED for a company called Reno Rides. He pulled to a full stop, shifted in park, turned around, and looked Olivia up and down. “You sure this is the place, ma’am?”

  Olivia could only stare.

  “Ma’am?”

  An ornate cross dangled from the taxi’s rearview mirror. Prayer cards wallpapered the glove compartment.

  “Is this 488 Center Lane Drive?” she asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then this is the place.” Olivia reached into her purse. She handed him the money. He handed her a pamphlet.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  The pamphlet was church-affiliated. John 3:16 was on the cover. She managed to smile.

  “Jesus loves you,” the driver said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll take you anywhere else you want to go. No charge.”

  “It’s okay,” Olivia said.

  She stepped out of the taxi. The driver gave her a forlorn look. She waved as he departed. Olivia cupped a hand over her eyes. The sign of tired neon read:

  EAGER BEAVER—NUDE DANCING.

  Her body began to quake. Old reaction, she guessed. She had never been in this place, but she knew it. She knew the dirty pickups that littered the lot. She knew the men trudging in mindlessly, the low lights, the sticky feel of the dance pole. She headed toward the door, knowing what she’d find inside.

  Matt feared prison—going back. This, right in front of her, was her prison.

  Candi Cane lives another day.

  Olivia Hunter had tried to exorcise Candace “Candi Cane” Potter years ago. Now the girl was back in a big bad way. Forget what experts tell you: You can indeed wipe away the past. Olivia knew that. She could jam Candi in some back room, lock the door, destroy the key. She had almost done it—would have done—but there’d been one thing that always kept that door, no matter how hard she pushed, from closing all the way.

  Her child.

  A chill scrambled down her back. Oh, God, she thought. Was her daughter working here?

  Please no.

  It was four P.M. Still plenty of time before the midnight meeting. She could go somewhere else, find a Starbucks maybe or get a motel room, grab some sleep. She had caught a little shut-eye on the plane out here, but she could definitely use more.

  When she first landed, Olivia called FBI headquarters and asked to speak to Adam Yates. When she was connected to the office of the Special Agent in Charge, she hung up.

  So Yates was legit. Dollinger too, she supposed.

  That meant that two FBI agents had tried to kill her.

  There would be no arrest or capture. She knew too much.

  The last words Clyde had said to her came back: “Just tell me where it is. . . .”

  It was starting to make some sense. There were rumors about Clyde making tapes for blackmail. He’d probably blackmailed the wrong guy—either Yates or somebody close to them. Somehow that led him to poor Cassandra. Did she have the tapes? Was she in them?

  Standing there, reading the sign about the $4.99 EAGER BEAVER BUFFET! Olivia nodded to herself.

  That was it. It had to be. She started walking toward the front door.

  She should wait, come back.

  No.

  She got a curious look at the door. Women do not come to these places alone. Every once in a while a man might bring a girlfriend. The girlfriend would be trying to show she was hip. Or maybe she had lesbian tendencies. Whatever. But women never came in alone.

  Heads turned when she entered, but not as many as you’d think. People reacted slowly at places like this. The air was syrupy, languid. The lights were down. Jaws remained slack. Most patrons probably assumed that she was either a working girl on her downtime or a lesbian waiting for her lover’s shift to end.

  The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” played over the sound system, a song that had been an already aged classic when Olivia had danced. Retro, she guessed, but she had always liked the track. In this place, the lyrics were supposed to be a sexy come-on, but if you listened closely, Phil Oakey, the lead singer, made you feel the pain and shock of having your heart broken. The title wasn’t repeated with lust. It was repeated with shattering disbelief.

  Olivia took a seat in a back booth. There were three dancers onstage right now. Two looked off at nothing. One worked a customer, feigning
passion, inviting him to jam dollar bills into her G-string. The man complied. She took in the audience and realized that nothing had changed in the decade since she’d worked rooms like these. The men were of the same variety. Some had the blank faces. Some had the glazed smile. Some tried a cocky look, a swagger in their expression, as if they were somehow above it all. Others aggressively downed their beers, staring at the girls with naked hostility, as if demanding an answer to the eternal question, “Is that all there is?”

  The girls onstage were young and on drugs. You could tell. Her old roommate Kimmy had two brothers who OD’d. Kimmy wouldn’t tolerate drug use. So Olivia—no, Candi—took to drinking, but Clyde Rangor had made her stop when she started stumbling onstage. Clyde as a rehab counselor. Weird, but there you have it.

  The grease from the awful lunch buffet took to the air, becoming more a skin coating than a smell. Who ate that stuff? she wondered. Buffalo wings dating back to the Carter administration. Hot dogs that sit in water until, well, until they were gone. French fries so oily it makes picking them up a near impossibility. Fat men circled the dishes and piled their Styrofoam plates to dizzying heights. Olivia could almost see their arteries hardening in the dim light.

  Some strip joints called themselves “gentlemen’s clubs,” and businessmen wore suits and acted above the riffraff. There was no such pretense at the Eager Beaver. This was a place where tattoos outnumbered teeth. People fought. The bouncers had bigger guts than muscle because muscle was show and these guys would seriously kick your ass.

  Olivia was not scared or intimidated, but she wasn’t sure what she was doing here. The girls onstage began their rotation. The dancer at the one spot went offstage. A bubbly young girl came on in the three spot. No way was she legal age. She was all legs, moving on the high heels like a colt. Her smile looked almost genuine, so Olivia figured that the life had not yet been ripped out of her.

  “Get you something?”

  The waitress looked at the oddity that was Olivia with a wary eye.

  “Coca-Cola please.”

  She left. Olivia kept her eye on the bubbly young girl. Something about her brought back memories of poor Cassandra. Just the age, she guessed. Cassandra had been far prettier. And then, as she looked at the three girls still onstage, the obvious question hit her: