Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Read online

  I didn’t get it. Why was this photograph…?

  There was something else in the envelope.

  I turned it upside down. Nothing. I dug with my hand to the bottom. It felt like an index card. I pulled it into view. Yep, an index card. White with red lines. That side—the lined side—was left blank. But on the other side—the side that was plain white—someone had typed three words all in caps:

  THE FIRST SKELETON

  “You know who sent the journal?” Lucy asked.

  “Not yet,” Lonnie said. “But I will.”

  “How?”

  Lonnie kept his head down. Gone was the confident swagger. Lucy felt bad about that. He didn’t like what she was making him do. She didn’t like it either. But there was no choice here. She had worked hard to conceal her past. She had changed her name. She had not let Paul find her. She had gotten rid of her naturally blond hair—man, how many women her age had naturally blond hair?—and replaced it with this brown mess.

  “Okay,” she said. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

  He nodded. Lucy headed down the stairs to her car.

  On TV it seems so easy to get a new identity. Maybe it was, but Lucy hadn’t found that to be the case. It was a slow process. She started by changing her last name from Silverstein to Gold. Silver to Gold. Clever, no? She didn’t think so, but somehow it worked for her, still gave her a link to the father she had so loved.

  She had moved around the country. The camp was long gone. So were all her father’s assets. And so, in the end, was most of her father.

  What remained of Ira Silverstein, her father, was housed in a halfway house ten miles from the campus of Reston University. She drove, enjoying the time alone. She listened to Tom Waits sing that he hoped he didn’t fall in love, but of course, he does. She pulled into the lot. The house, a converted mansion on a large tract of land, was nicer than most. Lucy’s entire salary pretty much went here.

  She parked near her father’s old car, a rusted-out yellow VW Beetle. The Beetle was always in the exact same spot. She doubted that it had moved from there in the past year. Her father had freedom here. He could leave anytime. He could check himself in and check out. But the sad fact was, he almost never left his room. The leftist bumper stickers that had adorned the vehicle had all faded away. Lucy had a copy of the VW key and every once in a while she started it up, just to keep the battery in operating order. Doing that, just sitting in the car, brought flash-backs. She saw Ira driving it, the full beard, the windows open, the smile, the wave and honk to everyone he passed.

  She never had the heart to take it out for a spin.

  Lucy signed in at the front desk. This house was fairly specialized, catering to older residents with lifelong drug and mental issues. There seemed to be a tremendous range in here, everything from those who appeared totally “normal” to people who could double as extras in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Ira was a little of both.

  She stopped in his doorway. Ira’s back was to her. He wore the familiar hemp poncho. His gray hair was an every-direction shock. “Let’s Live for Today” by The Grass Roots, a classic from 1967, boomed from what her father still called a “hi-fi.” Lucy paused as Rob Grill, the lead vocalist, did the big “1, 2, 3, 4” countdown before the group blasted in for another “sha-la-la-la-la, let’s live for today.” She closed her eyes and mouthed along with the words.

  Great, great stuff.

  There were beads in the room and tie-dye and a “Where Have All The Flowers Gone” poster. Lucy smiled, but there was little joy in it. Nostalgia was one thing—a deteriorating mind another.

  Early dementia had crept in—from age or drug use, no one could say—and staked a claim. Ira had always been spacey and living in the past, so it was hard to say how gradual the slide had been. That was what the doctors said. But Lucy knew that the initial break, the initial push down the slide, had occurred that summer. Ira took a lot of the blame for what happened in those woods. It was his camp. He should have done more to protect his campers.

  The media went after him but not as hard as the families. Ira was too sweet a man to handle it. It broke him.

  Ira barely left his room now. His mind bounced around decades, but this one—the sixties—was the only one he felt comfortable in. Half the time he actually thought it was still 1968. Other times he knew the truth—you could see it in his expression—but he just didn’t want to face it. So as part of the new “validation therapy,” his doctors let his room, for all intents and purposes, be 1968.

  The doctor had explained that this sort of dementia did not improve with age, so you want the patient to be as happy and stress free as possible, even if that means living something of a lie. In short, Ira wanted it to be 1968. That was where he was happiest. So why fight it?

  “Hey, Ira.”

  Ira—he had never wanted her to call him “Dad”—did the slow “meds” turn toward her voice. He raised his hand, as though underwater, and waved. “Hey, Luce.”

  She blinked away the tears. He always recognized her, always knew who she was. If the fact that he was living in 1968 and his daughter hadn’t even been born then seemed like a contradiction, well, it was. But that never shattered Ira’s illusion.

  He smiled at her. Ira had always been too big-hearted, too generous, too childlike and naive, for a world this cruel. She would refer to him as an “ex-hippie” but that implied that at some point Ira gave up being a hippie. Long after everyone else had turned in their tie-dyes and flower power and peace beads, after the others had gotten haircuts and shaved off their beards, Ira stayed true to the cause.

  During Lucy’s wonderful childhood, Ira had never raised his voice to her. He had almost no filter, no boundaries, wanting his daughter to see and experience everything, even what was probably inappropriate. Weirdly enough, that lack of censorship had made his only child, Lucy Silverstein, somewhat prudish by the day’s standards.

  “I’m so happy you’re here…,” Ira said, half stumbling toward her.

  She took a step in and embraced him. Her father smelled of age and body odor. The hemp needed to be cleaned.

  “How are you feeling, Ira?”

  “Great. Never better.”

  He opened a bottle and took a vitamin. Ira did that a lot. Despite his noncapitalist ways, her father had made a small fortune in vitamins during the early seventies. He cashed out and bought that property on the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border. For a while he ran it as a commune. But that didn’t last. So he turned it into a summer camp.

  “So how are you?” she asked.

  “Never better, Luce.”

  And then he started crying. Lucy sat with him and held his hand. He cried, then he laughed, then he cried again. He kept telling her over and over how much he loved her.

  “You’re the world, Luce,” he said. “I see you…I see everything that should be. You know what I mean?”

  “I love you too, Ira.”

  “See? That’s what I mean. I’m the richest man in the world.”

  Then he cried again.

  She couldn’t stay long. She needed to get back to her office and see what Lonnie had learned. Ira’s head was on her shoulder. The dandruff and odor were getting to her. When a nurse came in, Lucy used the interruption to extricate herself from him. She hated herself for it.

  “I’ll be back next week, okay?”

  Ira nodded. He was smiling when she left.

  In the corridor the nurse—Lucy forgot her name—was waiting for her. “How has he been?” Lucy asked.

  This was normally a rhetorical question. These patients were all bad, but their families didn’t want to hear that. So the nurse would normally say, “Oh, he’s doing just fine,” but this time, she said, “Your father has been more agitated lately.”

  “How so?”

  “Ira is normally the sweetest, most gentle man in the universe. But his mood swings—”

  “He’s always had mood swings.”

  “
Not like these.”

  “Has he been nasty?”

  “No. It’s not that….”

  “Then what?”

  She shrugged. “He’s been talking about the past a lot.”

  “He always talks about the sixties.”

  “No, not that far in the past.”

  “What then?”

  “He talks about a summer camp.”

  Lucy felt a slow thud in her chest. “What does he say?”

  “He says he owned a summer camp. And then he loses it. He starts ranting about blood and the woods and the dark, stuff like that. Then he clams up. It’s creepy. And before last week, I never even heard him say a word about a camp, let alone that he owned one. Unless, of course, well, Ira’s mind does wander. Maybe he’s just imagining he did?”

  It was said as a question, but Lucy didn’t answer it. From down the hall another nurse called, “Rebecca?”

  The nurse, whom she now realized was named Rebecca, said, “I have to run.”

  When Lucy was alone in the corridor, she looked back in the room. Her father’s back was to her. He was staring at the wall. She wondered what was going on in his head. What he wasn’t telling her.

  What he really knew about that night.

  She tore herself away and headed toward the exit. She reached the receptionist who asked her to sign out. Each patient had his own page. The receptionist flipped to Ira’s and spun the book for Lucy to sign. She had the pen in her hand and was about to do the same absentminded scribble she had done on the way in when she stopped.

  There was another name there.

  Last week. Ira had another visitor. His first and only visitor besides, well, her. Ever. She frowned and read the name. It was wholly unfamiliar.

  Who the hell was Manolo Santiago?

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FIRST SKELETON

  MY FATHER’S PHOTOGRAPH WAS STILL IN MY HAND.

  I needed now to make a detour on the way to my visit with Raya Singh. I looked at the index card. The First Skeleton. Implication: There would be more than one.

  But let’s start with this one—my father.

  There was only one person who could help me when it came to my dad and his potential skeletons. I took out my cell phone and held down the number six. I rarely called this number, but it was still on my speed dial. My guess is, it would always be.

  He answered on the first ring in his low rumble of a voice. “Paul.”

  Even the one word was thick with accent.

  “Hi, Uncle Sosh.”

  Sosh wasn’t really my uncle. He was a close family friend from the old country. I hadn’t seen him in three months, not since my father’s funeral, but as soon as I heard his voice, I instantly saw the big bear of a man. My father said that Uncle Sosh had been the most powerful and feared man in Pulkovo, the town on the outskirts of Leningrad where they’d both been raised.

  “It’s been too long,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Acch,” he said, as though disgusted by my apology. “But I thought that you would call today.”

  That surprised me. “Why?”

  “Because, my young nephew, we need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About why I never talk about anything over the phone.”

  Sosh’s business was, if not illegal, on the shadier side of the street.

  “I’m at my place in the city.” Sosh had an expansive penthouse on 36th Street in Manhattan. “When can you be here?”

  “Half an hour if there’s no traffic,” I said.

  “Splendid. I will see you then.”

  “Uncle Sosh?”

  He waited. I looked at the photograph of my father on the passenger seat.

  “Can you give me an idea what it’s about?”

  “It’s about your past, Pavel,” he said through that thick accent, using my Russian name. “It’s about what should stay in your past.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We’ll talk,” he said again. And then he hung up.

  There was no traffic, so the ride to Uncle Sosh’s was closer to twenty-five minutes. The doorman wore one of those ridiculous uniforms with rope tassels. The look, interestingly enough with Sosh living here, reminded me of something Brezhnev would have worn for the May Day parade. The doorman knew my face and had been told that I was arriving. If the doorman isn’t told in advance, he doesn’t ring up. You just don’t get in.

  Sosh’s old friend Alexei stood at the elevator door. Alexei Kokorov had worked security for Sosh, had for as long as I could remember. He was probably in his late sixties, a few years younger than Sosh, and as ugly a man as you’d ever see. His nose was bulbous and red, his face filled with spider veins from, I assumed, too much drink. His jacket and pants didn’t fit right, but his build was not the kind made for haute couture.

  Alexei didn’t seem happy to see me, but he didn’t look like lots of laughs in general. He held the elevator door open for me. I stepped in without saying a word. He gave me a curt nod and let the door close. I was alone.

  The elevator opened into the penthouse.

  Uncle Sosh stood a few feet from the door. The room was huge. The furniture was cubist. The picture window showed off an incredible view, but the walls had this thick wallpaper, tapestry-like, in a color that probably had some fancy name like “Merlot” but looked to me like blood.

  Sosh’s face lit up when he saw me. He spread his hands wide. One of my most vivid childhood memories was the size of those hands. They were still huge. He had grayed over the years, but even now, when I calculated that he was probably in his early seventies, you still felt the size and power and something approaching awe.

  I stopped outside the elevator.

  “What,” he said to me, “you too old for a hug now?”

  We both stepped toward each other. The embrace was, per his Russian background, a true bear hug. Strength emanated from him. His forearms were still thick coils. He pulled me close, and I felt as though he could simply tighten his grip and snap my spine.

  After a few seconds, Sosh grabbed my arms near the biceps and held me at arm’s length so he could take a good look.

  “Your father,” he said, his voice thick with more than accent this time. “You look just like your father.”

  Sosh had arrived from the Soviet Union not long after we did. He worked for InTourist, the Soviet tour company, in their Manhattan office. His job was to help facilitate American tourists who wished to visit Moscow and what was then called Leningrad.

  That was a long time ago. Since the fall of the Soviet government, he dabbled in that murky enterprise people labeled “import-export.” I never knew what that meant exactly, but it had paid for this penthouse.

  Sosh looked at me another moment or two. He wore a white shirt buttoned low enough to see the V-neck undershirt. A huge tuft of gray chest hair jutted out. I waited. This would not take long. Uncle Sosh was not one for casual talk.

  As if reading my mind, Sosh looked me hard in the eye and said, “I have been getting calls.”

  “From?”

  “Old friends.”

  I waited.

  “From the old country,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “People have been asking questions.”

  “Sosh?

  “Yes?”

  “On the phone you were worried about being overheard. Are you worried about that here?”

  “No. Here it is completely safe. I have the room swept weekly.”

  “Great, then how about stopping with the cryptic and telling me what you’re talking about?”

  He smiled. He liked that. “There are people. Americans. They are in Moscow and throwing money around and asking questions.”

  I nodded to myself. “Questions about what?”

  “About your father.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “You remember the old rumors?”

  “
You’re kidding me.”

  But he wasn’t. And in a weird way, it made sense. The First Skeleton. I should have guessed.

  I remembered the rumors, of course. They had nearly destroyed my family.

  My sister and I were born in what was then called the Soviet Union during what was then called the Cold War. My father had been a medical doctor but lost his license on charges of incompetence trumped up because he was Jewish. That was how it was in those days.

  At the same time, a reform synagogue here in the United States—Skokie, Illinois, to be more specific—was working hard on behalf of Soviet Jewry. During the midseventies, Soviet Jewry was something of a cause célèbre in American temples—getting Jews out of the Soviet Union.

  We got lucky. They got us out.

  For a long time we were heralded in our new land as heroes. My father spoke passionately at Friday night services about the plight of the Soviet Jew. Kids wore buttons in support. Money was donated. But about a year into our stay, my father and the head rabbi had a falling out, and suddenly there were whispers that my father had gotten out of the Soviet Union because he was actually KGB, that he wasn’t even Jewish, that it was all a ruse. The charges were pathetic and contradictory and false and now, well, more than twenty-five years old.

  I shook my head. “So they’re trying to prove that my father was KGB?”

  “Yes.”

  Friggin’ Jenrette. I got it, I guessed. I was something of a public figure now. The charges, even if ultimately proven false, would be damaging. I should know. Twenty-five years ago, my family had lost pretty much everything due to those accusations. We left Skokie, moved east to Newark. Our family was never the same.