Текст книги "Six Years"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

I could wait that long. My head throbbed like a stubbed toe. My craving for sleep was overwhelming, emanating from the marrow of my bones. Tomorrow morning I would head to Otto Devereaux’s funeral, but for now, the body needed rest and nourishment. I took a shower, grabbed a bite to eat, and slept the sleep of the dead, which, based on what was going on around me, seemed apropos.

Chapter 25

Benedict leaned into the car window of his own car. “I don’t like this.”

I didn’t bother responding. We had been through this a dozen times already. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car.”

I had left my car with its altered license plate on the street in Greenfield. At some point I would have to figure out a way to retrieve it, but it could wait.

“I can go with you,” Benedict said.

“You have a class.”

Benedict didn’t argue. We never miss class. I had hurt enough students, in ways small and big, by taking up this bizarre quest. I wouldn’t allow more to pay even a minor price.

“So your plan is to show up at this gangster’s funeral?”

“More or less.”

“Sounds like less to me.”

Hard to argue. I planned on staking out Otto Devereaux’s funeral. My hope was that I could somehow learn why he attacked me, who he worked for, why they were searching for Natalie. I wasn’t big on the details—like how I’d accomplish this—but I had no job right now and sitting around idly waiting to be found by Bob or Jed didn’t seem like a terrific alternative either.

Better to be proactive. That was what I would tell my students.

Route 95 in Connecticut and New York is basically a series of construction areas masquerading as an interstate highway. Still I made decent time. The Franklin Funeral Home was located on Northern Boulevard in the Flushing section of Queens. For some odd reason, the picture on their website was of Central Park’s beloved Bow Bridge, a place you’ve seen lovers get married in pretty much every romantic comedy that takes place in Manhattan. I had no idea why they had that, as opposed to the photographs of their actual funeral home, until I pulled up to it.

Some final resting spot.

The Franklin Funeral Home looked as though it’d been built to house two dentists’ offices with maybe room for a proctologist, circa 1978. The facade was the yellowing stucco of a smoker’s teeth. Weddings, parties, celebrations often reflect the celebrants. Funerals rarely do. Death is truly the great equalizer, so much so that all funeral services, except the ones in movies, end up being the same. They are always colorless and rote and offer not so much solace and comfort as formula and ritual.

So now what? I couldn’t just go in. Suppose Bob was there? I could try to stay in the back, but guys my size do not blend well. There was a man in a black suit directing people where to park. I pulled up and tried to smile as though I was heading for a funeral, whatever that meant. The man in the black suit asked, “Are you here for the Devereaux or Johnson funeral?”

Because I was quick on my feet, I said, “Johnson.”

“You can park on the left.”

I pulled into the spacious lot. The Johnson funeral, it seemed, was taking place by the front entrance. There was a tent set up out back for Devereaux’s. I found a parking spot in the right corner. I backed into it, giving me a perfect view of the Devereaux tent. If by some chance someone in the Johnson party or the Franklin Funeral staff noticed me, I could pull off being bereaved and needing a moment.

I thought back to the last time I was at a funeral, just six days ago in that small white chapel in Palmetto Bluff. If I still had my timeline on me, there would be a six-year gap between a wedding in one white chapel and a funeral in another. Six years. I wondered how many of those days passed without Natalie in some way crossing my mind, and I realized that the answer was none.

But right now, the bigger question was, what had those six years been like for her?

A stretch limousine pulled up to the front of the tent. Another strange death ritual: The one time we all get to ride in cars we equate with luxury and excess is when we are mourning the death of a beloved. Then again, when better? Two dark-suited men came over and opened the limo doors, red-carpet style. A slender woman in her mid-thirties was helped out. She was holding hands with a long-haired little boy who looked to be six or seven. The little boy wore a black suit, which struck me as borderline obscene. Little boys should never wear black suits.

The obvious had not dawned on me until this very moment: Otto might have had a family. Otto might have had a slender wife who shared his bed and dreams. He might have had a long-haired son who loved him and played ball with him in the yard. Other people poured out of the car. An elderly woman wept hard in a handkerchief kept crumpled up in her fist. She had to be half carried toward the tent by a couple in their thirties. Otto’s mother and maybe siblings, I didn’t know. The family made a receiving line by the front of the tent. They greeted mourners, the devastation obvious in their bearings and on their faces. The little boy looked lost, confused, scared, like someone had sneaked up on him and punched him in the stomach.

That someone being me.

I sat perfectly still. I had thought about Otto as some contained entity. I thought killing him was merely a personal tragedy, the end of one isolated human life. But none of us are truly contained. Death ripples, echoes.

In the end though, hard as it might have been to watch the result of my actions, it didn’t change the fact that my actions were justified. I sat a little straighter and kept a closer eye on the mourners. I expected that the line would look like a casting call for Sopranos extras. There were some of those, no question about it, but the crowd was a pretty varied bunch. They shook hands with the family, embraced them, offered kisses. Some held the hugs a long time. Some did the quick back-pat and release. At one point, the woman I pegged as Otto’s mother nearly fainted, but two men caught her.

I had killed her son. The thought was both obvious and surreal.

Another stretch limousine pulled up and stopped directly in front of the receiving line. Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment. Two men who looked like New York Jets offensive linemen opened the back door. A tall, skinny man with slicked-down hair stepped out. I saw the crowd start whispering. The man was in his seventies, I’d guess, and looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. The man didn’t wait at the end of the line—the line parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. The man had one of those thin mustaches that looked as though it’d been sketched on with a pencil. He nodded as he approached the family, accepting handshakes and greetings.

Whoever this guy was, he was important.

The thin man with the thin mustache stopped and greeted each family member. One—a guy I pegged as Otto’s brother-in-law—took a knee. The thin man shook his head, and the man apologetically stood back up. One of the offensive linemen stayed a step in front of the thin man. The other stayed a step behind him. No one followed them down the receiving line.

When the thin man shook hands with Otto’s mother, the final person on the line, he turned and headed back toward his limo. One of the offensive linemen opened the back door. The thin man slid inside. The door closed. One offensive lineman drove. The other sat in the passenger seat. The stretch limousine was put in reverse. Everyone stayed still as the thin man made his exit.

For a full minute after he was gone, no one moved. I saw one woman cross herself. Then the line started up again. The family accepted condolences. I waited, wondering who the thin man was and if it mattered. Otto’s mother started sobbing again.

As I watched, her knees buckled. She fell into the arms of a man, sobbing into his chest. I froze. The man helped her back up and let her cry. I could see him stroke her back and offer her words of condolence. She held on for a long time. The man stood and waited with extreme patience.

It was Bob.

I ducked down in my seat, even though I was probably a solid hundred yards away. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath and risked another look. Bob was gently pulling Otto’s mom off him. He smiled at her and moved toward a group of men standing maybe ten yards away.

There were five of them. One produced a pack of cigarettes. All the men took a cigarette, except Bob. Good to know my gangster was somewhat health conscious. I took out my phone, found the camera app, and zoomed onto Bob’s face. I snapped four photos.

So now what?

Wait here, I guessed. Wait for the funeral and then follow Bob home.

And then?

I didn’t know. I really didn’t. The key was to find out his real name and identity and hope that led to his motive for asking about Natalie. He had clearly been the boss. He’d have to know the reasons, right? I could also just watch him get in his car and then I could write down his license plate number. Maybe Shanta would help track down his real name from that, except that I no longer fully trusted her and for all I knew, Bob had driven to the funeral with his smoker pals.

Four of the men peeled off the group and headed inside, leaving Bob alone with one guy. The guy was younger and wore a suit so shiny it looked like a disco ball. Bob seemed to be giving Shiny Suit instructions. Shiny Suit nodded a lot. When Bob was done, he headed into the funeral. Shiny Suit did not. Instead he swaggered with almost cartoon exaggeration in the other direction, toward a bright white Cadillac Escalade.

I bit my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The funeral would take some time—half an hour, hour, something like that. There was no reason to just sit here. I might as well follow Shiny Suit and see where it led.

I started up the car and pulled onto Northern Boulevard behind him. This felt weird—“tailing a perp”—but it seemed a day for the weird. I didn’t know how far to stay behind the Escalade. Would he spot me following him? I doubted it, even though I had a Massachusetts license plate in the state of New York. He made a right onto Francis Lewis Boulevard. I stayed two cars behind him. Crafty. I felt like Starsky and Hutch. One of them anyway.

When I’m nervous, I tell myself a lot of dumb jokes.

Shiny Suit pulled off at a mega-nursery called Global Garden. Great, I thought. He’s picking up flower arrangements for Otto’s funeral. Another weird thing about funerals: Wear black but kill something as colorful as flowers to decorate. The store, however, was closed. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I didn’t make anything of it yet. Shiny Suit pulled in to the back. I did likewise, though I stayed to the side, at a pretty good distance. Shiny Suit stepped down from the driver’s seat of the Escalade and swaggered over toward the store’s back door. Shiny Suit was big on the swagger. I didn’t want to prejudge but based on the company he kept, the glistening of his suit, and the poser-like swagger, I somehow suspected that Shiny Suit was what the students today technically refer to as a douchebag. He rapped on the back door with his pinkie ring and waited, bouncing on his feet like a boxer listening to the ring introduction. I thought the bouncing around was for show. It wasn’t.

A kid—he could have been one of my students—wearing a bright green store apron and a backward-facing Brooklyn Nets baseball cap opened the door, stepped out, and Shiny Suit sucker-punched him in the face.

Oh man. What had I stumbled across?

The cap flew to the ground. The kid followed, holding his nose. Shiny Suit grabbed him by the hair. He lowered his face so that I feared he might bite the kid’s probably-broken nose and started yelling at him. Then he stood back up and threw a kick in the kid’s ribs. The kid rocked back and forth in pain.

Okay, enough.

Working on a rather heady albeit dangerous blend of fear and instinct, I opened my car door. The fear could be controlled. I had learned how to do that during my years as a bouncer. Anyone with an iota of humanity experiences fear during physical altercations. That is how we are built. The key is harnessing it, not letting it paralyze or weaken you. Experience helps.

“Stop!” I shouted, and then—here was where the instinct part came in—I added, “Police!”

Shiny Suit’s head spun toward me.

I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. I flipped it open. No, I don’t have a badge, but he would be too far away to see. My attitude would sell it. I stayed firm, calm.

The kid scrambled back toward the door. He stopped to scoop up his Brooklyn Nets baseball cap, jammed it onto his head with the bill facing back, and disappeared into the building. I didn’t care. I closed my wallet and started walking toward Shiny Suit. He, too, must have had some experience in this. He didn’t run. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t try to explain. He just waited patiently for me to approach.

“I have one question for you,” I said. “If you answer it, we forget all about this.”

“All about what?” Shiny Suit replied. He smiled. His tiny teeth looked like Tic Tacs. “I don’t see anything to forget, do you?”

The iPhone was in my hand, displaying the clearest photo I had of Bob. “Who is this man?”

Shiny Suit looked at it. He smiled at me again. “Let me see your badge.”

Uh-oh. So much for attitude selling it.

“Just tell me—”

“You ain’t no cop.” Shiny Suit found this funny. “You know how I know?”

I didn’t respond. The door to the shop opened a crack. I could see the kid peeking out. He met my eye and nodded his gratitude.

“If you were a cop, you’d know who that is.”

“So just tell me his name and . . .”

Shiny Suit started to reach into his pocket. He could have been reaching for a gun. He could have been reaching for a knife. He could have been reaching for a tissue. I didn’t know which. I didn’t ask. I probably didn’t care.

I had had enough.

Without saying a word or issuing a warning of any sort, I snapped my fist into his nose. I could hear the cracking sound, like I’d stepped on a big beetle. Blood ran down his face. Even through the small crack in the door, I could see the kid smiling.

“What the—?”

I snapped another punch, aiming again for the definitely-broken nose. “Who is he?” I asked. “What’s his name?”

Shiny Suit cupped his nose as though it were a dying bird he wanted to save. I swept his leg. He went down in almost the exact spot the kid had been in less than a minute earlier. Behind him, the crack in the door disappeared. The kid wanted no part of this, I guessed. I didn’t blame him. The blood was messing up my man’s shiny suit. I bet it would wipe right off like vinyl. I bent down with my fist cocked.

“Who is he?”

“Oh man.” Shiny Suit’s voice had a tinge of awe in the nasal. “You’re such a dead man.”

That almost slowed me down. “Who is he?”

I showed him the fist again. He held up his hand in a pitiful defensive move. I could punch right through it.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Danny Zuker. That’s who you’re messing with, pal. Danny Zuker.”

Unlike Otto, Bob hadn’t used his real name.

“You’re a dead man, bro.”

“I heard you the first time,” I snapped, but even I could hear the fear in my voice.

“Danny ain’t a forgiving guy either. Oh man, you are so dead. You hear what I’m saying? You know what you are?”

“A dead man, yeah, I got it. Lie on your stomach. Put your right cheek on the pavement.”

“Why?”

I cocked the fist again. He lay on his stomach and put the wrong cheek down. I told him that. He turned his head the other way. I grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket.

“You robbing me now?”

“Shut up.”

I checked his ID and read his name out loud: “Edward Locke from right here in Flushing, New York.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So now I know your name. And where you live. See, two can play at that game.”

He chuckled at that.

“What?”

“No one plays that game like Danny Zuker.”

I dropped his wallet onto the pavement. “So you plan to tell him about our little altercation?” I asked.

“Our little what?”

“Are you going to tell him about this?”

I could see him smile through the blood. “The minute you’re gone, bro. Why, you wanna threaten me some more?”

“No, not at all, I think you should tell him,” I said, using my calmest voice. “But, well, how will it look?”

With his face still on the pavement, he frowned. “How will what look?”

“You, Edward Locke, just got taken down by some chump you don’t know. He broke your nose, ruined your nice suit—and how did you save yourself from a bigger beating? Well, you sung like a bird.”

“What?”

“You sold out Danny Zuker after two punches.”

“I did not! No way I’d ever—”

“You gave me his name after only two punches. Do you think that will impress Danny? You seem to know him pretty well. How do you think he’ll react to your story of selling him out like that?”

“I didn’t sell him out!”

“Think he’ll see it that way?”

Silence.

“Up to you,” I said, “but here’s what I might suggest. If you say nothing, Danny will never know about this. He won’t know you messed up. He won’t know someone got the jump on you. He won’t know that you sold him out after only two punches.”

More silence.

“We understand each other, Edward?”

He didn’t reply and I didn’t bother pushing for one. It was time to leave now. I doubted that Edward would be able to see the license plate from here—Benedict’s license plate—but I didn’t want to take any chances.

“I’m going to leave now. Keep your face down until I’m gone and then all this goes away.”

“Except for my broken nose,” he pouted.

“That’ll heal too. Just stay down.”

Keeping an eye on him, I walked backward to the car. Edward Locke never so much as budged. I got in my car and drove away. I felt pretty good about myself, which, ironically, was not something I was proud of. I got back on Northern Boulevard and drove past the funeral home. No reason to stop there. I had stirred up enough trouble for now. When I stopped at the next traffic light, I quickly checked my e-mail. Bingo. There was one from the website who investigated charities. The subject read:

Here is your complete analysis on Fresh Start

It could wait till I was back, couldn’t it? Or maybe . . . I kept my eyes peeled. It didn’t take long. Two blocks up I spotted a place called the Cybercraft Internet Café. It was far enough away from the funeral home, not that I thought that they’d go searching nearby parking lots for me.

The place looked like an overcrowded tech department. There were dozens of computers lined up in narrow cubbies along the wall. They were all taken. No customer, other than yours truly, looked older than twenty.

“It’s going to be a wait,” a pure slacker yah-dude with more piercings than teeth told me.

“That’s okay,” I said.

It could indeed wait. I wanted to get home. I was just about to leave when a group of what had to be gamers let out a shout, slapped one another on the back, offered up complicated handshakes of congratulations, and rose from the terminals.

“Who won?” Slacker Yah-Dude asked.

“Randy Corwick, man.”

Slacker Yah-Dude liked that. “Pay up.” Then to me he said, “How long you need a terminal for, Pops?”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“You got five. Use terminal six. It’s hot, man. Don’t cool it down with something lame.”

Terrific. I quickly signed on and opened up my e-mail. I downloaded the financial report on Fresh Start. It was eighteen pages. There was an income statement, expense graphs, revenue graphs, profitability graphs, liquidity graphs, a graph on useful versus depreciated life of building and equipment, something about liability composition, a balance sheet, something called a comparables analysis . . .

I teach political science. I do not understand business or numbers.

Toward the back I found a history of the organization. It had indeed been founded twenty years ago by three people. Professor Malcolm Hume was listed as the academic adviser. Two students were listed as copresidents. One was Todd Sanderson. The other was Jedediah Drachman.

My blood chilled. What’s a common nickname for someone named Jedediah?

Jed.

I still had no idea what was going on, but it was all about Fresh Start.

“Time’s up, Pops.” It was Slacker Yah-Dude. “Another terminal will be open in fifteen.”

I shook my head. I paid the rental fee and stumbled back to my car. Was my mentor somehow involved in this? What kind of good works did Fresh Start do that involved trying to kill me? I didn’t know. It was time to head home and maybe discuss this all with Benedict. Maybe he’d have a clue.

I started up Benedict’s car and, still dazed, headed west on Northern Boulevard. I had programmed the address for the Franklin Funeral Home into the GPS, but for the ride back, I figured that I could just hit “Previous Destinations” and Benedict would have his home in there. So when I hit the next red light, I turned the knob and clicked on “Previous Destinations.” I was about to scan down for Benedict’s address in Lanford, Massachusetts, but my gaze stopped cold at the first address, the place Benedict had most recently visited. The address didn’t read Lanford, Massachusetts.

It read Kraftboro, Vermont.