Текст книги "Six Years"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

How stupid to have such thoughts now. How selfish. How inappropriate. The woman had just lost her husband, and prick that I am, I was worried about the ramifications for me. Let it go, I told myself. Forget it and her. Move on.

But I couldn’t. I was simply not built that way.

I had last seen Natalie at a wedding. Now I would see her at a funeral. Some people would find irony in that—I was not one of them.

I headed back to the computer and booked a flight to Savannah.

Chapter 3

The first sign something was off occurred during the eulogy.

Palmetto Bluff was not so much a town as a gigantic gated community. The newly built “village” was beautiful, clean, nicely maintained, historically accurate—all of which gave the place a sterile, Disney-Epcot faux feel. Everything seemed a little too perfect. The sparkly white chapel—yep, another one—sat on a bluff so picturesque it appeared to be, well, a picture. The heat, however, was all too real—a living, breathing thing with humidity thick enough to double as a beaded curtain.

Another fleeting moment of reason questioned why I had come down here, but I swatted it away. I was here now, thus making the question moot. The Inn at Palmetto Bluff looked like a movie facade. I stepped into its cute bar and ordered a scotch straight up from a cute barmaid.

“You here for the funeral?” she asked me.

“Yep.”

“Tragic.”

I nodded and stared down at my drink. The cute barmaid picked up the hint and said no more.

I pride myself on being an enlightened man. I do not believe in fate or destiny or any of that superstitious nonsense, yet here I was, justifying my impulsive behavior in just such a manner. I am supposed to be here, I told myself. Compelled to board that flight. I didn’t know why. I had seen with my own two eyes Natalie marry another man, and yet even now, I still couldn’t quite accept it. There was still an innate need for closure. Six years ago, Natalie had dumped me with a note telling me she was marrying her old beau. The next day, I got an invitation to their wedding. No wonder it all still felt . . . incomplete. Now I was here in the hopes of finding, if not closure, completion.

Amazing what we can self-rationalize when we really want something.

But what exactly did I want here?

I finished my drink, thanked the cute barmaid, and carefully started toward the chapel. I kept my distance, of course. I might be horrible and callous and self-involved, but not so much as to intrude on a widow burying her husband. I stayed behind a large tree—a palmetto, what else?—not daring to so much as sneak a look at the mourners.

When I heard the opening hymn, I figured that the coast was as clear as it was going to be. A quick glance confirmed it. Everyone was inside the chapel now. I started toward it. I could hear a gospel choir singing. They were, in a word, magnificent. Not sure what exactly to do, I tried the chapel door, found it unlocked (well, duh), and pushed inside. I lowered my head as I entered, putting a hand to my face as though scratching an itch.

Talk about a poor man’s disguise.

There was no need. The chapel was packed. I stood in the back with other late-arriving mourners who couldn’t find a seat. The choir finished the spirited hymn, and a man—I don’t know if he was a minister or priest or what—took to the pulpit. He began to talk about Todd as a “caring physician, good neighbor, generous friend, and wonderful family man.” Physician. I hadn’t known that. The man waxed eloquent on Todd’s strengths—his charity work, his winning personality, his generosity of spirit, his ability to make every person feel special, his willingness to roll up his sleeves and pitch in whenever anyone, stranger or friend, needed a hand. I naturally wrote this off as familiar funeral narrative—we have a natural habit of overpraising the deceased—but I could see the tears in the eyes of the mourners, the way they nodded along with the words, as though it was a song only they could hear.

From my perch in the back I tried to glance up front for a glimpse of Natalie, but there were too many heads in the way. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous, so I stopped. Besides, I had come into the chapel and looked around and even listened to words of praise for the deceased. Wasn’t that enough? What else was there to do here?

It was time to leave.

“Our first eulogy,” the man at the pulpit said, “comes from Eric Sanderson.”

A pale teen—I would guess that he was around sixteen—rose and moved to the pulpit. My first thought was that Eric must be Todd Sanderson’s (and by extension, Natalie’s) nephew, but that thought was quickly shot down by the boy’s opening sentence.

“My father was my hero . . .”

Father?

It took me a few seconds. Minds have a habit of going on certain tracks and not being able to hop off. When I was a child, my father told me an old riddle that he thought would fool me. “A father and son get in a car accident. The father dies. The boy is rushed to the hospital. The surgeon says, ‘I can’t operate on this boy. He’s my son.’ How can that be?” This was what I mean about tracks. For my father’s generation, this riddle was, I guess, mildly difficult to figure, but for people my age, the answer—the surgeon was his mother—was so obvious, I remember laughing out loud. “What next, Dad? Are you going to start using your eight-track player?”

Here was something similar. How, I wondered, could a man who has only been married to Natalie six years have a teenage son? Answer: Eric was Todd’s son, not Natalie’s. Either Todd had been married previously or at the very least had a child with another woman.

I tried again to see Natalie in the front row. I craned my neck, but the woman standing next to me gave me an exasperated sigh for invading her space. Up on the podium, Todd’s son, Eric, was killing it. He spoke beautifully and movingly. There wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel except, well, mine.

So now what? Just stand here? Pay my respects to the widow and, what, confuse her or disrupt her day of mourning? And what about selfish ol’ me? Did I really want to see her face again, see her crying over the loss of the love of her life?

I didn’t think so. I checked my watch. I had booked my flight out tonight. Yep, quick in and out. No muss, no fuss, no overnight, no hotel cost. Closure on the cheap.

There were those who would state the obvious about Natalie and me—that is, I had idealized our time together out of all rational proportion. I understand that. Objectively I see where that argument has validity. But the heart isn’t objective. I, who worshipped the great thinkers, theorists, and philosophers of our time, would never stoop so low as to use an axiom as trite as, I just know. But I do know. I know what Natalie and I were. I can see it through clear eyes, nothing even slightly tinted, and because of that, I cannot compute what we’ve become.

In sum, I still don’t get what happened to us.

As Eric finished up and took his seat, the sounds of sniffles and gentle sobs echoed through the sparkly white chapel. The clergyman who’d been running the funeral moved back to the pulpit and used the universal “please rise” hand gesture. When the congregation began to stand, I used the diversion to slip back outside. I moved across the way, back to the cover of the palmetto tree. I leaned against the trunk, staying out of sight of the chapel.

“Are you okay?”

I turned and saw the cute barmaid. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Great man, the doc.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Were you close?”

I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, the chapel doors opened. The coffin was rolled into the blazing sun. When it got near the hearse, the pallbearers, one of whom was his son, Eric, surrounded the casket. A woman with a big black hat came out next. She had one arm around a girl of maybe fourteen. A tall man stood next to her. She leaned on him. The man looked a bit like Todd. I guessed this was his brother and sister, but it was only a guess. The pallbearers lifted the coffin and slid it into the back of the hearse. The woman with the black hat and the girl were escorted to the first limousine. The tall maybe-brother opened the door for them. Eric got in after them. I watched the rest of the mourners start coming out.

No sign of Natalie yet.

I found that only mildly odd. I had seen it work both ways. Sometimes the wife was the first person to depart, trailing the coffin, sometimes resting a hand on it. And sometimes she was the last, waiting for the entire chapel to empty out before braving the walk up the aisle. I remembered my own mother hadn’t wanted to deal with anyone at my father’s funeral. She went so far as to slip out a side door to avoid the crush of family and friends.

I watched mourners exit. Their grief, like the southern heat, had become a living, breathing thing. It was genuine and palpable. These people were not here out of mere courtesy. They cared for this man. They were rocked by his death, but then again, what had I expected? Did I think Natalie would dump me for a loser? Wasn’t it better to have lost out to this beloved healer instead of a swarthy douchebag?

Good question.

The barmaid was still standing next to me. “How did he die?” I whispered.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head. Silence. I turned toward her.

“Murdered,” she said.

The word hung in the humid air, refusing to go away. I repeated it. “Murdered?”

“Yes.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. “How? Who?”

“He was shot, I think. I’m not sure about that part. The police don’t know who. They think it was a robbery gone wrong. You know, a guy broke in and didn’t know someone was home.”

Numbness crept in now. The flow of people had stopped coming out of the chapel. I stared at the door and waited now for Natalie to make her appearance.

But she didn’t.

The man who’d led the service came out, closing the doors behind him. He got into the front of the hearse. The hearse started rolling out. The first limousine followed.

“Is there a side exit?” I asked.

“What?”

“To the chapel. Is there another door?”

She frowned. “No,” she said. “There’s only that one door.”

The procession was under way now. Where the hell was Natalie?

“Aren’t you going to the graveyard?” the barmaid asked me.

“No,” I said.

She put a hand on my forearm. “You look like you could use a drink.”

It was hard to argue with that. I half stumbled behind her toward the bar and half collapsed onto the same stool as before. She poured me another scotch. I kept my eyes on the procession, on the chapel door, on the little town square.

No Natalie.

“My name is Tess, by the way.”

“Jake,” I said.

“So how did you know Dr. Sanderson?”

“We went to the same college.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You look younger.”

“I am. It was an alumni connection.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.”

“Tess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s family at all?”

“His son, Eric, used to date my niece. Good kid.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Such a tragedy. He and his father were so close.”

I didn’t know how to broach the subject so I just asked: “Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s wife?”

Tess cocked her head. “You don’t?”

“No,” I lied. “I never met her. We just knew each other through a few college events. He’d come alone.”

“You seem awfully emotional for a guy who only knew him through a few college events.”

I didn’t know how to answer that one, so I stalled by taking a deep sip. Then I said, “It’s just that, well, I didn’t see her at the funeral.”

“How would you know?”

“What?”

“You just said you never met her. How would you know?”

Man, I was really not good at this, was I? “I’ve seen photographs.”

“They must not have been good ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was right there. Came out right after the coffin with Katie.”

“Katie?”

“Their daughter. Eric was one of the pallbearers. Then Dr. Sanderson’s brother came out with Katie and Delia.”

I remembered them, of course. “Delia?”

“Dr. Sanderson’s wife.”

My head started spinning. “I thought her name was Natalie.”

She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “Natalie? No. Her name is Delia. She and Dr. Sanderson were high school sweethearts. Grew up right down the road here. They’ve been married for ages.”

I just stared at her.

“Jake?”

“What?” I said.

“Are you sure you’re even at the right funeral?”

Chapter 4

I headed back to the airport and took the next flight home. What else could I do? I guess I could have approached the grieving widow graveside and asked her why her dearly departed husband married the love of my life six years ago, but just then, that felt somewhat inappropriate. I’m sensitive like that.

So with a nonrefundable ticket on a professor’s salary, plus classes tomorrow and students to see, I reluctantly ducked into one of those “express” jets that are too small for guys my size, folding my legs up so that my knees felt as though they were under my chin, and flew back to Lanford. I live in personality-imperiled campus housing made of washed-out brick. The décor might generously be dubbed “functional.” It was clean and comfortable, I guess, with one of those couch-loveseat combos you see advertised in highway stores for $699. The overall effect is, I think, more apathetic than downright bad, but that also may just be what I tell myself. The small kitchen had a microwave and toaster oven—it had a real oven too, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it—and the dishwasher breaks a lot. As you may have guessed, I don’t entertain here too often.

This is not to say that I don’t date or even have meaningful relationships. I do, though most of these relationships carry a three-month expiration date. Some might find insight in the fact that Natalie and I lasted a little over three months, but I wouldn’t be one of them. No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Now what?

The man who had married the woman of my dreams was, it seemed, married to another woman—not to mention that he was, well, deceased. To put it another way, Natalie was not at the funeral of her husband. That seemed to warrant some kind of response on my part, didn’t it?

I remembered my six-year-old promise. Natalie had said, “Promise me you’ll leave us alone.” Us. Not him or her. Us. At the risk of sounding cold and perhaps overly literal, there was no “us” anymore. Todd was dead. That meant, I firmly believed, that the promise, if it even could still exist because the “us” no longer existed, should be declared null and void.

I booted up the computer—yes, it was old—and typed Natalie Avery into the search engine. A list of links came up. I started going through them, but quickly got discouraged. Her old gallery page still had some of her paintings up. Nothing had been added in, well, six years. I found a few articles on art openings and the like, but again all of them were old. I clicked the button for more current links. There were two hits on white pages, but one woman named Natalie Avery was seventy-nine years old and married to a man named Harrison. The other was sixty-six and married to a Thomas. There were the other routine mentions you would find for pretty much any name—genealogy sites, high school and college alumni pages, that kind of thing.

But really, in the end, nothing appeared relevant.

So what happened to my Natalie?

I decided to try googling Todd Sanderson, see what I could find there. He was indeed a physician—more specifically, a surgeon. Impressive. His office was in Savannah, Georgia, and he was affiliated with Memorial University Medical Center. His specialty was cosmetic surgery. I didn’t know if that meant serious cleft palates or boob jobs. I didn’t know how that could possibly be relevant either. Dr. Sanderson was not big on social networking. He had no Facebook account or LinkedIn or Twitter, none of that.

There were a few mentions of Todd Sanderson and his wife, Delia, at various functions for a charity called Fresh Start, but for the most part there was very little to learn here. I tried throwing in his name with Natalie’s. I got bupkis. I sat back and thought a moment. Then I leaned forward and tried their son, Eric Sanderson. He was only a kid, so I didn’t think there’d be much, but I figured that he’d probably have a Facebook profile. I started there. Parents often choose not to have a Facebook page, but I’ve yet to meet a student who didn’t have one.

A few minutes later, I hit bingo. Eric Sanderson, Savannah, Georgia.

The profile picture was, poignantly enough, a photograph of Eric and his late father, Todd. They both had wide smiles, trying to hold up a big fish of some kind, happily struggling with the weight. A father-son fishing trip, I figured with the pang of a man who wants to be a father. The sun was setting behind them, their faces in shadow, but you could feel the contentment radiate through my computer monitor. I was struck by a strange thought.

Todd Sanderson was a good man.

Yes, it was only a photograph and, yes, I was aware of how people could fake smiles or entire life scenarios, but I sensed goodness here.

I checked out the rest of Eric’s photographs. Most were of Eric and his friends—hey, he was a teenager—at school, at parties, at sporting events, you know the drill. Why does everyone make pouty lips or hand gestures in photographs nowadays? What’s up with that? Dumb thought but the mind goes where it goes.

There was an album simply titled FAMILY. The photos ran through a gamut of years. Eric was a baby in some. Then his sister joined. Then there was the trip to Disney World, other fishing vacations, family dinners, church confirmation, soccer games. I checked them all.

Todd never had long hair—not in any of them. He was never anything but clean-shaven.

So what did that mean?

Not a clue.

I clicked on Eric’s wall or whatever you call that opening page. There were dozens of condolence messages.

“Your dad was the best, I’m so sorry.”

“If there is anything I can do.”

“RIP, Dr. S. You rocked.”

“I’ll never forget the time your dad helped out with my sister.”

Then I saw one that made me pause:

“Such a senseless tragedy. I will never understand the cruelty of human beings.”

I clicked for “older posts” to come up. There, six more down, I found another that caught my eye:

“I hope they catch the a&&hole who did this and fry him.”

I brought up a news search engine and tried to find out more. It didn’t take long to stumble across an article:

HOMICIDE IN SAVANNAH

Local Surgeon Murdered

Popular local surgeon and humanitarian Dr. Todd Sanderson was killed in his home last night in what police believe may have been a robbery gone wrong.

Someone tried my front door, but it was locked. I heard the rustling of the doormat—in a fit of originality, I hide my spare key beneath it—and then the key was in the lock and the door opened. Benedict came in.

“Hey,” he said. “Surfing porn?”

I frowned. “No one uses the term ‘surfing’ anymore.”

“I’m old-school.” Benedict headed to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “How was your trip?”

“Surprising,” I said.

“Do tell.”

I did. Benedict was a great listener. He was one of those guys who actually listened to every single word and remained focused on you and only you and didn’t talk over you. This isn’t faked either, and he doesn’t just save this for his closest friends. People fascinate him. I would list that as Benedict’s greatest strength as a teacher but it would probably be more apropos to list it as his greatest strength as a Don Juan. Single women can fight off a lot of pickup routines, but a guy who genuinely cares about what they say? Gigolo wannabes, take note.

When I finished, Benedict took a swig of his beer. “Wow. I mean . . . wow. That’s all I can say.”

“Wow?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure you’re not an English professor?”

“You do know,” he said slowly, “that there is probably a logical explanation for all this, right?”

“Such as?”

He rubbed his chin. “Maybe Todd is one of those guys with several families, but they don’t know about each other.”

“Huh?”

“Lotharios who have lots of wives and kids and one lives in, say, Denver, and the other lives in Seattle, and he divides his time between them and they don’t know. You see it on Dateline all the time. They’re bigamists. Or polygamists. And they can get away with it for years.”

I made a face. “If that’s your logical explanation, I’d love to hear your far-fetched one.”

“Fair point. So how about I give you the most obvious one?”

“The most obvious explanation?”

“Yes.”

“Go for it.”

Benedict spread his hands. “It’s not the same Todd.”

I said nothing.

“You don’t remember the guy’s last name, right?”

“Right.”

“So are you sure that it’s the same guy? Todd isn’t the most uncommon name in the world. Think about it, Jake. You see a picture six years later, your mind plays a few tricks with you, and voilà, you think it’s your archenemy.”

“He isn’t my archenemy.”

“Wasn’t your archenemy. Dead, remember? That puts him in the past tense. But seriously, you want the most obvious explanation?” He leaned forward. “It’s all a simple case of mistaken identity.”

I had, of course, already considered this. I had even considered Benedict’s conning bigamist explanation. Both made more sense than . . . than what? What else was there, really? What other possible—obvious, logical, far-fetched—explanation was there?

“Well?” Benedict said.

“It makes sense.”

“See?”

“This Todd—Todd Sanderson, MD—looked different from Natalie’s Todd. His hair is shorter. His face is freshly shaven.”

“So there you go.”

I glanced away.

“What?”

“I’m not sure I buy it.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the man was murdered.”

“So? If anything, that backs my polygamist theory. He crossed the wrong gal and kapow.”

“Come on, you don’t really think that’s the answer.”

Benedict sat back. He started plucking at his lower lip with two fingers. “She left you for another man.”

I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I said, “Uh, yeah, Captain Obvious, I know.”

“That was hard for you.” He sounded sad now, wistful. “I get it. I get it more than you know.” I thought now about the photograph, about the love he lost, about how many of us go around with some kind of heartache and never show it. “You two were in love. So you can’t accept it—how could she dump you for another man?”

I frowned again, but I could feel the twang in my chest. “Are you sure you’re not a psychology professor?”

“You want this so badly—this second chance, this chance at real redemption—that you can’t see the truth.”

“What truth is that, Benedict?”

“She’s gone,” he said, simple as that. “She dumped you. None of this changes that.”

I swallowed, tried to swim through that crystal-clear reality. “I think there is more to it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

Benedict considered that for a moment. “But you won’t stop trying to find out, will you?”

“I will,” I said. “But not today. And probably not tomorrow.”

Benedict shrugged, rose, grabbed another beer. “So let’s have it. What’s our next step?”