Joseph Finder - Vanished

It was never anyone’s first rodeo, was it? “I’m only talking about the investigative tools we have at our disposal.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“We’ve got asset locator services and corporate databases and law-enforcement databases that you probably think only the National Security Agency has. We’ve got access to international records that the CIA and the NSA wish they had. Don’t tell me you’d turn away a lead if I handed you one.”

“Actually, yes. I would turn it away. I can’t use anything you find, Mr. Heller. It wouldn’t be admissible in court. I can’t establish the chain of custody.”

“Forget about trial. If I can piece together what happened to Roger, you’re not going to ignore what I come up with.”

“I know you want to find your brother,” Garvin said. “I get that. But if you start meddling in my case, you’re going to screw it up. You start talking to a potential target before we have our ducks in a row, you’ll tip our hand before we’re ready. The target’s going to start destroying evidence and building alibis in advance. I can’t have that.”

“It ain’t my first rodeo either.”

“Yeah, well.”

“You’re the pro here, not me,” I said. “I’m not here to bust your butt, and I sure as hell don’t want credit. If an envelope happens to turn up in your mailbox with some interesting information in it, don’t throw it away. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I didn’t ask you do to anything,” Garvin said.

“Absolutely not.”

“And certainly nothing illegal.”

“Never,” I said.

Garvin looked at me for a second or two, then nodded. “Good. Just so long as we’re clear on this. I don’t want you doing a damned thing.”

“Hell no,” I said, and smiled. I handed him a business card. “Here’s my cell number. Let me know if you find anything interesting, okay?”

MY CAR-or maybe I should say truck-was an old, rebuilt Land Rover Defender 90. It was rugged and utilitarian and indestructible and totally reliable. Not at all luxurious. Not a living room on wheels like the Range Rover. It was a tall steel box with hand-cranked windows and a Spartan interior, and it could tow cars and drive through rivers. A true off-road vehicle, even though my off-road driving, since I started working for Stoddard, was mostly limited to gravel driveways in Nantucket.

The Defender was a gift from a grateful Jordanian arms dealer after I made the mistake of admiring it while advising him on protection at his Belgravia estate. He had it reconditioned, repainted the same glossy Coniston green, and shipped over. It was a 1997, but it looked brand new.

I climbed in just as my cell phone started ringing.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Nick.” It was Lauren, and she was whispering. “Can you come over?”

“What is it?”

“I just got an e-mail,” she said. “From Roger.”

Lauren was sitting in front of a computer screen in the small nook off their living room that served as her home office. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and she was barefoot. She looked up as I entered. She’d been crying, I could see. Her eyes were bloodshot.

She tilted the screen so I could see it. I read a few lines, then stopped.

The e-mail was from Roger.Heller@InCaseOfDeath.net.

“ ‘IN CASE of death’?” I said. “What the hell’s that?”

She looked at me for a long time. “I just looked it up. It’s an e-mail service that sends out e-mails to your loved ones,” she said. “After you die.”

We were both silent for a few seconds.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said.

Lauren spoke haltingly. “It’s sort of morbid, really. But I guess it’s a useful service. You know, if there are things you want to tell your family after your death…” And she bit her lip.

“Okay,” I said. I put a hand on her shoulder.

She swallowed, wiped away her tears with the backs of her hands. “You sign up for these automatic e-mail notifications. For up to five people. The e-mails go out after you’ve died.”

I said gently, “And how do they know you’re dead?”

“I’m not sure, Nick… It looks like they automatically e-mail you as often as you request-weekly, monthly, whatever-and you have up to a week to hit REPLY, and if you don’t…”

But I’d stopped listening. I’d moved closer to the screen and started reading Roger’s letter.

My sweet Lauren,

This has to be the strangest letter I’ve ever written. Because if you get it, that means I’m dead.

I looked up and saw that Lauren was standing.

“I need to make sure Gabe’s doing his homework,” she said.

I nodded, kept reading.

How it’ll happen, I have no idea.

But first things first. I want you to know how deeply I love you. I’m not an easy man to be married to, so you might not always have realized it-and for that, all I can do is ask your forgiveness. I’ve never been good about expressing affection, but I hope at least you know I tried my best.

Who knows what they’ll do? Will they try to make it look like I committed suicide? You’ve known me for 9 years-you know I enjoy my life far too much to be suicidal. Or maybe they’ll set it up so it looks like I drove drunk-even though you know how rarely I drink, and that I never ever drink and drive.

Or maybe they won’t even leave a body-no evidence. I have no idea what they might try. But if you get this, that means they finally succeeded.

I can only hope that you actually receive this e-mail. I’m not sure you will. The people who are trying to stop me have the ability to intercept e-mail. Given what I know them to be capable of, that’s the least of it. So one copy is going to your work e-mail address, and one copy to your personal one, and I hope you get at least one of them. I’m certain they can, and will, read this e-mail.

Whether or not I can save myself, I’ve taken precautions to protect you and Gabe-to give you the means to hold them off. You’ll know what I mean.

But whatever you do, you must never trust anyone.

I thought long and hard about e-mailing Gabe separately, but in the end I decided to leave it to you. You’ll know how to handle it. Tell him whatever you think best. Just make sure to tell him I love him immensely. That if there’s an afterlife, I’ll be cheering him on, and I know he’ll grow up to be a terrific man.

And for all the ways I messed up your life-for all the wreckage I’m leaving behind-please forgive me.

I love you so much.

Roger.

P.S.: Please say good-bye to the librarian.

When I finished reading, I sat there for a minute and stared at the screen in a kind of fugue state.

Then I heard Lauren’s voice, and I turned around. “He wants you,” she said.

It took me a few seconds to realize she meant Gabe.

Gabe’s room stank of sweat and old laundry. I’d been in monkey houses at zoos that smelled nicer. Dirty clothes were heaped everywhere: on the floor, on his desk, on top of the CD player with the big speakers. Lauren had long ago given up cleaning up after him, and their housekeeper, who came three times a week, refused to enter his room. I could barely make my way to his bed. The only clear spot seemed to be on his desk in front of his computer.

The walls were painted bright orange, his choice, and an odd assortment of posters hung on the wall. A poster for the movie The Dark Knight with Heath Ledger wearing creepy eyeliner and lipstick; the only word was “Ha,” dripping blood. A movie poster for Watchmen : a guy getting thrown out of a tall building, shards of glass in his wake, a yellow smiley button floating in midair with a splotch of red blood on it. And the words JUSTICE IS COMING TO ALL OF US. NO MATTER WHAT WE DO. His desk was piled high with comic books and a big softcover of the comic-book artist Will Eisner.