Harlan Coben - Caught

"Hi, Wendy, this is Bill Giuliano from ABC News. We would like to talk to you about accusations of inappropriate behavior on your part…" BEEP.

"We're writing a story about your affair with your boss and we'd love to hear your side of the story…" BEEP.

"One of the alleged pedophiles you exposed on your show is using the recent reports on your sexually aggressive behavior to ask for a new trial. He now claims you were a scorned lover and set him up…" BEEP.

She hit the cancel button and stared at her phone. Damn. She wanted to rise above it, dismiss the whole thing.

But oh man. She was so screwed.

Maybe she should have listened to Phil and stayed out of it. Now there was no way-no matter what she did-that she'd escape these allegations unscathed. No friggin' way. She could catch the asswipe who posted all this crap, have him (or her) admit during live coverage of the Super Bowl that it was all a pack of lies, and it still wouldn't scrub her clean. Unfair or not, the stink would linger, probably forever.

So no use crying over spilled milk, right?

Another thought hit her: Couldn't the same be said about the men she nailed on her show?

Even if these guys were ultimately proven innocent, would the stink of being a televised predator ever wash off them? Maybe this was all some kind of cosmic payback. Maybe this was karma being a total bitch.

No time to worry about it now. Or maybe it was all one and the same. Somehow it all seemed connected-what she'd done, what happened to the men she exposed, what happened to these guys at Princeton. Solve one and the rest would fall into place.

Like it or not, her life was enmeshed in this mess. She couldn't walk away.

Phil Turnball had been expelled for participating in a scavenger hunt.

That meant, at best, he lied to her when she told him about Kelvin ranting about the hunt. At worst… well, she wasn't sure yet what the worst was. She dialed Phil's mobile. No answer. She dialed the house. No answer. She called Phil's cell again, this time leaving a message:

"I know about the scavenger hunt. Call me."

Five minutes later, she pounded on the dean's door. No answer. She pounded some more. Still no answer. Oh no. No way. She circled the house, peering in windows. The lights were out. She pressed her face to the window, trying to get a better look. If campus police came by, she'd try not to quake in fear.

Movement.

"Hey!"

No reply. She looked again. Nothing. She knocked on the window. No one came to it. She went back to the front door, started pounding again. From behind her a man said, "May I help you?"

She turned toward the voice. When she saw who had spoken, the first word that came to mind was "fop." The man's wavy hair was a tad too long. He wore a tweed jacket with patched sleeves and a bow tie-a look that could only thrive or even exist in the rarified air of upscale educational institutions.

"I'm looking for the dean," Wendy said.

"I'm Dean Lewis," he said. "What can I do for you?"

No time for games or subtlety, she thought. "Do you know Dan Mercer?"

He hesitated as though thinking about it. "The name rings a bell," the dean said. "But…" He spread his hands and shrugged. "Should I?"

"I would think so," Wendy said. "For the past twenty years, he's visited your house every other Saturday."

"Ah." He smiled. "I've only lived here for four years. My predecessor Dean Pashaian was here before then. But I think I know who you mean."

"Why did he visit you?"

"He didn't. I mean, yes, he came to this house. But it wasn't to see me. Or Dean Pashaian for that matter."

"Why then?"

He stepped past her and unlocked the door with the key. He pushed the door open. It actually creaked. He leaned his head in. "Christa?"

The house was dark. He waved for her to follow him inside. She did so. She stood in the foyer.

A woman's voice called out, "Dean?"

Footsteps started toward them. Wendy turned toward the dean. He gave her a look that offered up something akin to a warning.

What the…?

"I'm in the foyer," he said.

More footsteps. Then the female voice-Christa's?-again: "Your four o'clock canceled. You also need-"

Christa entered from their left via the dining room. She stopped. "Oh, I didn't know you had company."

"She's not here to see me," Dean Lewis said.

"Oh?"

"I think she's here to see you."

The woman turned her head to the side, almost like a dog does when trying to contemplate a new sound. "Are you Wendy Tynes?" she asked.

"Yes."

Christa nodded as though she'd been expecting Wendy for a very long time. She took another step forward. Now there was some light on her face. Not much. But enough. When Wendy saw her face, she nearly gasped out loud-not because of the sight, though that would have been enough under normal circumstances. No, Wendy nearly gasped because another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.

Christa wore sunglasses, even though she was inside. But that wasn't the first thing you noticed.

The first thing you noticed about Christa-the one thing you couldn't help but notice, really-were the thick, red scars that crisscrossed her face.

SCAR FACE.

She introduced herself as Christa Stockwell.

She looked about forty, but it was hard to get an age on her. She was slender, maybe five-eight, with delicate hands and a strong bearing. They sat at the kitchen table.

"Do you mind if I keep the lights low?" Christa asked.

"Not at all."

"It's not why you think. I know people will stare. It's natural actually. I don't mind it. It's better than those people who try too hard to pretend they don't see the scars. My face becomes the elephant in the room, you know what I mean?"

"I guess so."

"Since the incident, my eyes are sensitive to light. It's more comfortable for me in the dark. How apropos, right? The philosophy and psych majors at this school would have a field day with that one." She stood. "I'm going to have some tea. Would you like some?"

"Sure. Can I help?"

"No, I'm fine. Peppermint or English Breakfast?"

"Peppermint."

Christa smiled. "Good choice."

She flicked on the electric kettle, got out two mugs, put the tea bags in them. Wendy noticed that she kept tilting her head to the right as she went about the task. When she sat back down, Christa just stood still for a moment as if giving Wendy the chance to examine the damage. Her face was, quite simply, horrific. The scars blanketed her from forehead to neck. Ugly, angry lines, purple and red, tore across her skin, raised up as though on a relief map. In the few spots with no lines there were instead splotches of deep red, badly abraded, as if someone had taken steel wool to the skin.

"I'm contractually obligated to never discuss what happened," Christa Stockwell said.

"Dan Mercer is dead."

"I know. But that doesn't change the contract."

"Whatever you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence."

"You're a reporter, aren't you?"

"Yes. But you have my word."

She shook her head. "I can't see why it matters now."

"Dan is dead. Phil Turnball has been fired from his job, accused of stealing. Kelvin Tilfer is in an asylum. Farley Parks has had recent troubles too."

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for them?"

"What did they do to you?"

"Isn't the evidence clear enough? Or should I turn up the lights a little?"

Wendy leaned across the table. She put her hand on the other woman's. "Please tell me what happened."

"I can't see what good it will do."

The kitchen clock above the sink ticked. Wendy could look out the window and see the undergrads walking to class, all animated, young, with the cliched rest of their lives waiting around the corner. Next year, Charlie would be one of them. You could tell these kids that it will go faster than they think, that they will blink and college will be gone and then ten years and another ten, but they won't listen, can't listen, and maybe that's a good thing.