Harlan Coben - Just One Look

Dress it up in a religious cloak, but there was no mistake.

This felt like a rock concert.

Vespa took her hand. “It’ll be okay.”

But it wouldn’t be. She knew that. She had not been to a concert or sporting event in any “arena venue” in fifteen years. She used to love going to concerts. She remembered seeing Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at Asbury Park Convention Center during her high school days. What was strange to her, what she had realized even back then, was that the line between rock concert and intense religious service was not all that thick. There was a moment when Bruce played “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland”-two of Grace’s favorites-when she was on her feet, her eyes closed, sheen of sweat on her face, when she was simply gone, lost, shaking with bliss, the same bliss she’d witness on TV when a televangelist got the crowd on its feet, hands raised and shaking.

She loved that feeling. And she knew that she never wanted to experience it again.

Grace pulled her hand away from Carl Vespa’s. He nodded as if he understood. “Come on,” he said gently. Grace limped behind him. The limp, it seemed to her, was getting more pronounced. Her leg throbbed. Psychological. She knew that. Tight spaces did not terrify her; huge auditoriums, especially jammed with people, did. The place was fairly empty now, thank He Who Lives Here, but her imagination entered the fray and provided the absent commotion.

Shrill feedback from the amplifier made her pull up. Someone was doing a sound test.

“What’s this all about?” she asked Vespa.

His face was set. He veered to the left. Grace followed. There was a scoreboard-type sign above the stage announcing that Rapture was in the middle of a three-week gig and that they, Rapture, were: “What God Has on His MP3.”

The band came onstage now for sound check. They gathered at center stage, had a brief discussion, and then started playing. Grace was surprised. They sounded pretty good. The lyrics were syrupy, full of stuff about skies and spread wings and ascensions and being lifted up. Eminem told a potential girlfriend to “sit your drunk ass on that f***ing runway, ho.” These lyrics, in their own way, were equally jarring.

The lead singer was female. She had platinum blond hair, cut with bangs, and sang with her eyes cast toward the heavens. She looked about fourteen years old. A guitarist stood to her right. He was more heavy-metal rock, what with the medusa-black locks and a tattoo of a giant cross on his right bicep. He played hard, slashing at the strings as if they had pissed him off.

When there was a lull, Carl Vespa said, “The song was written by Doug Bondy and Madison Seelinger.”

She shrugged.

“Doug Bondy wrote the music. Madison Seelinger-that’s the singer up there-wrote the lyrics.”

“And I care because?”

“Doug Bondy is playing the drums.”

They moved to the side of the stage for a better look. The music started again. They stood by a speaker. Grace’s ears took the pounding, but under normal conditions, she would actually have been enjoying the sound. Doug Bondy, the drummer, was pretty much hidden by the array of cymbals and snares surrounding him. She moved a little more to the side. She could see him better now. He was banging the skins, as they say, his eyes closed, his face at peace. He looked older than the other members of the band. He had a crewcut. His face was clean-shaven. He wore those black Elvis Costello glasses.

Grace felt that flutter in her chest expand. “I want to go home,” she said.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I want to go home.”

The drummer was still smacking the skins, lost in the music, when he turned and saw her. Their eyes met. And she knew. So did he.

It was Jimmy X.

She didn’t wait. She started limping toward the exit. The music chased her down.

“Grace?”

It was Vespa. She ignored him. She pushed through the emergency exit door. The air felt cool in her lungs. She sucked it down, tried to let the dizziness fade. Cram was outside now, as if he knew that she’d take this exit. He smiled at her.

Carl Vespa came up behind her. “It’s him, right?”

“And what if it is?”

“What if…” Vespa repeated, surprised. “He’s not innocent here. He’s as much to blame-”

“I want to go home.”

Vespa stopped short as if she’d slapped him.

Calling him had been a mistake. She knew that now. She had lived. She had recovered. Sure, there was the limp. There was some pain. There was the occasional nightmare. But she was okay. She had gotten over it. They, the parents, never would. She saw it that first day-the shatter in their eyes-and while progress had been made, lives had been lived, pieces had been picked up, the shatter had never left. She looked now at Carl Vespa-at the eyes-and saw it all over again.

“Please,” she said to him. “I just want to go home.”

Wu spotted the empty hide-a-key.

The rock was on the path by the back door, turned over like a dying crab. The cover had been slid open. Wu could see the key was gone. He remembered the first time he had approached a house that had been violated. He was six years old. The hut-it was one room, no plumbing-had been his own. The Kim government had not bothered with the niceties of keys. They had knocked the door down and dragged his mother away. Wu found her two days later. They had hung her from a tree. No one was allowed to cut her down, under penalty of death. A day later the birds found her.

His mother had been wrongly accused of being a traitor to the Great Leader, but guilt or innocence was irrelevant. An example was made of her anyway. This is what happens to those who defy us. Check that: This is what happens to anyone we think may be defying us.

No one took in the six-year-old Eric. No orphanage picked him up. He did not become a ward of the state. Eric Wu ran away. He slept in the woods. He ate out of garbage cans. He survived. At thirteen, he was arrested for stealing and thrown in jail. The chief guard, a man more crooked than anyone he housed, saw Wu’s potential. And so it began.

Wu stared down at the empty hide-a-key.

Someone was in the house.

He glanced at the house next door. His best guess would be that it was the woman who lived there. She liked to watch out the window. She would know where Freddy Sykes hid a key.

He considered his options. There were two.

One, he could simply leave.

Jack Lawson was in the trunk. Wu had a vehicle. He could take off, steal another car, begin his journey, set up residence elsewhere.

Problem: Wu’s fingerprints were inside the house, along with the severely wounded, perhaps dead, Freddy Sykes. The lingerie-clad woman, if it was the woman, would be able to identify him too. Wu was fresh out of prison and on parole. The DA had suspected him of terrible crimes, but they could not prove them. So they cut a deal in exchange for his testimony. Wu had spent time in a maximum security penitentiary in Walden, New York. Next to what he had experienced in his homeland, the prison might as well have been a Four Seasons.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to go back.

No, option one was no good. So that left option two.

Wu silently opened the door and slid inside.

Back in the limousine, Grace and Carl Vespa fell into silence.

Grace kept flashing back to the last time she’d seen Jimmy X’s face-fifteen years ago in her hospital. He’d been forced to visit, a photo op arranged by his promoter, but he couldn’t even look at her, never mind speak. He just stood by her bed, flowers clutched in his hand, his head down like a little boy’s waiting for the teacher to scold him. She never said a word. Eventually he handed her the flowers and walked out.