Harlan Coben - Just One Look

Jimmy X quit the business and ran off. Rumor had it he moved to a private island near Fiji. Now, fifteen years later, here he was in New Jersey, playing drums for a Christian rock band.

When they pulled onto her street, Vespa said, “It hasn’t gotten any better, you know.”

Grace looked out the window. “Jimmy X didn’t fire the gun.”

“I know that.”

“So what do you want from him?”

“He’s never said he’s sorry.”

“And that would be enough?”

He thought about that, and then said, “There was a boy who survived. David Reed. You remember him?”

“Yes.”

“He was standing next to Ryan. They were body to body. But when the crush began, this Reed kid somehow got lifted up on someone’s shoulder. He got on the stage.”

“I know.”

“You remember what his parents said?”

She did but she said nothing.

“Jesus lifted up their son. It was God’s will.” Vespa’s voice had not changed, but Grace could feel the hidden rage like a blast furnace. “You see, Mr. and Mrs. Reed prayed and God responded. It was a miracle, they said. God looked out for their son, that’s what they kept repeating. As if God didn’t have the desire or inclination to save mine.”

They fell into silence. Grace wanted to tell him that many good people died that day, many people with good parents who prayed, that God does not discriminate. But Vespa knew all that. It would not comfort.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, night was falling. Grace could see the silhouettes of Cora and the kids in the kitchen window. Vespa said, “I want to help you find your husband.”

“I’m not even sure what you can do.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “You have my number. No matter what you need, call me. No matter what time it is, I don’t care. I’ll be there.”

Cram opened the door. Vespa walked her to the door.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m also going to assign Cram here to watch your house.”

She looked at Cram. Cram sort of smiled back.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Humor me,” he said.

“No, really, I don’t want that. Please.”

Vespa thought about it. “If you change your mind…?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He turned to leave then. She watched him walk back to the car and wondered about the wisdom of making deals with the devil. Cram opened the door. The limo seemed to swallow Vespa whole. Cram nodded at her. Grace did not move. She considered herself pretty good at reading people, but Carl Vespa had changed her view. She never saw or even sensed a hint of evil in him. Yet she knew it was there.

Evil-real evil-was like that.

Cora put on boiling water for the Ronzoni penne. She threw a jar of Prego into a saucepan and then leaned close to Grace’s ear.

“I’m going to check the e-mail to see if we got any replies,” Cora whispered.

Grace nodded. She was helping Emma do her homework and trying like hell to care. Her daughter was dressed in a Jason Kidd Nets basketball jersey. She called herself Bob. She wanted to be a jock. Grace didn’t know how she felt about it, but she guessed it was better than buying Teen Beat magazine and lusting after nonthreatening boy bands.

Mrs. Lamb, Emma’s young-but-quickly-aging teacher, had the kids working on the multiplication tables. They were doing the sixes. Grace tested Emma. At six times seven, Emma paused for a long time.

“You should know it by heart,” Grace said.

“Why? I can figure it out.”

“That’s not the point. You learn it by heart so you can build off that when you start multiplying numbers with multiple digits.”

“Mrs. Lamb didn’t say to memorize them.”

“You should.”

“But Mrs. Lamb-”

“Six times seven.”

And so it went.

Max had to find an item to put in the “Secret Box.” You put something in the box-in this case, a hockey puck-and you made up three clues so that your fellow kindergartners could guess what it was. Clue one: The item is black. Clue two: It’s used in a sport. Clue three: Ice. Fair enough.

Cora came back from the computer shaking her head. Nothing yet. She grabbed a bottle of Lindemans, a decent-yet-cheap Chardonnay from Australia, and popped the cork. Grace put the kids to bed.

“Where’s Daddy?” Max asked.

Emma echoed the sentiment. “I wrote the hockey verse for my poem.”

Grace said something vague about Jack having to work. The kids looked wary.

“I’d love to hear the poem,” Grace said.

Grudgingly Emma produced her journal.

“Hockey stick, hockey stick,

Do you love to score?

When you are used to shoot,

Do you feel like you want more?”

Emma looked up. Grace said, “Wow” and clapped, but she was simply not as good at the enthusiasm game as Jack. She kissed them both good night and headed back downstairs. The wine bottle was open. She and Cora began to drink. She missed Jack. He’d been gone less than twenty-four hours-he’d been gone longer on business trips plenty of times-and yet the house seemed to sag somehow. Something felt lost, irretrievably so. The missing of him had already become a physical ache.

Grace and Cora drank some more. Grace thought about her children. She thought about a life, a whole life, without Jack. We do anything to shield our children from pain. Losing Jack would, no doubt, crush Grace. But that was okay. She could take it. Her pain, however, would be nothing next to what it would do to the two children upstairs who, she knew, lay awake, sensing something was amiss.

Grace looked at the photographs lining the walls.

Cora moved next to her. “He’s a good man.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Too much wine,” Grace said.

“Not enough, you ask me. Where did Mr. Mobster take you?”

“To see a Christian rock band.”

“Quite the first date.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m all ears.”

But Grace shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Jimmy X. An idea came to her. She mulled it over, let it settle.

“What?” Cora said.

“Maybe Jack made more than one call.”

“You mean, besides the call to his sister?”

“Yes.”

Cora nodded. “Have you set up an online account?”

“We have AOL.”

“No, I mean for your phone bill.”

“Not yet.”

“No time like the present then.” Cora stood up. There was a teeter to her step now. The wine was making them both warm. “Who do you use for long distance?”

“Cascade.”

They were back by Jack’s computer. Cora sat at the desk, cracked her knuckles, and went to work. She brought up Cascade’s Web site. Grace gave her the necessary information-address, social security number, credit card. They came up with a password. Cascade sent an e-mail to Jack’s account verifying that he’d just signed up for online billing.

“We’re in,” Cora said.

“I don’t get it.”

“An online billing account. I just set it up. You can now view and pay your phone bill over the Internet.”

Grace looked over Cora’s shoulder. “That’s last month’s bill.”

“Yep.”

“But it won’t have the calls from last night.”

“Hmm. Let me e-mail a request. We can also call Cascade and ask.”

“They’re not open twenty-four-seven. Part of the discount service.” Grace leaned closer to the monitor. “Let me see if he called his sister before last night.”

Her eyes skimmed down the list. Nothing. No unfamiliar numbers either. She no longer felt weird doing this, spying on the husband she loved and trusted, which of course felt weird in and of itself.