Harlan Coben - Just One Look

Cora hit return. There was one search hit. The site was for an art prize offered at Brandeis University, her alma mater. Cora clicked the link. Grace’s name and number came up. “You were judging some painting award?”

Grace nodded. “They were giving out an art scholarship.”

“Yep, there you are. Your name, address, and phone number with other judges. You must have given it to them.”

Grace shook her head.

“Throw away your eight-tracks and welcome to the Information Age,” Cora said. “And now that I know your name, I can do a million different searches. Your gallery Web page will come up. Where you went to college. Whatever. Now let’s try with this six-oh-three number…”

Cora’s fingers flew again. She hit return. “Hold on. We got something.” She squinted at the screen. “Bob Dodd.”

“Bob?”

“Yes. Not Robert. Bob.” Cora looked back at Grace. “Is the name familiar?”

“No.”

“The address is a PO box in Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire. You ever been?”

“No.”

“How about Jack?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, he went to college in Vermont, so he might have visited New Hampshire, but we’ve never been there together.”

There was a sound from upstairs. Max cried out in his sleep.

“Go,” Cora said. “I’ll see what I can dig up on our friend Mr. Dodd.”

As Grace headed up toward her son’s bedroom, another pang struck deep in her chest: Jack was the house’s night sentinel. He handled nightmares and nocturnal requests for water. He was the one who held the kid’s foreheads at 3 A.M. when they woke up to, er, throw up. During the day, Grace took care of the sniffles, the taking of the temperatures, the heating of chicken soup, the forcing down of Robitussin. The night shift was Jack’s.

Max was sobbing when she reached his room. His cries were soft now, more a whimper, and somehow that was more pitiful than the loudest of screams. Grace wrapped her arms around him. His little body was shaking. She rocked back and forth and gently shushed him. She whispered that Mommy was here, that everything was okay, that he was safe.

It took Max a while to settle. Grace brought him to the bathroom. Even though Max was barely six, he peed like a man-that is to say, he missed the bowl entirely. He swayed, falling back asleep as he stood. When he finished, she helped him pull up his Finding Nemo pajamas. She tucked him back in and asked if he wanted to tell her about his dream. He shook his head and fell back asleep.

Grace watched his little chest rise and fall. He looked very much like his father.

After a while she headed back downstairs. There was no sound. Cora was no longer clacking the keyboard. Grace entered the office. The chair was empty. Cora stood in the corner. She gripped the wineglass.

“Cora?”

“I know why Bob Dodd’s phone was disconnected.”

There was a tightness in Cora’s voice, one Grace had never heard. She waited for her friend to continue, but she seemed to be shrinking into the corner.

“What happened?” Grace asked.

Cora downed a quick sip. “According to an article in the New Hampshire Post , Bob Dodd is dead. He was murdered two weeks ago.”

Eric Wu stepped inside the Sykes house.

The house was dark. Wu had left all the lights out. The intruder-whoever had taken the key out of the rock-had not turned them on. Wu wondered about that.

He had assumed the intruder was the nosey woman in the lingerie. Would she be smart enough to know not to turn the lights on?

He stopped. More than that: If you have the forethought not to turn on the lights, wouldn’t you have the foresight not to leave the hide-a-key in plain sight?

Something did not add up.

Wu lowered himself and moved behind the recliner. He stopped and listened. Nothing. If someone was in the house, he would hear them move. He waited some more.

Still nothing.

Wu mulled it over. Could the intruder have come and gone?

He doubted it. A person who would take the risk of entering with a hidden key would look around. They would probably find Freddy Sykes in the upstairs bathroom. They would call for help. Or if they left, if they found nothing amiss, they would have put the key back in the rock. None of that had happened.

What then was the most logical conclusion?

The intruder was still in the house. Not moving. Hiding.

Wu treaded gently. There were three exits. He made sure all the doors were locked. Two doors had bolt locks. He carefully slid them into place. He took the dining room chairs and placed them in front of all three exits. He wanted something, anything, to block or at least slow down an easy escape.

Trap his adversary.

The stairway was carpeted. That made it easier to pad up in silence. Wu wanted to check the bathroom, to see if Freddy Sykes was still in the tub. He thought again about the hide-a-key in plain sight. Nothing about this setup made sense. The more he thought about it, the slower his step.

Wu tried to think it through. Start from the beginning: A person who knows where Sykes keeps a hide-a-key opens the door. He or she comes inside. Now what? If he finds Sykes, panic would ensue. He would call the police. If he doesn’t find Sykes, well, he leaves. He puts the key back in the rock and puts the rock away.

But neither one of those things had happened.

So again, what could Wu conclude?

The only other possibility that came to mind-unless he was missing something-was that the intruder had indeed found Sykes, just as Wu entered the house. There had been no time to call for help. There had only been time to hide.

But that scenario had problems too. Wouldn’t the intruder have turned on a light? Perhaps she had. Perhaps she had turned on the light, but then she saw Wu approach. She might have turned off the lights and hidden where she was.

In the bathroom with Sykes.

Wu was in the master bedroom now. He could see the crack under the bathroom door. The light was still off. Do not underestimate your foe, he reminded himself. He had made mistakes recently. Too many of them. First, Rocky Conwell. Wu had been sloppy enough to allow him to follow. That had been mistake one. Second, Wu had been spotted by the woman next door. Sloppy.

And now this.

It was tough to look at yourself critically, but Wu tried to step away and do just that. He was not infallible. Only fools believe that. Perhaps his time in prison had rusted him somehow. Didn’t matter. Wu needed to focus now. He needed to concentrate.

There were more photographs in Sykes’s bedroom. This had been Freddy’s mother’s room for fifty years. Wu knew that from his online encounters. Sykes’s father had died during the Korean War. Sykes had been an infant. The mother had never gotten over it. People react differently to the death of a loved one. Mrs. Sykes had decided to dwell with her ghost instead of the living. She spent the rest of her life in this same bedroom-in the same bed even-that she’d shared with her soldier husband. She slept on her side, Freddy said. She never let anyone, not even when young Freddy had a nightmare, touch the side of the bed where her beloved had once lain.

Wu’s hand was on the doorknob now.

The bathroom, he knew, was small. He tried to picture an angle someone might use to attack. There really was none. Wu had a gun in his duffel bag. He wondered if he should take it out. If the intruder was armed, then it could be a problem.

Overconfident? Maybe. But Wu didn’t think he’d need a weapon.

He turned the knob and pushed hard.

Freddy Sykes was still in the tub. The gag was in his mouth. His eyes were closed. Wu wondered if Freddy was dead. Probably. No one else was here. There was no place to hide. Nobody had come to Freddy’s rescue.