Harlan Coben - Just One Look

Grace cupped her hand over her eyes as they started moving away. “I can’t leave them alone.”

“Mrs. Alworth lives right here,” Duncan said. “We can stay in the doorway and watch them.”

They approached the door on the first level. The playground was quiet. The air was still. Grace inhaled deeply and smelled the freshly cut grass. They stood side-by-side, she and Duncan. He rang the bell. Grace waited by the door, feeling oddly like a Jehovah’s Witness.

A cackling voice not unlike the witch in an old Disney film said, “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth?”

Again the cackle: “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth, it’s Scott Duncan.”

“Who?”

“Scott Duncan. We spoke a few weeks ago. About your son, Shane.”

“Go away. I have nothing to say to you.”

Grace picked up an accent now. Boston area.

“We could really use your help.”

“I don’t know nothing. Go away.”

“Please, Mrs. Alworth, I need to talk to you about your son.”

“I told you. Shane lives in Mexico. He’s a good boy. He helps poor people.”

“We need to ask about some of his old friends.” Scott Duncan looked at Grace, nodded for her to say something.

“Mrs. Alworth,” Grace said.

The cackle was more wary now. “Who’s that?”

“My name is Grace Lawson. I think my husband knew your son.”

There was silence now. Grace turned away from the door and watched Max and Emma. Max was on a corkscrew slide. Emma sat cross-legged and played the Game Boy.

Through the door, the cackling voice asked, “Who’s your husband?”

“Jack Lawson.”

Nothing.

“Mrs. Alworth?”

“I don’t know him.”

Scott Duncan said, “We have a picture. We’d like to show it to you.”

The door opened. Mrs. Alworth wore a housedress that couldn’t have been manufactured after the Bay of Pigs. She was in her mid-seventies, heavyset, the kind of big aunt who hugs you and you disappear in the folds. As a kid you hate the hug. As an adult you long for it. She had varicose veins that resembled sausage casing. Her reading glasses dangled against her enormous chest from a chain. She smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

“I don’t have all day,” she said. “Show me this picture.”

Scott Duncan handed her the photograph.

For a long time the old woman said nothing.

“Mrs. Alworth?”

“Why did someone cross her out?” she asked.

“That was my sister,” Duncan said.

She flicked a glance his way. “I thought you said you were an investigator.”

“I am. My sister was murdered. Her name was Geri Duncan.”

Mrs. Alworth’s face went white. Her lip started to tremble. “She’s dead?”

“She was murdered. Fifteen years ago. Do you remember her?”

She seemed to have lost her bearings. She turned to Grace and snapped, “What do you keep looking at?”

Grace was facing Max and Emma. “My children.” She gestured toward the playground. Mrs. Alworth followed suit. She stiffened. She seemed lost now, confused.

“Did you know my sister?” Duncan asked.

“What does this have to do with me?”

His voice was stern now. “Yes or no, did you know my sister?”

“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Your son dated her.”

“He dated a lot of girls. Shane was a handsome boy. So was his brother, Paul. He’s a psychologist in Missouri. Why don’t you leave me alone and talk to him?”

“Try to think.” Scott’s voice rose a notch. “My sister was murdered.” He pointed to the picture of Shane Alworth. “That’s your son, isn’t it, Mrs. Alworth?”

She stared down at the strange photograph for a long time before nodding.

“Where is he?”

“I told you before. Shane lives in Mexico. He helps poor people.”

“When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“Last week.”

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean where?”

“Did Shane call you here?”

“Of course. Where else would he call?”

Scott Duncan took a step closer. “I checked your phone records, Mrs. Alworth. You haven’t gotten or made an international call in the past year.”

“Shane uses one of those phone cards,” she said too quickly. “Maybe the phone companies don’t pick those up, how I should know?”

Duncan took another step closer. “Listen to me, Mrs. Alworth. And please listen closely. My sister is dead. There is no sign of your son anywhere. This man here” – he pointed to the picture of Jack – “her husband, Jack Lawson, he’s also missing. And this woman over here” – he pointed to the redheaded girl with the spaced-out eyes – “her name is Sheila Lambert. There’s been no sign of her for at least ten years.”

“This has got nothing to do with me,” Mrs. Alworth insisted.

“Five people in the photograph. We’ve been able to identify four of them. They’re all gone. One we know is dead. For all we know, they all are.”

“I told you. Shane is -”

“You’re lying, Mrs. Alworth. Your son graduated Vermont University. So did Jack Lawson and Sheila Lambert. They must have been friends. He dated my sister; we both know that. So what happened to them? Where is your son?”

Grace put a hand on Scott’s arm. Mrs. Alworth was staring out now toward the playground, at the children. Her bottom lip was quivering. Her skin was ashen. Tears ran down both cheeks. She looked as if she’d fallen into a trance. Grace tried to step in her line of vision.

“Mrs. Alworth,” she said gently.

“I’m an old woman.”

Grace waited.

“I don’t have nothing to say to you people.”

Grace said, “I’m trying to find my husband.” Mrs. Alworth was still staring at the playground. “I’m trying to find their father.”

“Shane is a good boy. He helps people.”

“What happened to him?” Grace asked.

“Leave me alone.”

Grace tried to meet the older woman’s gaze, but the focus was gone from her eyes. “His sister” – Grace gestured toward Duncan – “my husband, your son. Whatever happened affected us all. We want to help.”

But the old woman shook her head and turned away. “My son doesn’t need your help. Now go away. Please.” She stepped back into her house and closed the door.

When they were back in the car, Grace said, “When you told Mrs. Alworth you checked her phone records for international calls…”

Duncan nodded. “It was a bluff.”

The children were plugged back into their Game Boys. Scott Duncan called the coroner. She was waiting for them.

Grace said, “We’re getting closer to the answer, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“Mrs. Alworth might be telling the truth. I mean, as far as she knows.”

“How do you figure?” he asked.

“Something happened years ago. Jack ran away overseas. Maybe Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert did too. Your sister, for whatever reason, hung around and ended up dead.”

He did not reply. His eyes were suddenly moist. There was a tremor in the corner of his mouth.

“Scott?”

“She called me. Geri. Two days before the fire.”

Grace waited.

“I was running out the door. You have to understand. Geri was a bit of a kook. She was always so melodramatic. She said she had to tell me something important, but I figured it could wait. I figured it was about whatever new thing she was into – aromatherapy, her new rock band, her etchings, whatever. I said I’d call her back.”

He stopped, shrugged. “But I forgot.”

Grace wanted to say something, but nothing came to her. Words of comfort would probably do more harm than good right now. She took hold of the wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror. Emma and Max both had their heads lowered, their thumbs working the buttons on the tiny console. She felt that overwhelmed thing coming on, that pure blast in the middle of normalcy, the bliss from the everyday.