Harlan Coben - Just One Look

A woman, a popular yappy mom who had never deigned to give Charlaine the time before, now stood before her with a look of feigned concern. The newspaper had not mentioned Mike’s name, just that there was a shooting, but small towns and gossip and all that.

“I heard about Mike. Is he okay?”

“Fine.”

“What happened?”

Another woman sidled up to her right. Two others began to mosey over. Then two more. They came from every direction now, these approaching mothers, getting in her way, almost blocking Charlaine’s view.

Almost.

For a moment Charlaine could not move. She stood frozen, watching as he approached Grace Lawson.

He had changed his appearance. He wore glasses now. His hair wasn’t blond anymore. But there was no doubt. It was the same man.

It was Eric Wu.

From more than a hundred feet away Charlaine felt the shiver when Wu put his hand on Grace Lawson’s shoulder. She saw him bend down and whisper something into her ear.

And then she saw Grace Lawson’s whole body go rigid.

Grace wondered about the Asian man walking toward her.

She figured that he would just walk by her. He was too young to be a parent. Grace knew most of the teachers. He wasn’t one of them. He was probably a new student teacher. That was probably it. She really did not give him much thought. Her mind was concerned with other things.

She had packed enough clothes for a few days anyway. Grace had a cousin who lived near Penn State, smack in the middle of Pennsylvania. Maybe she would drive out there. Grace had not called ahead to see. She did not want to leave any trail.

After throwing clothes in the suitcases, she had closed the door to her bedroom. She took out the small gun Cram had given her and set it on the bed. For a long time she just stared at it. She had always been fervently anti-gun. Like most rational people she was scared of what a weapon like this could do lying around the house. But Cram had put it succinctly yesterday: Hadn’t her children been threatened?

The trump card.

Grace wrapped the nylon ankle holster around her good leg. It felt itchy and uncomfortable. She changed into jeans with a small flare at the bottom. The gun was covered now, but there was some room down there. There was still a small bulge in the area, but no more so than if she were wearing a boot.

She grabbed the Bob Dodd file from his office at the New Hampshire Post and drove to the school. She had a few minutes now, so she stayed in the car and started going through it. Grace had no idea what she expected to find. There were plenty of desk knickknacks – a small American flag, a Ziggy coffee mug, a return address stamper, a small Lucite paperweight. There were pens, pencils, erasers, paperclips, whiteout, thumbtacks, Post-it notes, staples.

Grace wanted to skip past that stuff and dive into the files, but the pickings were slim. Dodd must have done all his work on a computer. She found a few diskettes, all unmarked. Maybe there would be a clue on one of those. She’d check when she got access to a computer.

As for paperwork, all she found was press clippings. Articles written by Bob Dodd. Grace skimmed through them. Cora had been right. His stories were mostly small-time exposés. People would write in with a complaint. Bob Dodd would investigate. Hardly the sort of stuff that gets you killed, but who knows? The little things have a way of rippling.

She was just about to give up – had given up really – when she located the desk photo in the bottom. The frame was facedown. More out of curiosity than anything else she flipped the frame over and took a look. The photograph was a classic vacation shot. Bob Dodd and his wife Jillian stood on a beach, both smiling with dazzling white teeth, both wearing Hawaiian shirts. Jillian had red hair. Her eyes were widely spaced apart. Grace suddenly understood Bob Dodd’s involvement. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a reporter.

His wife, Jillian Dodd, was Sheila Lambert.

Grace closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she carefully put everything back in the package. She stuck it in the backseat and slipped out of the car. She needed time to think and put it together.

The four members of Allaw – it all came back to them. Sheila Lambert, Grace now knew, had stayed in the country. She had changed her identity and gotten married. Jack had taken off for a small village in France. Shane Alworth was either dead or in parts unknown – maybe, as his mother suggested, helping the poor in Mexico. Geri Duncan had been murdered.

Grace checked her watch. The bell would ring in a few minutes. She felt the buzz of her cell phone on her belt. “Hello?”

“Ms. Lawson, this is Captain Perlmutter.”

“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“I’m picking up my children at school right now.”

“Would you like me to come by your house? We can meet there.”

“They’ll be out in two more minutes. I’ll swing by the station.” A sense of relief rushed over her. This half-baked idea of running off to Pennsylvania – that might be too much. Maybe Perlmutter knew something. Maybe, with all she now knew about that picture, he would finally believe her. “Will that be okay?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll be here waiting.”

The very moment Grace snapped the receiver closed, she felt a hand touch down on her shoulder. She turned. The hand belonged to the young Asian man. He bent his head toward her ear.

“I have your husband,” he whispered.

“Charlaine? Are you okay?”

It was the popular yappy mother. Charlaine ignored her.

Okay, Charlaine, think.

What, she wondered, would the dumb heroine do? That was how she’d try to play it in the past – imagine what the waif would do and do the opposite.

C’mon, c’mon…

Charlaine tried to battle through the near-paralyzing fear. She had not expected to see this man ever again. Eric Wu was wanted. He had shot Mike. He had assaulted Freddy and held him captive. The police had his fingerprints. They knew who he was. They would send him back to prison. So what was he doing here?

Who cares, Charlaine? Do something.

The answer was a no-brainer: Call the police.

She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out her Motorola. The mothers were still barking like small dogs. Charlaine flipped the phone open.

It was dead.

Typical, and yet it made sense. She had used it during the chase. She had left it on all this time. The phone was two years old. The damn thing was always going dead. She glanced back across the schoolyard. Eric Wu was talking to Grace Lawson. They both began to walk away.

The same woman asked again: “Is something wrong, Charlaine?”

“I need to use your cell phone,” she said. “Now.”

Grace just stared at the man.

“If you come with me quietly, I will take you to your husband. You will see him. You will be back in an hour. But the school bell rings in one minute. If you do not come with me, I will take out a gun. I will shoot your children. I will shoot random children. Do you understand?”

Grace could not speak.

“You don’t have much time.”

She found her voice. “I’ll go with you.”

“You drive. Just walk calmly with me. Please do not make the mistake of trying to signal someone. I will kill them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You may be wondering about the man assigned to protect you,” he went on. “Let me assure you that he will not interfere.”

“Who are you?” Grace asked.

“The bell is about to ring.” He looked off, a tiny smile on his lips. “Do you want me to be here when your children come out?”