Harlan Coben - Just One Look

Scream, Grace thought. Scream like a lunatic and start running. But she could see the bulge of the gun. She could see the man’s eyes. This was no bluff. He meant it. He would kill people.

And he had her husband.

They began to walk to her car, side by side, like two friends. Grace’s eyes darted about the playground. She spotted Cora. Cora gave her a puzzled look. Grace did not want to risk it. She looked away.

Grace kept walking. They reached her car. She had just unlocked the doors when the school bell rang.

The yappy woman rummaged through her purse. “We have a terrible calling plan. Hal is so cheap sometimes. We run out of minutes in the first week and then we need to watch ourselves the rest of the month.”

Charlaine looked at the other faces. She did not want to cause a panic, so she kept her voice even. “Please, does anyone have a phone I can borrow?”

She kept her eyes on Wu and Lawson. They were across the street, by Grace’s car now. She saw Grace use one of those remote controls to unlock the doors. Grace stood by the driver’s door. Wu was by the passenger’s. Grace Lawson made no move to run away. It was hard to see her face, but she didn’t look as if she was being coerced.

The bell sounded.

The mothers all turned toward the doors, a Pavlovian response, and waited for their children to emerge.

“Here, Charlaine.”

One of the mothers, eyes on the school door, handed Charlaine her cell phone. Charlaine tried not to grab it too quickly. She was raising it to her ear when she glanced over at Grace and Wu one more time. She stopped cold.

Wu was staring directly at her.

When Wu saw that woman again, he started for his gun.

He was going to shoot her. Right here. Right now. Right in front of everyone.

Wu was not a superstitious man. He realized that the odds of her being here were reasonable. She had children. She lived in the area. There must have been two or three hundred mothers here. It would make sense that she would be one of them.

But he still wanted to kill her.

On the superstitious side, he would kill this demon.

On the practical side, he would prevent her from calling the police. He would also cause a panic that would allow him to escape. If he shot her, everyone would run toward the fallen woman. It would be the ideal diversion.

But there were problems too.

First, the woman stood at least a hundred feet away. Eric Wu knew his strengths and weaknesses. In hand-to-hand he had no equal. With a gun, he was merely decent. He might only wound or, worse, miss altogether. Yes, there would be a panic, but without a body falling, it might not be the sort of diversion he wanted.

His real target – the reason he was here – was Grace Lawson. He had her now. She was listening to him. She was pliable because she still held out hope that her family could survive this. If she were to see him fire a shot, standing as she was out of his reach, there was a chance that Grace Lawson would panic and bolt.

“Get in,” he said.

Grace Lawson opened her car door. Eric Wu stared at the woman across the schoolyard. When their eyes met, he slowly shook his head and gestured toward his waist. He wanted her to understand. She had crossed him before and he had fired. He would do so again.

He waited until the woman lowered the phone. Still keeping his eyes on her, Wu slid into the car. They pulled out and disappeared down Morningside Drive.

Perlmutter sat across from Scott Duncan. They were in the captain’s office at the station. The air-conditioning was on the fritz. Dozens of cops in full uniform all day and no air-conditioning – the place was starting to reek.

“So you’re on leave from the U.S. attorney’s office,” Perlmutter said.

“That’s correct,” Duncan replied. “I’m working in private practice right now.”

“I see. And your client hired Indira Khariwalla – check that, you hired Ms. Khariwalla on behalf of a client.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”

“And you won’t tell me if your client wanted Jack Lawson followed. Or why.”

“That’s correct.”

Perlmutter spread his hands. “So what exactly do you want, Mr. Duncan?”

“I want to know what you’ve learned about Jack Lawson’s disappearance.”

Perlmutter smiled. “Okay, let me make sure I have this straight. I’m supposed to tell you everything I know about a murder and missing person investigation, even though your client may very well be involved. You, in turn, are supposed to tell me squat. That about cover it?”

“No, that’s not correct.”

“Well, help me here.”

“This has nothing to do with a client.” Duncan crossed his ankle over his knee. “I have a personal involvement in the Lawson case.”

“Come again?”

“Ms. Lawson showed you the photograph.”

“Right, I remember.”

“The girl with her face crossed out,” he said, “was my sister.”

Perlmutter leaned back and whistled low. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d say I have all day, but that would be a lie.”

As if proving the point, the door flew open. Daley jammed his head in.

“Line two.”

“What is it?”

“Charlaine Swain. She says she just saw Eric Wu at the schoolyard.”

Carl Vespa stared at the painting.

Grace was the artist. He owned eight of her paintings, though this was the one that moved him most. It was, he suspected, a portrait of Ryan’s last moments. Grace’s memory of that night was hazy. She hated to sound pompous about it, but this vision-this seemingly ordinary painting of a young man somehow on the verge of a nightmare-had come to her in something of an artistic trance. Grace Lawson claimed that she dreamed about that night. That, she said, was the only place that the memories existed.

Vespa wondered.

His home was in Englewood, New Jersey. The block had at one time been old money. Now Eddie Murphy lived at the end of the street. A power forward for the New Jersey Nets was two houses down. Vespa’s property, once owned by a Vanderbilt, was sprawling and secluded. In 1988 Sharon, his then-wife, had torn down the turn-of-the-century stone edifice and built what was then considered modern. It had not aged well. The house looked like a bunch of glass cubes, stacked haphazardly. There were too many windows. The house got ridiculously hot in the summer. It looked and felt like a damn greenhouse.

Sharon was gone now too. She had not wanted the house in the divorce. She really did not want very much at all. Vespa did not try to stop her. Ryan had been their main connection, in his death more than life. That was never a healthy thing.

Vespa checked the security monitor for the driveway. The sedan was pulling up.

He and Sharon had wanted more children, but it was not to be. Vespa’s sperm count was too low. He told no one, of course, subtly implying that the fault lay with Sharon. Awful to say now, but Vespa believed that if they had more children, if Ryan had at least one sibling, it would have made the tragedy, if not easier, at least bearable. The problem with tragedy is that you have to go on. There is no choice. You cannot just pull off the road and wait it out-much as you might want to. If you have other children you understand that right away. Your life may be over, but you get out of bed for others.

Put simply, there was no reason for him to get out of bed anymore.

Vespa headed outside and watched the sedan come to a stop. Cram got out first, a cell phone glued to his ear. Wade Larue followed. Larue did not look frightened. He looked oddly at peace, gazing at the lush surroundings. Cram mumbled something to Larue-Vespa couldn’t hear what he said-and then started up the stairs. Wade Larue wandered away as if he was on retreat.