Harlan Coben - Just One Look

When his contact called Wu’s cell phone, it was nearly 10 P.M.

“Are you settled in?” the contact asked.

“Yes.”

“We have a situation.”

Wu waited.

“We need to move things up a bit. Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“He needs to be taken now.”

“You have a place?”

Wu listened, memorizing the location.

“Any questions?”

“No,” Wu said.

“Eric?”

Wu waited.

“Thanks, man.”

Wu hung up. He found the car keys and took off in Freddy’s Honda.

Grace couldn’t call the police yet. She couldn’t sleep either. The computer was still on. Their screen saver was a family photo taken last year at Disney World. The four of them posed with Goofy at Epcot Center. Jack was wearing mouse ears. His grin was ear to ear. Hers was more reserved. She’d felt silly, which just encouraged Jack. She touched the mouse-the other mouse, the computer mouse-and her family disappeared.

Grace clicked the new icon and the strange photograph of the five college-aged kids appeared. The image came up with Adobe Photo-shop. For several minutes Grace just stared at the young faces, searching for-she didn’t know-a clue maybe. Nothing came to her. She cropped each face, blowing them up into something approaching four inches by four inches. Any bigger and the already-blurred image became undecipherable. The good paper was in the color inkjet, so she hit the print button. She grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.

Soon she had five separate headshots, one for each person in the picture. She studied them again, this time taking extra care with the young blonde next to Jack. She was pretty with that girl-next-door complexion and long flaxen hair. The young woman’s eyes were on Jack, and the look was more than casual. Grace felt a pang of, what, jealousy? How bizarre. Who was this woman? Obviously an old girlfriend-one Jack had never mentioned. But so what? Grace had a past. So did Jack. Why would the look in that photograph bother her?

So what now?

She would have to wait for Jack. When he came home, she would demand answers.

But answers about what?

Back up here a second. What was really going on? An old photograph, probably of Jack, had popped up in her packet of pictures. It was weird, sure. It was even a little creepy, what with the blonde crossed out like that. And Jack had stayed out late before without calling. So really, what was the big deal here? Something in the photo had probably upset him. He turned off his phone and was probably in a bar. Or at Dan’s house. This whole thing was probably just a bizarre joke.

Yeah, Grace, sure. A joke. Like the one about the carpool to the pool.

Sitting alone, the room dark except for the glow from the computer monitor, Grace tried a few more ways to rationalize away what was going on. She stopped when she realized that this was only scaring her more.

Grace clicked onto the face of the young woman, the one who stared at her husband with longing, zooming in for a better view. She stared at the face, really stared, and a tingle of dread began to travel across her scalp. Grace did not move. She just kept looking at the woman’s face. She didn’t know the wheres or whens or hows, but she now realized something with thudding certainty.

Grace had seen this young woman before.

Rocky Conwell took up post by the Lawson residence.

He tried to get comfortable in his 1989 Toyota Celica, but that was impossible. Rocky was too big for this piece-of-crap car. He pulled harder on that damned seat lever, nearly ripping it out, but the seat would go back no farther. It would have to do. He settled in and let his eyes start to close.

Man, was Rocky tired. He was working two jobs. The first, his steady gig to impress his parole officer, was a ten-hour shift on the Budweiser assembly line in Newark. The second, sitting in this damn car and staring at a house, was strictly off the books.

Rocky jerked up when he heard a noise. He picked up his binoculars. Damn, someone had started up the minivan. He focused in. Jack Lawson was on the move. He lowered the binoculars, shifted into drive, and prepared to follow.

Rocky needed two jobs because he needed cash in a big, bad way. Lorraine, his ex, was making overtures about a possible reconciliation. But she was still skittish about it. Cash, Rocky knew, could tip the balance in his favor. He loved Lorraine. He wanted her back in a big, bad way. He owed her some good times, didn’t he? And if that meant he had to work his butt off, well, he’d been the one to screw up. It was a price he was willing to pay.

It hadn’t always been like this for Rocky Conwell. He’d been an All-State defensive end at Westfield High. Penn State-Joe Paterno himself-had recruited him and transformed him into a hard-hitting inside linebacker. Six-four, two-sixty, and blessed with a naturally aggressive nature, Rocky had been a standout for four years. He’d been All Big-Ten for two years. The St. Louis Rams drafted him in the seventh round.

For a while, it was like God Himself had perfectly planned out his life from the get-go. His real name was Rocky, his parents naming him that when his mother went into labor as they watched the movie Rocky in the summer of 1976. You gonna have a name like Rocky, you better be big and strong. You better be ready to rumble. Here he was, a pro football draft pick itching to get to camp. He and Lorraine-a knockout who could not only stop traffic but make it go backward-hooked up during his junior year. They fell for each other pretty hard. Life was good.

Until, well, it wasn’t.

Rocky was a great college player, but there is a big difference between Division IA and the pros. At the Rams rookie camp, they loved his hustle. They loved his work ethic. They loved the way he would sacrifice his body to make a play. But they didn’t love his speed-and in today’s game, what with the emphasis on passing and coverage, Rocky was simply not good enough. Or so they said. Rocky would not surrender. He started taking more steroids. He got bigger but still not big enough for the front line. He managed to hang around one season playing special teams for the Rams. The next year he was cut.

The dream wouldn’t die. Rocky wouldn’t let it. He pumped iron nonstop. He began ’roiding big time. He had always taken some kind of anabolic supplement. Every athlete does. But desperation had made him less cautious. He didn’t worry about cycling or overdoing it. He just wanted mass. His mood darkened from either the drugs or the disappointment-or more likely, the potent blend of the two.

To make ends meet, Rocky took up work with the Ultimate Fighting Federation. You may remember their octagon grudge matches. For a while, they were all the rage on pay-per-view-real, bloody, no-holds-barred brawls. Rocky was good at it. He was big and strong and a natural fighter. He had great endurance and knew how to wear down an opponent.

Eventually the violence in the ring got to be too much for people’s sensibilities. States began to outlaw ultimate fighting. Some of the guys started battling in Japan where it was still legal-Rocky guessed that they had different sensibilities over there-but he didn’t go. Rocky still believed that the NFL was within his grasp. He just had to work harder. Get a little bigger, a little stronger, a little faster.

Jack Lawson’s minivan pulled onto Route 17. Rocky’s instructions were clear. Follow Lawson. Write down where he went, who he talked to, every detail of his trip, but do not-repeat not-engage him. He was to observe. Nothing more.

Right, easy cash.

Two years ago, Rocky got into a bar fight. It was typical stuff. Some guy stared at Lorraine too long. Rocky had asked him what he was looking at, and the guy responded, “Not much.” You know the drill. Except Rocky was juiced up from the ’roids. He pulverized the guy-put him in traction-and got nailed on an assault beef. He spent three months in jail and was now on probation. That had been the final straw for Lorraine. She called him a loser and moved out.