Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

McGuane pulled out an old photograph from his top drawer. He had learned early that you never underestimate a person or a situation. He also realized that by making opponents underestimate him, he could finagle the advantage. He looked now at the picture of the three seventeen-year-old boys Ken Klein, John "the Ghost" Asselta, and McGuane. They'd grown up in the suburb of Livingston, New Jersey, though McGuane had lived on the opposite side of town from Ken and the Ghost. They hooked up in high school, drawn to each other, noticing or perhaps this was giving them all too much credit a kinship in the eyes.

Ken Klein had been the fiery tennis player, John Asselta the psycho wrestler, McGuane the wow-'em charmer and student council president. He looked at the faces in the photograph. You would never see it. All you saw were three popular high school kids. Nothing beyond that facade. When those kids shot up Columbine a few years back, McGuane had watched the media reaction with fascination. The world looked for comfortable excuses. The boys were outsiders. The boys were teased and bullied. The boys had absent parents and played video games. But McGuane knew that none of that mattered. It may have been a slightly different era, but that could have been them Ken, John, and McGuane because the truth is, it does not matter if you are financially comfortable or loved by your parents or if you keep to yourself or fight to stay afloat in the mainstream.

Some people have that rage.

The office door opened. Joseph Pistillo and his young protegee entered. McGuane smiled and put away the photograph.

"Ah, Javert," he said to Pistillo. "Do you still hunt me when all I did was steal some bread?"

"Yeah," Pistillo said. "Yeah, that's you, McGuane. The innocent man hounded."

McGuane turned his attention to the female agent. "Tell me, Joe, why do you always have such a lovely colleague with you?"

"This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher."

"Charmed," McGuane said. "Please have a seat."

"We'd rather stand."

McGuane shrugged a suit-yourself and dropped into his chair. "So what can I do for you today?"

"You're having a tough time, McGuane."

"Ami?"

"Indeed."

"And you're here to help? How special."

Pistillo snorted. "Been after you a long time."

"Yes, I know, but I'm fickle. Suggestion: Send a bouquet of roses next time. Hold the door for me. Use candlelight. A man wants to be romanced."

Pistillo put two fists on the desk. "Part of me wants to sit back and watch you get eaten alive." He swallowed, tried to hold something deep inside him in check. "But a bigger part of me wants to see you rot in jail for what you've done."

McGuane turned to Claudia Fisher. "He's very sexy when he talks tough, don't you think?"

"Guess who we just found, McGuane?"

"Hoffa? About time too."

"Fred Tanner."

"Who?"

Pistillo smirked. "Don't play that with me. Big thug. Works for you."

"I believe he's in my security department."

"We found him."

"I didn't know he was lost."

"Funny."

"I thought he was on vacation, Agent Pistillo."

"Permanently. We found him in the Passaic River."

McGuane frowned. "Howunsanitary."

"Especially with two bullet holes in the head. We also found a guy named Peter Appel. Strangled. He was an ex-army sharpshooter."

"Be all that you can be."

Only one strangled, McGuane thought. The Ghost must have been disappointed that he'd had to shoot the other.

"Yeah, well, let's see," Pistillo went on. "We have these two men dead. Plus we have the two guys in New Mexico. That's four."

"And you didn't use your fingers. They're not paying you enough, Agent Pistillo."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Very much," McGuane said. "I admit it. I killed them all. Happy?"

Pistillo leaned over the desk so that their faces were inches apart. "You're about to go down, McGuane."

"And you had onion soup for lunch."

"Are you aware," Pistillo said, not backing off, "that Sheila Rogers is dead too?"

"Who?"

Pistillo stood back up. "Right. You don't know her either. She doesn't work for you."

"Many people work for me. I'm a businessman."

Pistillo looked over at Fisher. "Let's go," he said.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I've waited a long time for this," Pistillo said. "What do they say? Revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Like vichyssoise."

Another smirk from Pistillo. "Have a nice day, McGuane."

They left. McGuane sat there and did not move for ten minutes. What had been the purpose of that visit? Simple. To shake him up. More underestimation. He hit line three, the safe phone, the one checked daily for listening devices. He hesitated. Dialing the number. Would that show panic?

He weighed the pros and cons and decided to risk it.

The Ghost answered on the first ring with a drawn-out "Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"Just off the plane from Vegas."

"Learn anything?"

"Oh yes."

"I'm listening."

"There was a third person in the car with them," the Ghost said.

McGuane shifted in his seat. "Who?"

"A little girl," the Ghost said. "No more than eleven or twelve years old."

Katy and I were on the street when Squares pulled up. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Squares arched an eyebrow in my direction. I frowned at him.

"I thought you were staying on my couch," I said to her.

Katy had been distracted since the fruit basket's arrival. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"And you don't want to tell me what's going on?"

She stuck her hands deep in her pockets and shrugged. "I just need to do a little research."

"On?"

She shook her head. I did not press it. She gave me a quick grin before taking off. I got in the van.

Squares said, "And she is?"

I explained as we headed uptown. There were dozens of sandwiches and blankets packed in the bag. Squares handed them out to the kids. The sandwiches and blankets, in the same vein as his rap about the missing Angie, made excellent icebreakers, and even if they didn't, at least the kids would have something to eat and something to keep them warm. I had seen Squares work wonders with those items. The first night, a kid would most likely refuse any help at all. He or she might even curse or become hostile. Squares would take no offense. He'd just keep coming at him. Squares believed that consistency was the key. Show the kid you're there all the time. Show the kid you're not leaving. Show the kid it's unconditional.

A few nights later, that kid will take the sandwich.

Another, he'll want a blanket. After a while, he'll start looking for you and the van.

I reached back and lifted a sandwich into view. "You're working again tonight?"

He lowered his head and looked at me above his sunglasses. "No," he said dryly, "I'm just really hungry."

He drove some more.

"How long are you going to avoid her, Squares?"

Squares flipped on the radio. Carly Simon's "You're So Vain." Squares sang along. Then he said, "Remember this song?"

I nodded.

"That rumor that it was about Warren Beatty. Was that true?"

"Don't know," I said.

We drove some more.

"Let me ask you something, Will."

He kept his eyes on the road. I waited.

"How surprised were you to learn that Sheila had a kid?"

"Very."

"And," he went on, "how surprised would you be to learn I had one too?"

I looked at him.

" You don't understand the situation, Will."

"I'd like to."

"Let's concentrate on one thing at a time."

The traffic was miraculously light this evening. Carly Simon faded away and then the Chairman of the Board begged his woman to give him just a little more time and their love would surely grow. Such desperation in that simple plea. I love this song.