Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

Why?

Was it, like my mother had said, to prove his innocence? That made sense, I guess, but why now? I didn't know, but whatever the reason, Ken did indeed return and it backfired on him. Someone found out.

Who?

The answer seemed obvious: whoever murdered Julie. That person, be it a he or she, would need to silence Ken. And then what? No idea. There were still pieces missing.

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever suspect Ken was alive?"

He took his time. "It was easier to think he was dead."

"That's not an answer."

He let his gaze roam again. "Ken loved you so much, Will."

I let that hang in the air.

"But he wasn't all good."

"I know that," I said.

He let that settle in. "When Julie was murdered," my father said, "Ken was already in trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"He came home to hide."

"From what?"

"I don't know."

I thought about it. I again remembered that he had not been home in at least two years and that he'd seemed on edge, even as he asked me about Julie. I just didn't know what that all meant.

Dad said, "Do you remember Phil McGuane?"

I nodded. Ken's old friend from high school, the "class leader" who was now reputed to be "connected." "I heard he moved into the Bonannos' old place."

"Yes."

During my childhood, the Bonannos, famed old-time mafiosi, had lived in Livingston 's biggest estate, the one with the big iron gate and the driveway guarded by two stone lions. Rumor had it as you may have surmised, suburbia is rife with rumors that there were bodies buried on the property and that the fence could electrocute and if a kid tried to sneak through the woods out back, he'd get shot in the head. I doubt any of those stories were true, but the police finally arrested Old Man Bonanno when he was ninety-one.

"What about him?" I asked.

"Ken was mixed up with McGuane."

"How?"

"That's all I know."

I thought about the Ghost. "Was John Asselta involved too?"

My father went rigid. I saw fear in his eyes. "Why would you ask me that?"

"The three of them were all friends in high school," I began and then I decided to go the rest of the way. "I saw him recently."

"Asselta?"

"Yes."

His voice was soft. "He's back?"

I nodded.

Dad closed his eyes.

"What is it?"

"He's dangerous," my father said.

"I know that."

He pointed at my face. "Did he do that?"

Good question, I thought. "In part, at least."

"In part?"

"It's a long story, Dad."

He closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he put his hands on his thighs and stood. "Let's go home," he said.

I wanted to ask him more, but I knew that now was not the time. I followed him. Dad had a hard time getting down the rickety bleacher steps. I offered him a hand. He refused it. When we both reached the gravel, we turned toward the path. And there, smiling patiently with his hands in his pockets, stood the Ghost.

For a moment I thought it was my imagination, as if our thinking about him had conjured up this horrific mirage. But I heard the sharp intake of air coming from my father. And then I heard that voice.

"Ah, isn't this touching?" the Ghost said.

My father stepped in front of me as though trying to shield me. "What do you want?" he shouted.

But the Ghost laughed. " "Gee, son, when I struck out in the big game," " he said, mocking, " 'it took a whole roll of Life Savers to make me feel better." "

We stayed rooted to the spot. The Ghost looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, took a great big sniff of air. "Ah, Little League." He lowered his gaze to my father. "Do you remember that time my old man showed up at a game, Mr. Klein?"

My father set his jaw.

"It was a great moment, Will. Really. A classic. My dear ol' dad was so wasted, he took a leak right on the side of the snack bar. Can you imagine? I thought Mrs. Tansmore was going to have a stroke." He laughed heartily, the sound clawing at me as it echoed. When it died down, he added, "Good times, eh?"

"What do you want?" my father said again.

But the Ghost was on his own track now. He would not be derailed. "Say, Mr. Klein, do you remember coaching that all-star team in the state finals?"

My father said, "I do."

"Ken and I were in, what, fourth grade, was it?"

Nothing from my father this time.

The Ghost snapped, "Oh wait." The smile slid off his face. "I almost forgot. I missed that year, didn't I? And the next year too. Jail time, don't you know."

"You never went to jail," my father said.

"True, true, you're absolutely right, Mr. Klein. I was" the Ghost made quote marks with his skinny fingers "hospitalized. You know what that means, Willie boy? They lock up a child with the most depraved whack-jobs that ever cursed this wretched planet, so as to make him all better. My first roommate, his name was Timmy, was a pyromaniac. At the tender age of thirteen, Timmy killed his parents by setting them on fire. One night he stole a book of matches from a drunk orderly and lit up my bed. I got to go to the medical wing for three weeks. I almost set myself on fire so I wouldn't have to go back."

A car drove down Meadowbrook Road. I could see a little boy in the back, perched high by a safety seat of some kind. There was no wind. The trees stood too still.

"That was a long time ago," my father said softly.

The Ghost's eyes narrowed as if he were giving my father's words very special attention. Finally he nodded and said, "Yes, yes, it was. You're right about that too, Mr. Klein. And it wasn't like I had a great home life to begin with. I mean, what were my prospects anyway? You could almost look at what happened to me as a blessing: I could get therapy instead of living with a father who beat me."

I realized then that he was talking about the killing of Daniel Skinner, the bully who'd been stabbed with the kitchen knife. But what struck me then, what gave me pause, was how his story sounded like the kids we help at Covenant House abusive home life, early crime, some form of psychosis. I tried to look at the Ghost like that, as if he were just one of my kids. But the picture would not hold. He was not a kid anymore. I don't know when they cross over, at what age they go from being a kid who needs help to a degenerate who should be locked up, or even if that was fair.

"Hey'Willieboy?"

The Ghost tried to meet my eye then, but my father leaned in the way of even his gaze. I put a hand on his shoulder as if to tell him I could handle it.

"What? "I said.

"You do know I was" again with the finger quotes "hospitalized again, don't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"I was a senior. You were a sophomore."

"I remember."

"I had only one visitor the whole time I was there. Do you know who it was?"

I nodded. The answer was Julie.

"Ironic, don't you think?"

"Did you kill her?" I asked.

"Only one of us here is to blame."

My father stepped back in the way. "That's enough," he said.

I slid to the side. "What do you mean?"

"You, Willie boy. I mean you."

I was confused. "What?"

"That's enough," my father said again.

"You were supposed to fight for her," the Ghost went on. "You were supposed to protect her."

The words, even coming from this lunatic, pierced my chest like an ice pick.

"Why are you here?" my father demanded.

"The truth, Mr. Klein? I'm not exactly sure."

"Leave my family alone. You want someone, you take me."

"No, sir, I don't want you." He considered my father, and I felt something cold coil in the pit of my belly. "I think I prefer you this way."

The Ghost gave a little wave good-bye then and stepped into the wooded area. We watched him move deeper into the brush, fading away until, like his nickname, he vanished. We stood there for another minute or two. I could hear my father's breathing, hollow and tinny, as if coming up from a deep cavern.