Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

My feet clacked on the marble. The sound echoed too loudly in my own ears. I was going to be late. I stopped and watched the elevator doors shut.

Damn.

I pressed the call button. Another elevator opened immediately. I started toward it but pulled up. Wait, what good would that do? I didn't even know what floor she was on. I checked the lights above my Sheila's elevator. They moved steadily. Floor five, then six.

Had Sheila been the only one in the elevator?

I thought so.

The elevator stopped on the ninth floor. Okay, fine. Now I pushed the call button. The same elevator was there. I hurried inside and pressed nine, hoping that I would get there before she entered her room. The door started closing. I leaned against the back. At the last second, a hand shot through. The doors banged against the hand and then opened. A sweaty man in a gray business suit sighed his way in, offering me a nod. He pressed eleven. The door closed again and we were on our way up.

"Hot out," he said to me.

"Yeah."

He sighed again. "Good hotel, don't you think?"

A tourist, I thought. I had been in a million New York City elevators before. New Yorkers understood the rules: You stare up at the flashing numbers. You do not engage anyone in conversation.

I told him that yes, it was nice, and as the doors opened, I dashed out. The corridor was long. I looked to my left. Nothing. I looked to my right and heard a door close. Like a hunting dog on point, I sprinted toward the sound. Right-hand side, I thought. End of the corridor.

I followed the audible scent, if you will, and deduced that the sound had come from either room 912 or 914. I looked at one door, then the other. I remembered an episode of Batman where Catwoman promises that one door will lead to her, the other to a live tiger. Batman chose wrong. Well, hell, this isn't Batman.

I knocked on both doors. I stood between them and waited.

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder this time. Movement. I was rewarded with some kind of movement emanating from room 912… I slid in front of the door. I adjusted my shirt collar. Now I could hear the security chain being slid to the side. I braced myself. The knob turned and the door began to swing open.

The man was burly and annoyed. He wore a V-neck undershirt and striped boxers. He barked, "What?"

"I'm sorry. I was looking for Donna White."

He put his fists on his hips. "Do I look like Donna White?"

Strange sounds emanated from the gruff man's room. I listened closer. Groans. Quasi-passionate groans of faux pleasure. The man met my eye, but he didn't look happy about it. I stepped back. Spectravision, I thought. In-room movies. The man was watching a skin flick. Porno interruptus

"Uh, sorry," I said.

He slammed the door shut.

Okay, let's rule out room 912… At least, I hoped like hell I could. This was crazy. I raised my hand to knock on 914, when I heard a voice say, "Can I help you?"

I turned and at the end of the corridor, I saw a no-neck buzz cut wearing a blue blazer. The blazer had a small logo on his lapel and a patch on his upper arm. He puffed out his chest. Hotel security and proud of it.

"No, I'm fine," I said.

He frowned. "Are you a guest of the hotel?"

"Yes."

"What's your room number?"

"I don't have a room number."

"But you just said "

I rapped the door hard. Buzz Cut hurried toward me. For a moment I thought he might make a diving tackle in order to protect the door, but at the last moment, he pulled up.

"Please come with me," he said.

I ignored him and knocked again. There was still no answer. Buzz Cut put his arm on mine. I shook it off, knocked again, and yelled, "I know you're not Sheila." That confused Buzz Cut. He frowned some more. We both stopped and watched the door. Nobody answered. Buzz Cut took my arm again, more gently this time. I did not put up a fight. He led me downstairs and through the lobby.

I was out on the sidewalk. I turned. Buzz Cut puffed his chest again and crossed his arms.

Now what?

Another New York City axiom: You cannot stand in one place on a sidewalk. Flow is essential. People hurry by and they don't expect to find something in their way. If they do, they may veer but they never stop.

I looked for a safe place. The secret was to stay as close to the actual building as possible the shoulder of the sidewalk, if you will. I huddled near a plate glass window, took out the cell phone, called the hotel, and asked to be connected to Donna White's room. I got another "a pleasure" and was patched through.

There was no answer.

This time I left a simple message. I gave her my cell phone number and tried not to sound like I was begging when I asked her to call.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and again asked myself: Now what?

My Sheila was inside. The thought made me lightheaded. Too much yearning. Too many possibilities and what-ifs. I made myself push it away.

Okay, fine, so what did that mean exactly? First off, was there another way out? A basement or back exit? Had she spotted me from behind those sunglasses? Was that why she hurried to the elevator? When I followed her, had I made a mistake about the room number? That could be. I knew that she was on the ninth floor. That was a start. Or did I? If she spotted me, could she have stopped at another floor as a decoy?

Do I stand out here?

I didn't know. I couldn't go home, that was for sure. I took a deep breath. I watched the pedestrians race by, so many of them, one bleary mass, separate entities making up a whole. And then, looking through the mass, I saw her.

My heart stopped.

She just stood there and stared at me. I was too overwhelmed to move. I felt something inside me give way. I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a cry. She moved toward me. Tears stung her eyes. I shook my head. She did not stop. She reached me and pulled me close.

"It's okay," she whispered.

I closed my eyes. For a long while we just held each other. We did not speak. We did not move. We just slipped away.

"My real name is Nora Spring."

We sat in the lower level of a Starbucks on Park Avenue South, in a corner near an emergency fire exit. No one else was down here. She kept her eyes on the stairs, worried I'd been followed. This Starbucks, like so many others, had earth tones, surreal swirling artwork, and large photographs of brown-skinned men too happily picking coffee beans. She held a venti iced latte between both hands. I went with the frappuccino.

The chairs were purple and oversize and just plush enough. We pushed them together. We held hands. I was confused, of course. I wanted answers. But beyond that, on a whole higher plane, the pure joy splashed through me. It was an amazing rush. It calmed me. I was happy. Whatever I was about to learn would not change that. The woman I loved was back. I would let nothing change that.

She sipped at the latte. "I'm sorry," she said.

I squeezed her hand.

"To run out like that. To let you think" she stopped "I can't even imagine what you must have thought." Her eyes found mine. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I'm okay, "I said.

"How did you learn I wasn't Sheila?"

"At her funeral. I saw the body."

"I wanted to tell you, especially after I heard she'd been murdered."

"Why didn't you?"

"Ken told me it might get you killed."

My brother's name jarred me. Nora turned away. I slid my hand up her arm and stopped at the shoulder. The tension had knotted her muscles. I gently kneaded them, a familiar moment for us. She closed her eyes and let my fingers work. For a long time neither of us spoke. I broke the silence. "How long have you known my brother?"

"Almost four years," she said.

I nodded through my shock, trying to encourage her to say more, but she still had her face turned away. I gently took hold of her chin and turned her to me. I kissed her lightly on the lips.