Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

Does that make sense?

I took Squares to see Camp Millstone four years ago. The camp was in foreclosure, so Squares bought the property and turned it into an upscale yoga retreat. He built himself a farmhouse on what had been Camp Millstone 's soccer field. There was only one path in and out, and the farmhouse was in the middle of the field, so you could see anyone approaching.

We agreed that it would be the perfect reunion spot.

Melissa flew in from Seattle. Because we were extra-paranoid, we had her land in Philadelphia. She, my father, and I met at the Vince Lombardi Rest Stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. The three of us drove up together. No one else knew about the reunion, except Nora, Katy, and Squares. The three of them were traveling up separately. They'd meet with us tomorrow because they, too, had an interest in closure.

But tonight, the first night, would be for the immediate family only.

I handled the driving duties. Dad sat in the passenger seat next to me. Melissa was in the back. No one did much talking. The tension pressed against our chests mine, I think, most of all. I had learned not to assume anything. Until I saw Ken with my own eyes, until I hugged him and heard him speak, I would not let myself believe that it was finally okay.

I thought about Sheila and Nora. I thought about the Ghost and the high school class leader Philip McGuane and what he had become. It should have surprised me, but I'm not sure it did. We are always "shocked" when we hear about violence in the suburbs, as though a well-watered lawn, a split-level construction, Little League and soccer moms, piano lessons, Four Squares courts, and parent-teacher conferences, all worked as some sort of wolfsbane, warding off evil. If the Ghost and McGuane grew up just nine miles from Livingston again, that was how far the heart of Newark was no one would be "stunned" and "dismayed" by what they'd become.

I put in a CD of Springsteen's Summer 2000 concert in Madison Square Garden. It helped pass the time but not a lot. There was construction on Route 95 again, try to find a time when there isn't and the ride took an agonizing five hours. We pulled up to the red farmhouse complete with fake silo. There were no other cars. That was to be expected. We were supposed to arrive first. Ken would follow.

Melissa got out of the car first. The sound of her door echoed across the field. When I stepped out, I could still visualize the old soccer field. The garage sat right where one goalpost used to be. The driveway ran across where the benches once were. I looked over at my father. He looked away.

For a moment, the three of us just stood there. I broke the spell, moving toward the farmhouse. Dad and Melissa trailed a few feet behind. We were all thinking about Mom. She should have been here. She should have had the chance to see her son one more time. That, we all realized, would have awakened the Sunny smile. Nora had given comfort to my mother by giving her a photograph. I cannot tell you how much that will always mean to me.

Ken, I knew, would be coming alone. Carly was someplace safe. I did not know where. We rarely mentioned her during our communications. Ken might risk himself by attending this reunion. He would not risk his daughter. I, of course, understood.

We paced about the house. Nobody wanted anything to drink. There was a spinning wheel in one corner. The grandfather clock's tick-tocking was maddeningly loud in the still room. Dad finally sat. Melissa moved toward me. She looked up with her big-sister eyes and whispered, "Why doesn't it feel like the nightmare is about to end?"

I didn't even want to consider that.

Five minutes later, we heard an approaching car.

We all rushed to the window. I pushed back the curtain and peered out. It was dusk now. I could see just fine. The car was a gray Honda Accord, a totally inconspicuous pick. My heart picked up a step. I wanted to rush out, but I stayed where I was.

The Honda came to a stop. For several seconds seconds kept by that damn grandfather clock nothing happened. Then the driver's door opened. My hand gripped the curtain so hard it nearly ripped. I saw a foot hit the ground. And then someone slid out of the car and stood.

It was Ken.

He smiled at me, the Ken smile, that confident, let's-kick-life's-ass smile. That was all I needed. I let out a yelp of joy and broke for the door. I threw it open, but Ken was already sprinting toward me. He burst into the house and tackled me. The years melted away. Just like that. We were on the floor, rolling across the carpet. I giggled like I was seven. I heard him laugh too.

The rest of it was a wonderful blur. Dad jumped on. Then Melissa. I see it now in fuzzy snapshots. Ken hugging Dad; Dad grabbing Ken around the neck and kissing the top of his head, holding the kiss, his eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down his cheeks; Ken spinning Melissa in the air; Melissa crying, patting her brother as if to make sure he was really there.

Eleven years.

I don't know how long we acted like that, how long we were that marvelous, delirious mess. Somewhere along the way, we calmed down enough to sit on a couch. Ken kept me close. On several occasions, he put me in a head lock and gave me "nuggies." I never knew being hit on the top of the head could feel so good.

"You took on the Ghost and survived," Ken said, my head in his armpit. "Guess you don't need me covering your back anymore."

And pulling away, I said in a desperate plea, "No, I do."

Darkness fell. We all went outside. The night air felt wonderful in my lungs. Ken and I walked ahead. Melissa and Dad stayed ten yards or so back, perhaps sensing that was what we wanted. Ken had his arm around my shoulders. I remember once during that year at camp I missed a key foul shot. My bunk lost the game because of that. My friends started picking on me. No big deal. It's camp. It happens to everyone. Ken took me for a walk that day. His arm was around me then too.

I felt that same kind of safe again.

He started telling me the story. It pretty much matched what I already knew. He had done some bad things. He had made a deal with the feds. McGuane and Asselta had found out.

He skittered around the question of why he had returned home that night, and more to the point, why he had been at Julie's house. But I wanted it all out in the open. There had been too much deception already. So I asked him flat out: "Why did you and Julie come home?"

Ken took out a pack of cigarettes.

"You smoke now?" I said.

"Yeah, but I'll give it up." He looked at me and said, "Julie and I thought it would be a good place to meet up."

I remembered what Katy said. Like Ken, Julie had not been home in more than a year. I waited for him to go on. He stared at the cigarette, still not lighting it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's okay."

"I knew you were still hung up on her, Will. But I was taking drugs back then. I was a total shit. Or maybe none of that mattered. Maybe I was just being selfish, I don't know."

"It doesn't matter," I said. And that was true. It didn't. "But I still don't understand. How was Julie involved?"

" She was helping me."

"Helping you how?"

Ken lit the cigarette. I could see the lines on his face now. His features were chiseled but weathered now, making him almost more handsome. His eyes were still pure ice. "She and Sheila had an apartment near Haverton. They were friends." He stopped, shook his head. "Look, Julie got hooked on the stuff. It's my fault. When Sheila came up to Haverton, I introduced them. Julie fell into the life. She started working for McGuane too."

I had guessed that it was something like that. "She was selling drugs?"

He nodded. "But when I got caught, when I agreed to go back in, I needed a friend an accomplice to help me take down McGuane. We were terrified at first, but then we all saw it as a way out. A way to find redemption, you know what I mean?"