Harlan Coben - Tell No One

As usual, Tyrese and I sat in the backseat. The morning sky was a charcoal ash, the color of tombstone. I directed Brutus where to turn off after we crossed the George Washington Bridge. Behind his sunglasses, Tyrese studied my face. Finally he asked, "Where we going?"

"My in-laws'."

Tyrese waited for me to say more.

"He's a city cop," I added.

"What's his name?"

"Hoyt Parker."

Brutus smiled. Tyrese did likewise.

"You know him?"

"Never worked with the man myself, but, yeah, I heard the name."

"What do you mean, worked with the man?"

Tyrese waved me off. We hit the town border. I had gone through several surreal experiences over the past three days-chalk "driving through my old neighborhood with two drug dealers in a car with tinted windows" as another. I gave Brutus a few more directions before we pulled up to the memory-laden split-level on Goodhart.

I stepped out. Brutus and Tyrese sped off. I made it to the door and listened to the long chime. The clouds grew darker. A lightning bolt ripped the sky at the seam. I pressed the chime again. Pain traveled down my arm. I still ached all over hell from yesterday's combination of torture and over exertion For a moment, I let myself wonder what would have happened if Tyrese and Brutus hadn't shown up. Then I shoved that thought away hard.

Finally I heard Hoyt say, "Who is it?"

"Beck," I said.

"It's open."

I reached for the knob. My hand stopped an inch before touching the brass. Weird. I had visited here countless times in my life, but I never remembered Hoyt asking who it was at the door. He was one of the guys who preferred direct confrontation. No hiding in the bushes for Hoyt Parker. He feared nothing, and dammit, he would prove it every step of the way. You ring his bell, he opens the door and faces you full.

I looked behind me. Tyrese and Brutus were gone – no smarts in loitering in front of a cop's house in a white suburb.

"Beck?"

No choice. I thought about the Glock. As I put my left hand on the knob, I put my right closer to my hip. Just in case. I turned the knob and pushed the door. My head leaned through the crack.

"I'm in the kitchen," Hoyt called out.

I stepped all the way inside and closed the door behind me. The room smelled of a lemon disinfectant, one of those plug-in-a socket cover-up brands. I found the odor cloying.

"You want something to eat?" Hoyt asked.

I still couldn't see him. "No, thanks."

I waded across the semi-shag toward the kitchen. I spotted the old photographs on the mantel, but this time I didn't wince. When my feet reached linoleum, I let my eyes take in the room. Empty. I was about to turn back when I felt the cold metal against my temple. A hand suddenly snaked around my neck and jerked back hard.

"You armed, Beck?"

I didn't move or speak.

With the gun still in place, Hoyt dropped the arm from my neck and patted me down. He found the Glock, pulled it out, skidded it across the linoleum.

"Who dropped you off?"

"A couple of friends," I managed to say.

"What sort of friends?"

"What the hell is this, Hoyt?"

He backed off. I turned around. The gun was pointed at my chest. The muzzle looked enormous to me, widening like a giant mouth readying to swallow me whole. It was hard to wrest my gaze from that cold, dark tunnel.

"You come here to kill me?" Hoyt asked.

"What? No." I forced myself to look up, Hoyt was unshaven. His eyes were red-tinged, his body was swaying. Drinking. Drinking a lot.

"Where's Mrs. Parker?" I asked.

"She's safe." An odd reply. "I sent her away."

"Why?"

"I think you know."

Maybe I did. Or was starting to.

"Why would I want to hurt you, Hoyt?"

He kept the gun pointed at my chest. "Do you always carry a concealed weapon, Beck? I could have you thrown in jail for that."

"You've done worse to me," I replied.

His face fell. A low groan escaped his lips.

"Whose body did we cremate, Hoyt?"

"You don't know shit."

"I know that Elizabeth is still alive," I said.

His shoulders slumped, but the weapon stayed right in place. I saw his gun hand tense, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to shoot. I debated jumping away, but it wasn't as though he couldn't nail me with the second round.

"Sit down," he said softly.

"Shauna saw the autopsy report. We know it wasn't Elizabeth in that morgue."

"Sit down," he repeated, raising the gun a bit, and I believe that he might have shot me if I didn't obey. He led me back to the living room. I sat on the hideous couch that had witnessed so many memorable moments, but I had the feeling that they would be pretty much Bic flicks next to the bonfire about to engulf this room.

Hoyt sat across from me. The weapon was still up and centered at my middle. He never let his hand rest. Part of his training, I supposed. Exhaustion bled from him. He looked like a balloon with a slow leak, deflating almost imperceptibly.

"What happened?" I asked.

He didn't answer my question. "What makes you think she's alive?"

I stopped. Could I have been wrong here? Was there any way he didn't know? No, I decided quickly. He had seen the body at the morgue. He had been the one who identified her. He had to be involved. But then I remembered the email.

Tell no one …

Had it been a mistake to come here?

Again no. That message had been sent before all this – in practically another era. I had to make a decision here. I had to push, take some action.

"Have you seen her?" he asked me.

"No."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know," I said.

Hoyt suddenly cocked his head. He signaled me to silence with a finger to his lips. He stood and crept toward the window. The shades were all drawn. He peeked through the side.

I stood.

"Sit down."

"Shoot me, Hoyt."

He looked at me.

"She's in trouble," I said.

"And you think you can help her?" He made a sneering noise. "I saved both your lives that night. What did you do?"

I felt something in my chest contract. "I got knocked unconscious," I said.

"Right."

"You…" I was having trouble articulating. "You saved us?"

"Sit down."

"If you know where she is-"

"We wouldn't be having this conversation," he finished.

I took another step toward him. Then another. He aimed the gun at me. I did not stop. I walked until the muzzle pressed against my sternum. "You're going to tell me," I said. "Or you're going to kill me."

"You're willing to take that gamble?"

I looked him straight in the eye and really held the stare for perhaps the first time in our long relationship. Something passed between us, though I'm not sure what. Resignation on his part maybe, I don't know. But I stayed put. "Do you have any idea how much I miss your daughter?"

"Sit down, David."

"Not until-"

"I'll tell you," he said softly. "Sit down."

I kept my eyes on his as I backed up to the couch. I lowered myself onto the cushion. He put the gun down on the side table. "You want a drink?"

"No."

"You better have one."

"Not now."

He shrugged and walked over to one of those chintzy pulldown bars. It was old and loose. The glasses were in disarray, tinkling against one another, and I was more certain than ever that this had not been his first foray into the liquor cabinet today. He took his time pouring the drink. I wanted to hurry him, but I had done enough pushing for the time being. He needed this, I figured. He was gathering his thoughts, sorting through them, checking the angles. I expected as much.

He cupped the glass in both hands and sank into the chair. "I never much liked you," he said. "It was nothing personal. You come from a good family. Your father was a fine man, and your mother, well, she tried, didn't she." One hand held the drink while the other ran through his hair. "But I thought your relationship with my daughter was" – he looked up, searching the ceiling for the words – "a hindrance to her growth. Now… well, now I realize how incredibly lucky you both were."