Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

You never run into quicksand in real life, do you? For something so huge in movies and TV, you never actually hear about anyone getting trapped or dying in quicksand.

This is how my mind is roaming as I spot the box in the corner. That’s it. One box, Leo. You know Dad wasn’t big on material goods. Your clothes are gone. Your toys are gone. Purging was part of his grieving process — not sure what stage that would be. Acceptance maybe, though acceptance is supposed to be the last step and Dad had a bunch more to go through after the purge. We know Dad was an emotional man, but his full-body sobs — the way his chest heaved and his shoulders trembled, his wails of thunderous agony — frightened me. There were times I thought he would physically break in half, that his ceaseless anguish would cleave his torso or something.

And, no, we never heard from Mom.

Did Dad reach out and tell her? I don’t know. I never asked. He never told me.

I open the box to see what Dad saved. Here is a thought I haven’t had until right this second: Dad obviously knew that you would never be able to open this box. He also knew that he himself would never open it either. That means whatever is in here, whatever he chose to save, would hold value only to me. Whatever Dad saved, he saved thinking that I might one day want it.

The box is sealed with tape. It’s hard to peel off. I take a key out of my pocket and use it to slice down the seam. Then I pull back the cardboard and peer inside. I don’t know what I expect to see. I know you. I know your life. We shared a room for your entire life. It isn’t like anything huge is unaccounted for.

But as I see the photograph on the top, I feel newly lost. It’s a snapshot of the four of us — you and Diana, Maura and me. I remember it, of course. The photo was taken in Diana’s backyard. Her seventeenth — and last — birthday. It was a warm October night. We’d spent the day down at Six Flags Great Adventure. Augie had a friend, a retired cop who now worked for a major park sponsor, and he was able to get us wristbands that gave us limitless access to the fast-pass lane. No lines for the coasters, Leo. Do you remember? I don’t have a lot of memories of you or Diana on that day. We broke off, you and Diana staying mostly in the arcade area — I remember you won her a stuffed Pikachu — and Maura and I went on the hard-core coasters. Maura wore a crop top that made my mouth dry. You and Diana took a goofy picture with one of the Looney Tunes characters. Which one? I bet it’s... yes, the second photo. I pull it into view. You and Diana standing on either side of Tweety Bird, the Six Flags fountain spouting water behind you.

Two weeks later you’d both be dead.

I study the photograph of the four of us some more. In the picture, night has fallen. Other partygoers are mingling behind us. We are all tired, I guess, a long day. Maura sits on my lap, our bodies entwined in a way only dating teenagers can achieve. You sit next to Diana. She isn’t smiling. You look stoned. Your eyes are glassy and hazy. You also look... troubled maybe. I didn’t notice then. I was into my own stuff, wasn’t I? Maura and hockey and making a first-tier college. Fate, I was certain, would secure my future happiness, though I had no real plan, no clue what I wanted to be. I only knew that I would be a huge success.

The doorbell rings.

I put the photo back and start to stand, but the ceiling is too low. With my back bent, I head toward the opening. As I climb down the ladder, the doorbell sounds again. Then again. Impatient.

“Coming!” I shout.

I trot down the stairs and see out the window that it’s my old classmate David Rainiv. His high-end business suit seems tailored by a higher entity. I open the door. His face is ashen and crumpled, even as his Hermès tie stays perfectly Windsored.

“I heard about Hank.”

I don’t bother to ask him how. The old saw about bad news traveling fast has never been truer than in the age of the Internet.

“Is it true?”

“I can’t really talk about it.”

“They say he was found hung from a tree.”

The sadness is etched all over his face. I remember him wanting to help when I asked about Hank at the basketball courts. There is no point in being a hard-ass here. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Did Hank hang himself,” David asked, “or was he murdered?”

I’m about to tell him again that I can’t talk about it, but there is an odd desperation on his face. I wonder now whether he came to me for confirmation or something more.

“Murdered,” I say.

His eyes close.

“Do you know something about this?” I ask.

His eyes stay closed.

“David?”

“I’m not sure,” he says at last. “But I think I might.”

The Rainivs live at the far end of a tony new cul-de-sac in one of those McMansions with an indoor pool, a formal ballroom, eight hundred bathrooms, and a million square feet of mostly useless space. Everything about the house screams nouveau riche. The driveway gate is an overly ornate metal sculpture of children flying a kite. It is all wanting to look too old by looking too new. It’s labored, trying too hard, tacky. But that’s my take. I’ve known David a long time. He’s always been a good guy. He’s generous to charities. He gives his time and energy to the town. I’ve seen him with his kids. He’s not one of those poseur fathers — you know, the ones who make a big production out of watching their kids at the mall or park so you think, Wow, what a caring father, but you can see it’s just an act for public consumption. That’s not David. Most of all, I see his devastated face now and I remember how he went through the timeline of his friendship with Hank. That kind of loyalty is the mark of a man. So I don’t like his or maybe his wife’s taste in houses. Who the hell cares? Get over ourselves. Stop judging.

We pull into a garage the approximate dimensions of a college gymnasium — is that judging? — and park. He leads me through a side door and down into what some homes call a basement, but this one has a theater room and wine cellar, so we need to find a new term. Lower level, maybe? He heads into a small room and flicks on a switch. In the back right corner, there is a four-foot-high old-fashioned safe with a big dial.

“You’re not the cop on the case, right?”

This is the third time David has asked me that. “No. Why is that a big deal?”

He bends down and starts fiddling with the dial. “Hank asked me to hold something for him.”

“Recently?”

“No. Eight, nine years ago. He said if he was ever murdered, I should find a way to give it to someone I trust. He warned me not to give it to anyone in law enforcement or anyone involved in the investigation.” David looks back at me. “You see my dilemma?”

I nod. “I’m in law enforcement.”

“Right. But like I said, this was eight, nine years ago. Hank was already pretty out of it by then. I figured it was nothing, just the ramblings of a diseased mind. But he was pretty adamant about it. So I made a promise to him — that if he was ever murdered, I would do the right thing by him. I never really thought of what that meant because, I mean, it was just incoherent rambling, right? Except now...”

He makes one last turn of the dial. I hear a click. He reaches for the handle, and as he does, he turns back and looks up at me. “I trust you, Nap. You’re in law enforcement, but I somehow think Hank would be okay with my giving this to you.”

He opens up the safe, reaches into the back, digs through whatever else is there — I don’t pry by looking — and pulls out a videocassette tape that smacks me in the face with déjà vu and sends me — pardon the pun — reeling. I remember Dad buying you a Canon PV1 digital video camcorder sophomore year. You freaked out with joy. For a while, you filmed everything. You wanted to be a director, Leo. You talked about making a documentary. The pain hits me anew at the thought.