Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

“Nothing that dramatic,” I say, and then I wonder whether they know the word “dramatic” and then I don’t like saying that since “nothing dramatic” may be a lie so I add, “I just need to watch this tape.”

“Ooo, can we watch?” Leah asks.

Ellie rescues me from that. “You certainly cannot. Go set the table.”

They do very little moaning before heading off to do their chore. Bob and I head toward the workshop in the garage. A sign above the door reads BOB’S WORKSHOP. The sign is carved in wood, and every letter is a different color. As you might expect, you could film handyman how-to videos in Bob’s workshop. The tools are hung in size order, equidistant from one another. Lumber and piping are stored in perfect pyramids against the back wall. Fluorescent fixtures hang from the ceiling. Plastic bins, all properly labeled, hold nails, screws, fasteners, connectors. The floor is snap-together rubber modules. All the colors in the room are neutral and soothing. There is no dirt, no sawdust, nothing to dispel the relative calm of the place.

I can’t hammer a nail, but I see why Bob loves being in here.

The camera sitting on the workbench is an exact match — a Canon PV1 — and I wonder whether it is indeed your old one. Like I said, Dad gave away most of your stuff. Maybe somehow that camera ended up with Ellie and Bob, who knows? The Canon PV1 stands upright with the viewing lens on the top. Bob turns it over and presses the eject button. He reaches back for me to hand him the cassette. I do. He sticks it in and pushes it into the designated slot.

“It’s ready,” Bob tells me. “You just hit the play button here” — he points to it — “and you can watch it here.” Bob pulls on something, and a little screen hinges out from the side.

Everything about this is reminding me of you. Not in a pleasant way.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need any help,” Bob says.

“Thanks.”

Bob heads back into the house, closing the door behind him. No reason for me to drag this out. I hit the play button. It starts with static, which then gives way to darkness. The only thing I can see is the date stamp.

One week before you and Diana were killed.

The picture is shaky, like whoever is holding the camera is walking. It gets shakier, so that maybe whoever was walking is now running. I can’t make out anything yet. Just black. I think I hear something, but it’s faint.

I find the volume knob and turn it all the way up.

The shaking stops, but the picture is still too dark to make anything out. Playing with the brightness knob doesn’t help, so I turn out the lights for better contrast. The garage turns spooky now, the tools more menacing in the shadows. I stare hard at the small screen.

Then I hear a voice from the past say, “Is it on, Hank?”

My heart stops.

The voice on the tape is yours.

Hank says, “Yeah, it’s on.”

Then another voice: “Point it up at the sky, Hank.”

It’s Maura. My stopped heart explodes in my chest.

I put my hands on the workbench to steady myself. Maura sounds animated. I remember that tone so well. I watch now as the camera pans up. Hank had been pointing the lens at the ground. As he raises it, I can see the lights from the military base.

You again, Leo: “Do you guys still hear it?”

“I do. It’s faint, though.”

That sounds like Rex.

You: “Okay, let’s stay quiet.”

Then I hear Maura say, “Holy shit, look! Just like last week.”

“My God.” You again. “You were right, Maura.”

There are lots of overlapping gasps and excited voices now. I try to make them out — you for sure, Maura, Rex, Hank... another female voice. Diana? Beth? I’ll have to back it up later and listen closer. I’m squinting at the screen, hoping to see what is taking them all by surprise.

Then I see it too, coming out of the sky, seemingly floating into view. I gasp along with them.

It’s a helicopter.

I try to up the volume so I can hear the rotors, but it’s already turned up all the way. As though reading my thoughts, Hank fills me in.

“Sikorsky Black Hawk,” Hank says. “Stealth copter. Barely makes a sound.”

“I can’t believe it.” That sounds like Beth.

The screen is tiny and even with the lights off in Bob’s workshop, it is hard to see exactly what is going on. But there is no question about it now. A helicopter is hovering above the old military base.

As the copter starts to descend, Maura whispers, “Let’s get closer.”

Rex: “They’ll spot us.”

Maura: “So?”

Beth: “I don’t know...”

Maura: “Come on, Hank.”

The camera grows shaky again as Hank moves, it seems, closer to the base. At one point he stumbles. The camera points to the ground. I see a hand reach out to help him up, and now... now I can see the white sleeve of my varsity jacket. As the camera comes back up, Hank lands the focus right on Maura’s face. My whole body jolts. Her dark hair is a perfectly tangled mess, her eyes lit with excitement, her killer smile just south of sane.

“Maura...”

I actually say this out loud.

From the tinny speaker, I hear you say, “Shh, stop.”

The copter lands. It is hard to see much, but the rotors are still spinning. I can’t believe how quiet they are. I’m still not sure what I’m seeing — it may be a door sliding open. There is a flash of bright orange. Could be a person. Not sure. Probably has to be.

The bright orange reminds me of prisoner garb.

There is a noise like someone stepping on a branch. Hank jerks the camera to the right. Rex shouts, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

And the picture goes black.

I hit the fast-forward button. But that’s it. There is nothing else on the tape. I rewind and watch the scene with the helicopter again. Then a third time. It never gets easier to hear your voice or see Maura’s face.

During the fourth viewing something new occurs to me. I start putting myself into this timeline. Where was I that night? I wasn’t part of the Conspiracy Club. I didn’t really think much of it at the time — this “clandestine group” was somewhere between cute and childish, in my view, between harmless and (when I was unkind) pathetic. You had your games and secrets. I get that.

But how could you guys keep something like this secret from me?

You used to tell me everything.

I try to travel back in time. Where was I that night? It was, like the night you died, a Friday. Friday was hockey night. Who did we play that night? I don’t remember. Did we win? Did I see you when I got home? I don’t remember. I know I got together with Maura. We headed into the clearing in those woods. I can still see the tangled hair, the killer smile, the eyes lit with excitement, but something was different that night, something even more electrifying when we made love. I don’t think I wondered why back then — Maura liked the edge — but I probably selfishly chalked it up to my own wonderfulness. That’s how wrapped up I, the big jock senior, was in my own stuff.

And my twin brother?

I think back to that photograph in the attic. The four of us. The stoned, lost look on your face. Something was going on with you, Leo. Something big and probably obvious, and because I was a self-involved prick, I missed it and you died.

I unplug the camera. I’m sure that Bob won’t mind if I take it with me. But I need to think on it. I don’t want to act in haste. Hank hid this video because whatever issues he had, he knew this was big. He was paranoid and probably mentally unwell, and come hell or high water, I still want to honor his wishes.

So where do I go with this?

Do I take it to the authorities? Do I tell Muse or Manning? Do I tell Augie?