Harlan Coben - Six Years

“What can you tell me about her?”

Benedict put a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you asking my client?”

Telesco pinned me down with her eyes. “You were visiting her sister when we found you. Would you mind telling us what you were doing there?”

“And again,” Benedict said, “why are you asking my client?”

“The woman’s name is Natalie Avery. We’ve previously spoken at length to her sister, Julie Pottham. She claims that her sister lives in Denmark.”

I spoke this time. “What do you want with her?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Then neither am I,” I said.

Telesco looked at Mulholland. He shrugged. “Okay, then. You’re free to go.”

We all stood there, playing this game of chicken. To mix metaphors, I had no cards here so I was the first to blink. “We used to date,” I said.

They waited for more.

Benedict said, “Jake . . . ,” but I waved him off.

“I’m looking for her.”

“Why?”

I glanced at Benedict. He seemed to be as curious as the cops. “I loved her,” I said. “I never really got over her. So I was hoping . . . I don’t know. I was hoping for some kind of reconciliation.”

Telesco wrote something down. “Why now?”

That anonymous e-mail came back to me:

You made a promise.

I sat back down and pulled the photograph closer. I swallowed hard. Natalie’s shoulders were hunched. Her beautiful face . . . I could feel myself well up . . . she looked terrified. My finger found her face, as if somehow she could feel my touch and would find comfort. I hated this. I hated seeing her so scared.

“Where was this taken?” I asked.

“It’s not important.”

“The hell it isn’t. You’re looking for her, aren’t you? Why?”

They looked at each other again. Telesco nodded. “Let’s just say,” Mulholland began slowly, “that Natalie is a person of interest.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not from us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” For the first time, I saw the facade drop and could see a flash of anger on Mulholland’s face. “We’ve been looking for her”—he grabbed the photograph of Otto—“but so were he and his friends. Who would you rather found her first?”

I stared at the photograph, my vision blurring and clearing, when I noticed something else. I tried not to move, tried not to change the expression on my face. In the bottom right-hand corner, there was a time-date stamp. It read: 11:47 P.M., May 24 . . . six years ago.

This picture had been taken a few weeks before Natalie and I met.

“Professor Fisher?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“But you’re looking?”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

I shrugged. “I missed her.”

“But why now?”

“It could have been a year ago. It could have been a year later. It was just the time.”

They didn’t believe me. Too bad.

“Have you had any luck?”

“No.”

“We can help her,” Mulholland said.

I said nothing.

“If Otto’s friends find her first . . .”

“Why are they looking for her? Hell, why are you looking for her?”

They changed subjects. “You were in Vermont. Two police officers identified you and we found your iPhone up there. Why?”

“It is where we dated.”

“She stayed at that farm?”

I was talking too much. “We met in Vermont. She got married in the chapel up there.”

“And how did your phone end up there?”

“He must have dropped it,” Benedict said. “By the way, can we get it back?”

“Sure. That can be arranged, no problem.”

Silence.

I looked at Telesco. “Have you been searching for her for the last six years?”

“In the beginning. But not so much in recent years, no.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I mean, well, the same question you asked me: Why now?”

Again they exchanged a glance. Mulholland said to Telesco, “Tell him.”

Telesco looked at me. “We stopped looking for her because we were sure that she was dead.”

I had somehow expected that answer. “Why did you think that?”

“It doesn’t involve you. You need to help us here.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“If you tell us what you know,” Telesco said, her voice suddenly hard, “we forget all about Otto.”

Benedict: “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means? Your client claims self-defense.”

“So?”

“You asked about the cause of death. Here’s your answer: He snapped a man’s neck. I have news for you. A broken neck is rarely the result of self-defense.”

“First off, we deny that he had anything to do with the death of this felon—”

She put her hand up. “Save it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You can make all the threats you want. I don’t know anything.”

“Otto didn’t believe that, did he?”

Bob’s voice: “Where is she?”

Mulholland leaned close to me. “Are you dumb enough to think this is the end of it? You think they’ll just forget about you now? They underestimated you the first time. They won’t do that again.”

“Who are ‘they’?” I asked.

“Some seriously bad men,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“That makes no sense,” Benedict said.

“Listen to me closely. They can find Natalie first,” Mulholland said, “or we can. It’s your choice.”

Again I said, “I really don’t know anything.”

Which was true enough. But more than that, Mulholland had left off one last option, much as it might seem like a long shot.

I could find her.

Chapter 24

Benedict drove. “You want to fill me in?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“It’s a long drive. Speaking of which, where am I going to drop you off?”

Good question. I couldn’t go back to campus, not only because I was unwelcome, but as Detectives Mulholland and Telesco reminded me, some very bad people might be interested in finding me. I wondered whether Jed and Cookie were part of the same bad people as Bob and Otto or if I had two different groups of bad people after me. Doubtful. Bob and Otto were cool professionals. Grabbing me had been another day at the office. Jed and Cookie were bumbling amateurs—unsure, angry, scared. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I suspected that it was important.

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll start back toward campus, okay? You fill me in on what’s going on.”

So I did. Benedict kept his eyes on the road, nodding every once in a while. His face remained set, his hands always at ten and two. When I finished he said nothing for several seconds. Then: “Jake?”

“Yes?”

“You need to stop this,” Benedict said.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“A lot of people want to kill you.”

“I was never popular to begin with,” I said.

“True enough, but you’ve stumbled into some serious doo-doo.”

“You humanities professors and your big words.”

“I’m not joking,” he said.

I knew that.

“These people in Vermont,” Benedict said. “Who were they?”

“Old friends, in a way. I mean, that’s the weirdest part. Jed and Cookie were both there the first time I met Natalie.”

“And now they want to kill you?”

“Jed thinks that I had something to do with Todd Sanderson’s murder. But I can’t figure out why he’d care or how he knew Todd. There has to be some connection between them.”

“A connection between this Jed guy and Todd Sanderson?”

“Yes.”

“The answer is obvious, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Natalie,” I said.