WIN, Coben, Harlan [ebook and pdf reader .txt] 📗

When he hesitated, I made the spear shape with my fingers.

Yes, he said. Many years later. He couldn’t be sure it was Belinda, he said, though I think that’s a lie.

He was sure.

*  *  *

The late-night sex with Username Helena is not very good.

After I leave Ian Cornwell, it is too late to do more sleuthing. I am not sure that I need to do more immediate work anyway.

I know it all now.

There are a few loose ends, but if I let all this evidence settle for a few hours—plus having Kabir and my team spend the night nailing down a few additional details—I firmly believe all will become clear in the morning.

So, with that rationale in my mind, I keep my sex app appointment with Username Helena. She is willing and enthusiastic, and I am disappointed and surprised that I do not respond in kind. I find myself distracted. I know it appears that I am casual with sex, but the truth is very much the opposite. Sex is sacred to me. It is the closest thing I will ever know to religious euphoria. Many people feel like this in church or on a runner’s high or, in Myron’s case, when Springsteen plays “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland” in concert. For me, it only happens during sex. Sex is the excellent adventure, the grand voyage from which we completely disembark the moment we slip out of this bed. For me, sex is best when you have a—to use a business phrase I absolutely detest—“shared vision.” Tonight, there was simply too much static for a connection; it was merely a release, not all that different from masturbation.

As we lie back in silence, catching our breaths, eyes on the ceiling, Username Helena says, “That was nice.”

I say nothing. I debate a Round Two—perhaps that will put me more in the zone—but I’m not as young as I used to be, and it is getting late. I am idly wondering how we two will transition to exiting when my phone rings.

It is Kabir. The time is two a.m.

This can’t be good news. “Articulate,” I say.

“We have a big problem.”

CHAPTER 33

You found Arlo Sugarman.”

It has been twelve hours since Kabir’s phone call. My adrenaline spike has subsided, the crash thus imminent. I have not slept, and I can feel myself fraying at the edges. Stamina is a large part of my training, but genetically I am not predisposed to it. I am also aging, which obviously hampers stamina, and I have very little real-world experience in needing it. I have rarely had to stay up all night on patrol, as one might in the military, or been forced to go days on end with no sleep. I do battle—and then I rest.

The old woman speaking to me now is Vanessa Hogan.

I am back at her house in Kings Point. We are alone. Jessica set this up for me. At first, Vanessa Hogan was reluctant to consent to a second meeting. The enticement that pushed her over the edge, as I suspected it would, was that she and I would meet alone, only the two of us, and I would tell her the whereabouts of Arlo Sugarman.

“Could we start with you?” I ask her.

Vanessa Hogan is propped up via pillows on the same couch. Her skin tone is rosier than at our last meeting. She appears less frail. A scarf still covers her head. The house is empty. She’d sent her son Stuart to the grocery store.

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“I recently visited Billy Rowan’s father,” I say. “Do you know he and Edie Parker’s mother are something of an item?”

“I did not,” Vanessa says, her voice dripping something overly sticky. “How nice for them.”

“Yes. William Rowan is in assisted living. His room is filled with Christian imagery. There are framed Bible quotes on the wall. I found the contrast striking.”

“What contrast?”

“With your home,” I say, lifting both hands in the air. “I don’t even see a single cross.”

She shrugs. “That’s show religion,” Vanessa replies with a tinge of bitterness. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Alone, you’re correct, it wouldn’t. But I have done some digging. You’ve never been associated with a church, as far as I can see. You’ve never given money to any religious institution. In fact, before Frederick was killed—”

“Murdered,” Vanessa Hogan interrupts, a sticky-sweet smile plastered to her face. “My son wasn’t killed. He was murdered.”

I try to mirror the smile. “We are getting to it now, Ms. Hogan, aren’t we?”

“What does that mean?”

“My best friend was robbed of a pro basketball career because a man named Burt Wesson intentionally injured him. Destroyed his knee. One day, I paid Burt a visit. He hasn’t been the same since. There are men who have crossed my path who have done great wrongs. Over the years, I’ve conducted ‘night tours.’ Some survived, some didn’t, but none were ever the same. Most recently, right before Ry Strauss’s body was found, I made sure a bullying abuser would never harm anyone else again.”

Vanessa Hogan studies my face. “Do you have your phone with you, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I do.”

“Take it out and hand it to me.”

I do as she asks. She looks at the screen.

“Do you mind if I power it off?”

I signal for her to suit herself.

Vanessa Hogan presses the button on the side and holds it. The phone goes dark. She leaves it on the coffee table. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lockwood?”

“You know,” I say. “We both felt it that first meeting. All of our talk about vengeance.”

“I told you that vengeance should be the Lord’s.”

“But you didn’t mean it. You were testing me, gauging my reaction. I could see it in your face. The bullying abuser I injured last week? He was an active danger. Now he isn’t. Simple. He was neutralized by me because the law wouldn’t stop him.”

She nods. “You said you wanted to do the same to the men who killed your