Read Online Harlan Coben by No Second Chance - Free Book Online Page B

together. We had never broken up yet we had been apart all these years. I was still thirty-four, but she hadn’t aged since the day she left me. Tara was still my daughter in the dream—she had, in fact, never been kidnapped—but somehow she was also Rachel’s, though Rachel wasn’t the mother. You’ve probably had dreams like this. Nothing really makes sense, but you don’t challenge what you see. When I woke up, the dream faded into smoke the way dreams always do. I was left with an aftertaste and a longing that pulled with unexpected force.
    My mother hung around too much. She had just plopped another tray of food in front of me. I ignored it and for the millionth time, Mom repeated her mantra: “You have to keep up your strength for Tara.”
    â€œRight, Mom, strength is the key here. Maybe if I do enough bench presses, that’ll bring her back.”
    Mom shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. It was a cruel thing to say. She was hurting too. Her granddaughter was missing and her son was in horrific shape. I watched her sigh and head back to the kitchen. I didn’t apologize.
    Tickner and Regan visited frequently. They reminded me of Shakespeare’s sound and fury signifying nothing. They told me about all the technological wonders that were being utilized in the quest to find Tara—stuff involving DNA and latent prints and security cameras and airports and tollbooths and train stations and tracers and surveillance and labs. They trotted out the tried-and-true cop clichés like “no stone unturned” and “every possible avenue.” I nodded at them. They had me look at mug shots, but the bagman in flannel was not in any of the books.
    â€œWe ran a trace on B and T Electricians,” Regan told me that first night. “The company exists, but they use magnetic signs, the kind you can just peel off a truck. Someone stole one two months ago. They never thought it was worth reporting.”
    â€œWhat about the license plate?” I asked.
    â€œThe number you gave us doesn’t exist.”
    â€œHow can that be?”
    â€œThey used two old license plates,” Regan explained. “See, what they do is, they cut the license plates in half and then they weld the left half of one with the right half of the other.”
    I just stared at him.
    â€œThere is something of a bright side to that,” Regan added.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œIt means we’re dealing with professionals. They knew that if you contacted us, we’d be set up at the mall. They found a drop spot that we couldn’t get to without being seen. They have us tracking down useless leads with the fake sign and welded license plates. Like I said, they’re pros.”
    â€œAnd that’s good because . . . ?”
    â€œPros usually aren’t bloodthirsty.”
    â€œSo what are they doing?”
    â€œOur theory,” Regan said, “is that they’re softening you up, so they can ask for more money.”
    Softening me up. It was working.
    My father-in-law called after the ransom fiasco. I could hear the disappointment in Edgar’s voice. I don’t want to sound unkind here—Edgar was the one who provided the money and made it clear he would do so again—but the disappointment sounded more aimed at me, at the fact that I had not taken his advice about not contacting the police, than at the final outcome.
    Of course, he was right about that. I had messed up big time.
    I tried to participate in the investigation, but the police were far from encouraging. In the movies the authorities cooperate and share information with the victim. I naturally asked Tickner and Regan a lot of questions about the case. They didn’t answer. They never discussed specifics with me. They treated my interrogatories with near disdain. I wanted to know, for example, more about how my wife was found, about why she’d been naked. They