Over the past eleven years, Ken has eluded an international dragnet. There have however been "sightings."
The first came about a year after the murder from a small fishing village in northern Sweden. Interpol swooped in, but somehow my brother evaded their grasp. Supposedly he was tipped off. I can't imagine how or by whom.
The next sighting occurred four years later in Barcelona. Ken had rented--to quote the newspaper accounts--"an oceanview hacienda" (Barcelona is not on an ocean) with--again I will quote--"a lithe, dark-haired woman, perhaps a flamenco dancer." A vacationing Livingston resident, no less, reported seeing Ken and his Castilian paramour dining beachside. My brother was reportedly tan and fit and wore a white shirt opened at the collar and loafers without socks. The Livingstonite, one Rick Horowitz, had been a classmate of mine in Mr. Hunt's fourth-grade class. During a three-month period, Rick entertained us by eating caterpillars during recess.
Barcelona Ken yet again slipped through the law's fingers.
The last time my brother was purportedly spotted he was skiing down the expert hills in the French Alps (interestingly enough, Ken never skied before the murder). Nothing came of it, except a story on 48 Hours. Over the years, my brother's fugitive status had become the criminal version of a VH1 Where Are They Now, popping up whenever any sort of rumor skimmed the surface or, more likely, when one of the network's fish wraps was low on material.
I naturally hated television's "team coverage" of "suburbia gone wrong" or whatever similar cute moniker they came up with. Their "special reports" (just once, I'd like to see them call it a "normal report, everyone has done this story") always featured the same photographs of Ken in his tennis whites--he was a nationally ranked player at one time--looking his most pompous. I can't imagine where they got them. In them Ken looked handsome in the way that people hate right away. Haughty, Kennedy hair, suntan bold against the whites, toothy grin, Photograph Ken looked like one of those people of privilege (he was not) who coasted through life on his charm (a little) and trust account (he had none).
I had appeared on one of those magazine shows. A producer reached me--this was pretty early on in the coverage--and claimed that he wanted to present "both sides fairly." They had plenty of people ready to lynch my brother, he noted. What they truly needed for the sake of "balance" was someone who could describe the "real Ken" to the folks back home.
I fell for it.
A frosted-blond anchorwoman with a sympathetic manner interviewed me for over an hour. I enjoyed the process actually. It was therapeutic. She thanked me and ushered me out and when the episode aired, they used only one snippet, removing her question ("But surely, you're not going to tell us that your brother was perfect, are you? You're not trying to tell us he was a saint, right?") and editing my line so that I appeared in nose-pore-enhancing extreme close-up with dramatic music as my cue, saying, "Ken was no saint, Diane."
Anyway, that was the official account of what happened.
I've never believed it. I'm not saying it's not possible. But I believe a much more likely scenario is that my brother is dead--that he has been dead for the past eleven years.
More to the point, my mother always believed that Ken was dead. She believed it firmly. Without reservation. Her son was not a murderer. Her son was a victim.
"He's alive .... He didn't do it."
The front door of the Miller house opened. Mr. Miller stepped through it. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His fists rested on his hips in a pitiful Superman stance.
"Get the hell out of here, Will," Mr. Miller said to me. And I did.
The next big shock occurred an hour later.
Sheila and I were up in my parents' bedroom. The same furniture, a sturdy, faded swirling gray with blue trim, had adorned this room for as long as I could remember. We sat on the king-size bed with the weak-springed mattress. My mother's most personal items--the stuff she kept in her bloated nightstand drawers--were scattered over the duvet. My father was still downstairs by the bay windows, staring out defiantly.
I don't know why I wanted to sift through the things my mother found valuable enough to preserve and keep near her. It would hurt. I knew that. There is an interesting correlation between intentional pain infliction and comfort, a sort of playing-with-fire approach to grieving. I needed to do that, I guess.
I looked at Sheila's lovely face--tilted to the left, eyes down and focused--and I felt my heart soar. This is going to sound a little weird, but I could stare at Sheila for hours. It was not just her beauty--hers was not one would call classical anyway, her features a bit off center from either genetics or, more likely, her murky past--but there was an animation there, an inquisitiveness, a delicacy too, as if one more blow would shatter her irreparably. Sheila made me want to--bear with me here--be brave for her.
Without looking up, Sheila gave a half-smile and said, "Cut it out."
"I'm not doing anything."
She finally looked up and saw the expression on my face. "What?" she asked.
I shrugged. "You're my world," I said simply.
"You're pretty hot stuff yourself."
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, that's true."
She feigned a slap in my direction. "I love you, you know."
"What's not to love?"
She rolled her eyes. Then her gaze fell back onto the side of my mother's bed. Her face quieted.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"Your mother." Sheila smiled. "I really liked her."
"I wish you had known her before."
"Me too."
We started going through the laminated yellow clippings. Birth announcements--Melissa's, Ken's, mine. There were articles on Ken's tennis exploits. His trophies, all those bronze men in miniature in mid-serve, still swarmed his old bedroom. There were photographs, mostly old ones from before the murder. Sunny. It had been my mother's nickname since childhood. It suited her. I found a photo of her as PTA president. I don't know what she was doing, but she was onstage and wearing a goofy hat and all the other mothers were cracking up. There was another one of her running the school fair. She was dressed in a clown suit. Sunny was the favorite grown-up among my friends. They liked when she drove the carpool. They wanted the class picnic at our house. Sunny was parental cool without being cloying, just "off" enough, a little crazy perhaps, so that you never knew exactly what she would do next. There had always been an excitement--a crackle if you will--around my mother.
We kept it up for more than two hours. Sheila took her time, looking thoughtfully at every picture. When she stopped at one in particular, her eyes narrowed. "Who's that?"
She handed me the photograph. On the left was my mother in a semi-obscene yellow bikini, I'd say 1972ish, looking very curvy. She had her arm around a short man with a dark mustache and happy smile.
"King Hussein," I said.
"Pardon me?"
I nodded.
"As in the kingdom of Jordan?"
"Yep. Mom and Dad saw him at the Fontainebleau in Miami."
"And?"
"Mom asked him if he'd pose for a picture."
"You're kidding."
"There's the proof."
"Didn't he have guards or something?"
"I guess she didn't look armed."
Sheila laughed. I remember Mom telling me about the incident. Her posing with King Hussein, Dad's camera not working, his muttering under his breath, his trying to fix it, her glaring at him to hurry, the king standing patiently, his chief of security checking the camera, finding the problem, fixing it, handing it back to Dad.
My mom Sunny.
"She was so lovely," Sheila said.
It's an awful cliche to say that a part of her died when they found Julie Miller's body, but the thing about cliches is that they're often dead-on. My mother's crackle quieted, smothered. After hearing about the murder, she never threw a tantrum or cried hysterically. I often wish she had. My volatile mother became frighteningly even. Her whole manner became flat, mono
tone--passionless would be the best way to describe it--which in someone like her was more agonizing to witness than the most bizarre histrionics.
The front doorbell rang. I looked out the bedroom window and saw the Eppes-Essen deli delivery van. Sloppy joes for the, uh, mourners. Dad had optimistically ordered too many platters. Delusional to the end. He stayed in this house like the captain of the Titanic. I remember the first time the windows had been shot out with the BB gun not long after the murder-- the way he shook his fist with defiance. Mom, I think, wanted to move. Dad would not. Moving would be a surrender in his eyes. Moving would be admitting their son's guilt. Moving would be a betrayal.
Dumb.
Sheila had her eyes on me. Her warmth was almost palpable, more sunbeam on my face, and for a moment I just let myself bathe in it. We'd met at work about a year before. I'm the senior director of Covenant House on 41st Street in New York City. We're a charitable foundation that helps young runaways survive the streets. Sheila had come in as a volunteer. She was from a small town in Idaho, though she seemed to have very little small-town-girl left in her. She told me that many years ago, she too had been a runaway. That was all she would tell me about her past.
"I love you," I said.
"What's not to love?" she countered.
I did not roll my eyes. Sheila had been good to my mother toward the end. She'd take the Community Bus Line from Port Authority to Northfield Avenue and walk over to the St. Barnabas Medical Center. Before her illness, the last time my mom had stayed at St. Barnabas was when she delivered me. There was probably something poignantly life-cycling about that, but I couldn't see it just then.
I had however seen Sheila with my mother. And it made me wonder. I took a risk.
"You should call your parents," I said softly.
Sheila looked at me as though I'd just slapped her across the face. She slid off the bed.
"Sheila?"
"This isn't the time, Will."
I picked up a picture frame that held a photo of my tanned parents on vacation. "Seems as good as any."
"You don't know anything about my parents."
"I'd like to," I said.
She turned her back to me. "You've worked with runaways," she said.
"So?"
"You know how bad it can be."
I did. I thought again about her slightly off-center features--the nose, for example, with the telltale bump--and wondered. "I also know it's worse if you don't talk about it."
"I've talked about it, Will."
"Not with me."
"You're not my therapist."
"I'm the man you love."
"Yes." She turned to me. "But not now, okay? Please."
I had no response to that one, but perhaps she was right. My fingers were absently toying with the picture frame. And that was when it happened.
The photograph in the frame slid a little.
I looked down. Another photograph started peeking out from underneath. I moved the top one a little farther. A hand appeared in the bottom photograph. I tried pushing it some more, but it wouldn't go. My finger found the clips on back. I slid them to the side and let the back of the frame drop to the bed. Two photographs floated down behind it.
One--the top one--was of my parents on a cruise, looking happy and healthy and relaxed in a way I hardly ever remember them being. But it was the second photograph, the hidden one, that caught my eye.
The red-stamped date on the bottom was from less than two years ago. The picture was taken atop a field or hill or something. I saw no houses in the background, just snow-capped mountains like something from the opening scene of The Sound of Music. The man in the picture wore shorts and a backpack and sunglasses and scuffed hiking boots. His smile was familiar. So was his face, though it was more lined now. His hair was longer. His beard had gray in it. But there was no mistake.
The man in the picture was my brother, Ken.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2000 by Harlan Coben All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, N.Y.
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-89788
eISBN: 978-0-30748358-4
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Harlan Coben, Darkest Fear
(Series: Myron Bolitar # 7)
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