Tell No One by Harlan Coben Page A

in a war newsreel.
    Wu had not bothered taking off his headset. His personal stereo did not blare hip hop or rap or even rock ‘n’ roll. He listened pretty much nonstop to those soothing-sounds CDs you might find at Sharper Image, the ones with names like Ocean Breeze and Running Brook.
    “Should I take him to Benny’s?” Wu asked. His voice had a slow, odd cadence to it, like a character from a Peanuts cartoon.
    Larry Gandle nodded. Benny ran a crematorium. Ashes to ashes. Or, in this case, scum to ashes. “And get rid of this.”
    Gandle handed Eric Wu the twenty-two. The weapon looked puny and useless in Wu’s giant hand. Wu frowned at it, probably disappointed that Gandle had chosen it over Wu’s own unique talents, and jammed it in his pocket. With a twenty-two, there were rarely exit wounds. That meant less evidence. The blood had been contained by a vinyl drop cloth. No muss, no fuss.
    “Later,” Wu said. He picked up the body with one hand as though it were a briefcase and carried it out.
    Larry Gandle nodded a good-bye. He took little joy from Vic Letty’s pain—but then again, he took little discomfort either. It was a simple matter really. Gandle had to know for absolute certain that Letty was working alone and that he hadn’t left evidence around for someone else to find. That meant pushing the man past the breaking point. There was no other way.
    In the end, it came down to a clear choice—the Scope family or Vic Letty. The Scopes were good people. They had never done a damn thing to Vic Letty. Vic Letty, on the other hand, had gone out of his way to try to hurt the Scope family. Only one of them could get off unscathed—the innocent, well-meaning victim or the parasite who was trying to feed off another’s misery. No choice when you thought about it.
    Gandle’s cell phone vibrated. He picked it up and said, “Yes.”
    “They identified the bodies at the lake.”
    “And?”
    “It’s them. Jesus Christ, it’s Bob and Mel.”
    Gandle closed his eyes.
    “What does it mean, Larry?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “So what are we going to do?”
    Larry Gandle knew that there was no choice. He’d have to speak with Griffin Scope. It would unearth unpleasant memories. Eight years. After eight years. Gandle shook his head. It would break the old man’s heart all over again.
    “I’ll handle it.”

6
    K im Parker, my mother-in-law, is beautiful. She’d always looked so much like Elizabeth that her face had become for me the ultimate what-might-have-been. But Elizabeth’s death had slowly sapped her. Her face was drawn now, her features almost brittle. Her eyes had that look of marbles shattered from within.
    The Parkers’ house had gone through very few changes since the seventies—adhesive wood paneling, wall-to-wall semi-shag carpet of light blue with flecks of white, a faux-stone raised fireplace à la the Brady Bunch. Folded TV trays, the kind with white plastic tops and gold metal legs, lined one wall. There were clown paintings and Rockwell collector plates. The only noticeable update was the television. It had swelled over the years from a bouncing twelve-inch black-and-white to the monstrous full-color fifty-incher that now sat hunched in the corner.
    My mother-in-law sat on the same couch where Elizabeth and I had so often made out and then some. I smiled for a moment and thought, ah, if that couch could talk. But then again, that hideous chunk of sitting space with the loud floral design held a lot more than lustful memories. Elizabeth and I had sat there to open our college acceptance letters. We cuddled to watch
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and
The Deer Hunter
and all the old Hitchcock films. We did homework, me sitting upright and Elizabeth lying with her head on my lap. I told Elizabeth I wanted to be a doctor—a big-time surgeon, or so I thought. She told me she wanted to get a law degree and work with kids. Elizabeth couldn’t bear the thought of children in pain.
    I