Tell No One Read online

  She shouldn’t have waited so long to look for him.

  What if he’d died? That very real possibility was the one that most worried and frightened her. But if he hadn’t, if he was living, how would her father greet her? With warmth like Coach Kelly? Or was he still angry with her, as she had been all those years ago with him? Would she have to endure his rejection once more? Her heart fisted at the thought. It made her want to run for the door, forgetting the critical circumstances that had brought her. Turning to the fire, she stretched her hands toward it. She had always thought there would be time to put things right. She knew now that wasn’t true.

  “When Jace told me you were coming, I got out an album of photos—”

  “I doubt she came to look at old pictures,” Jace said.

  Caroline shot a questioning glance at him.

  “I’m concerned he’ll wear himself out,” Jace said, but Caroline sensed there was more to it, that he wanted her gone. Tension coiled heavily in her stomach.

  “I’m not a child, Jace.” Coach Kelly picked up a leather-bound book that was probably close to three inches thick. “There are all kinds of pictures in here of you and your dad and Jace from when you were kids.”

  Caroline hadn’t expected this, that they would sit down and visit, and from the tight look on Jace’s face, neither had he. But possibly he was only concerned for his dad. Coach Kelly did look almost feverish now with anticipation and a longing she recognized. Her mother could get the same expression. Out of the blue she might say: Do you remember when we . . . ? She had recently confessed that as she got older, she experienced the odd moment when the past seemed more alive to her than the present. Sometimes, when her mom related some memory, Caroline detected notes of remorse in her tone, but she never pressed her to explain. The past was bad country, a half-submerged battleground. Even Caroline didn’t know where all the land mines were buried.

  “Pull that chair over,” Coach Kelly instructed.

  She did as he asked, dragging the wing chair nearest to her closer to its mate, thinking he was probably lonely. Last she knew, he’d been a widower, having lost his wife to cancer when Jace was seven. Caroline had shared that with Jace—the loss of a parent at a young age. Not in the same way. Neither of Caroline’s parents had died, but when she was five, they had divorced. Her dad’s absence from her day-to-day life had felt irrevocable. Her mom had retreated then, too, into a cave of grief. In the aftermath Caroline had left bowls of cereal beside her mom’s bed. She’d learned not to ask when her daddy was coming home. Her saving grace then had been the weekends she’d spent with her dad at his sister’s, her beloved aunt Lanie’s house. By Sunday, though, dread at having to return home to her mom would set in. Squatted on the porch steps after her dad had dropped her off, watching him drive away, she’d whisper, Come back, come back, come back, as if his return—her family’s restoration to their once-upon-a-time life—were a matter of asking, or begging, or any words at all.

  Coach Kelly turned the pages of the album, pointing out photos of various players he’d coached through the years. “I still hear from some of them,” he said. “You remember this guy, don’t you? Brick Coleman?”

  “Sure do,” Caroline said. Brick was one of her dad’s most successful recruiting stories, one of the handful of his discoveries who’d gone on to play pro.

  “Dad’s been ill.” Jace circled to the window and came back. “He tires easily—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that—” Caroline began.

  “I’m fine.” Coach Kelly shot Jace a hard glance. “I had a stroke a while back, and now Jace has turned into Old Mother Hubbard.” He shifted the photo album on his knees. “Brick lives here in town, did you know? His uncle does too. The three of us still get together from time to time. They’re on TSU’s board of trustees.”

  The coach went on. And on. Caroline uncrossed and recrossed her knees, barely able to pay attention. Do you know where my dad is? Have you seen him? Where can I find him? The various ways to pose the question she’d come here to ask rattled through her brain, an endless cycle.

  Coach Kelly turned another page. “Ah, look at this one,” he said, tapping a photo that had been taken in the yard outside his front door. “Do you remember the year your dad brought you to homecoming? That mum, just look at the size.”

  “Do you ever hear from him? My dad?” She couldn’t hold her query inside a moment longer. “Do you know where he is?”

  Coach Kelly looked at her, startled.

  Jace straightened. “Why are you asking?”

  “We—we lost touch some years ago.” Caroline couldn’t bring herself to admit how many—twenty-eight and counting. “I need to find him. My aunt Lanie—my dad’s sister—did you ever meet her?”

  “No. I heard Hoff speak of her,” Coach Kelly said.

  “You talked about her,” Jace said, and the light in his eyes was kinder, more reminiscent of the boy she remembered. “You always said she was like a second mother to you.”

  “Yes.” The word was all Caroline could manage. The truth was that for a time, Lanie had been her only mother. “She’s not well,” Caroline continued when she regained her composure. “In fact she’s dying. She hasn’t much time left—a matter of three months at most, and that’s optimistic—and she . . . she wants to see him.”

  The Kellys, father and son, murmured condolences for which Caroline thanked them. “It’s why I’ve come. Lanie wants to see her brother again—Hoff, my dad—before she’s . . . gone. They had a falling-out, and it’s been a long time since she’s heard from him.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how you think I can help,” Coach Kelly began.

  “We can’t.” Jace was emphatic.

  She felt the fine hairs rise on the back of her neck. He knew—something. She would bet money on it.

  “He had that accident,” the coach said, and in contrast to Jace, his demeanor was relaxed, without a hint of stress. “You remember. When was it?” He took off his glasses, squinting into the near distance. “1987, ’88? We were on the field, third quarter. It was a bowl game, the Heartland Bowl, I recall. We were down by seven.”

  “It was Tuesday, December twenty-seventh, 1988.” Caroline murmured the date, one she would never forget.

  “It was a terrible thing,” Coach Kelly said. “The refs stopped the game. I had no idea the person in the stands who’d fallen was Hoff until the ambulance came. I called your mother—”

  “Yes, she told me.” Your father has suffered a traumatic brain injury. Caroline could still recall her mother’s exact words. Even now, the sound of them in her mind hurt. But in the quest to find her father, begun only days ago, this was only the latest memory to cause her pain. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it, ripping open all the old wounds.

  “I’m really sorry about your aunt.” Jace stood up. “But Dad hasn’t heard from Hoff in years, and this is wearing him out.”

  “We did the best we could.” Coach Kelly spoke as if Jace hadn’t. “We helped him once he was in rehab and when he got out, but he left Omaha shortly after that. Like I said before, I haven’t heard anything from him in years.”

  “Yes, all right.” Caroline spoke quickly, not allowing Jace to interrupt. “But going through my mother’s things the other day, I found an old letter he wrote to her, dated in August or April of 1989. Only the A is visible for the month. It’s postmarked Wichita, Kansas—”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Dad.” Jace talked over Caroline.

  “He mentioned you.” Caroline addressed the coach. “He said he was in some kind of trouble with you. I’ve got the letter with me.” She stood up, intending to get it from her purse. “He wrote that he was scared,” she added, coming around the back of her chair.

  “I don’t think Dad needs to see it.” Jace stood up too. “I’ll walk out with you, get your coat. Dad, you should go lie down.”

  “It’s fine, son. I’d like to see the letter.”

  “It’ll
only take a moment,” Caroline said to Jace.

  “No, he’s had enough. He’s tired, and you need to go.”

  “Perhaps I can come back, then. Tomorrow? When he’s rested—”

  “There’s no point, Caro. He—we don’t know where Hoff is.”

  Caroline kept Jace’s gaze. He was clearly exasperated, but there was something more working in his eyes, something edgier.

  “I’m fine, son,” Coach Kelly said. “I want to visit with her, catch up. It’ll be like old times.” He looked at Caroline. “I could make hot chocolate. You like it with extra marshmallows, don’t you?” He seemed pleased with himself that he’d remembered.

  Caroline was touched.

  Jace was irked. “No, Dad. Caroline, it’s been nice seeing you, but Dad really needs to rest now.”

  “I said I’m fine.” A remnant of the Big Dog’s sideline bark sharpened Coach Kelly’s voice. He got to his feet, but drawing himself upright, he staggered a bit.

  Instantly Jace was there, hand under his dad’s elbow, steadying him, his knowing glare fixed on Caroline.

  “I can see myself out.” It was the polite thing to do, Caroline thought. To persist would only anger Jace further and make her appear uncaring of his father’s health. But how could she just meekly go when she knew—knew in her bones—the Kellys, especially Jace, weren’t being honest with her when they claimed not to know anything about her dad? Leaving Jace to resettle Coach Kelly into the chair, she walked reluctantly out of the room.

  Jace followed her. “You see how weak he is. All I need now is for him to fall, break a hip.”

  They reached the front door.

  “I need my jacket,” Caroline answered, brain ticking. She was going to lose it, what could be her final chance to find out what the Kellys knew, if she didn’t speak, somehow force the issue. Rude or not, she had to do it for Lanie.

  Jace got her coat from the closet and handed it to her.

  “I’m sorry if I upset him.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves and picked up her purse from the bench. “I wouldn’t push like this ordinarily, but my aunt has so little time left. All she wants is to see her brother—”

  “I told you—”

  “I think you and your dad know more than you’ve said.” Caroline spoke before she could think, and while she was glad for whatever the impulse was that had moved her to say what was in her mind, her assurance was a fraud. Inside she was quaking, appalled.

  “Why would we keep information about him from you?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel—”

  “Are you calling us liars now?”

  “No, I—” she began, unnerved by his accusation.

  “Is that why you came? I don’t care for myself, you know, but Jesus, to have you come here after what?—some thirty years?—and try to pry information out of an old, sick man—”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “—and when he can’t give it to you, you call him a liar? What kind of person does that?”

  “My aunt is dying. Seeing her brother will bring her peace. I want to—I have to bring him to her. Do you understand? If you know something about where I can find him, you need to tell me, right now.” Anger steadied her voice, kept the tears that burned her eyes from falling.

  Jace opened the front door. “Just go,” he said. “Don’t come back. Don’t try and contact my dad. If you do—”

  “If I do, what?”

  “I don’t know, Caroline. Okay?”

  He looked rattled and mad, but he was shook up, too—as if he were scared, Caroline thought, which made no sense.

  He shoved a hand across his head. “If you’re smart, you’ll take my advice and get the hell out of Omaha.”

  “Why? Tell me.” She was begging him now.

  He didn’t respond. He stepped around her, widening the door, leaving her no choice but to cross the threshold, and once she was outside, he closed it.

  Standing alone on the porch, she heard the click of the dead bolt as it shot across.

  As she left the Kellys, her mind wasn’t on her driving but on them. Or more specifically Jace and what he was hiding. Because there was something. She’d felt it. She’d felt his panic too. Unless she was adding drama that wasn’t there, which, given the state of her nerves, was a possibility. She remembered an afternoon when they were kids—Jace must have been fourteen or so. She’d been eleven, she guessed. He’d taken her fishing, spent hours showing her the ins and outs of baiting her hook, casting her line. There hadn’t been a glimmer of that boy’s patience in the man she’d seen today. She remembered having a crush on him—

  She looked around, registering her surroundings. The light had been going when she’d left the Kellys, and now it was full dark. She had no conception of how much time had passed, and even less of a sense of her location—on some highway feeder road, navigating an army of construction signs and equipment. When it dead-ended, she was forced to make a right turn into a subdivision that was also under construction. The beams from her headlights picked at the wooden bones of the half-built houses, a geometric lace of scaffolding. A dirty rime of snow hugged the freshly formed curbs; ice patched the newly laid pavement. A sudden flash in her side-view mirror pulled her gaze, making her blink. Someone was behind her now. Looking back at the rearview, she could see nothing of the driver. He was close, though.

  Too close.

  Was he lost like her? What were the odds?

  She made a quick left down another winding empty street, slowing midblock, still watching in her rearview. Nothing. No sign of the other driver. She felt a cooling flush of relief. But now something—a sound? Her intuition? She’d never know—made her look up. There it was, the other car, approaching the intersection. No headlights now. Only a predatory outline was visible in the mix of ambient city light and the muted light from the full January moon. The car—an SUV, one of the bigger ones, Caroline thought—made the turn and rolled silently toward her, picking up speed. The headlights cut on, blinding her.

  This was no coincidence.

  Heart slamming her chest wall, she floored the accelerator. The sound of the engine of her smaller rental sedan roared in her ears. An orange-and-white barricade marking the end of the pavement jumped out at her from the farthest reach of her headlights. A sign, lettered in red and hanging from the crossbar, stood out: WARNING! It seemed to shout the word. Jerking her gaze, she spotted a street to her right, and wrenching the wheel, she made the turn. Her pursuer followed her, keeping pace. Not backing off or slowing down. It was insane. She was dreaming, lost in some horrible nightmare. When she felt it, the tap of his bumper, as light as a friendly kiss, she didn’t believe it. Stepping harder on the gas was reflex. Every instinct screamed she couldn’t go faster; she would lose control. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Another street to her left loomed from the darkness. She yanked the steering wheel, making the turn, thanking God when the tires held.

  But whoever was behind her wasn’t done. The second impact was harder, and this time the tires didn’t hold. They skated. Sideways.

  Ice. She’d hit black ice.

  Don’t brake, shouted a voice in her brain. But it was useless. The car was out of control, sliding across the road. A sound tore the air, some god-awful grinding noise. Now a scream. Hers? She was thrown back. Forward. A kind of shudder went through her, or possibly it was the car that shook, and then all movement stopped.

  Darkness encroached, crumbling the edges of her consciousness. She couldn’t raise her head, not when she heard the crack of her car door or even when she felt the man grip her shoulder.

  He said her name: “Caroline.”

  2

  Harris—Monday, January 8

  He loves the way the dream starts. He’s a kid again, twelve, the same age as his youngest son, and he’s got about as much on his mind as Connor does now, which is pretty much nothing. It’s a good day. Harris can feel how good it is in the loose way he holds himself with no sense of fear. He doesn’t kn
ow the meaning of fear, not real fear, anyway. Not yet. He’s at the Wyatt High School Warriors’ football field. It’s a Saturday afternoon in September. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and the air is thick with the smell of heat and dust. It’s the fourth quarter, twenty-six seconds on the clock. His seventh-grade team is down by six points. As the quarterback he’s got the ball, and he’s scrambling back and away from the opposing team’s defenders. He knows his only chance—the team’s only chance—to win this game is if he can get off a pass, and he’s looking downfield toward the end zone, hunting a likely target. He finds his mark, but the receiver is so far away.

  Too far.

  A sensation that he’s looking through the wrong end of a telescope overcomes him. He’s got no choice, though. He’s out of options, out of time. He wiggles the ball in his right hand, stretching his fingers across the laces, feeling the grainy leather curve settle just so against his palm. And he knows, somehow he knows, that when the ball lifts off his hand, it’ll be the Hail Mary, the miracle pass that’ll win the game. In his dream he’s unmolested, alone, when he tips back his head to watch as the ball spirals high, a dark and mysterious missile, following the arc of a bright-blue sky. There is a moment of awed silence, and then he hears the crowd cheer. He feels his teammates rush him. They roughly embrace him; they pummel his back. He feels himself boosted onto their shoulders, and he’s swept up in the feeling of elation, borne aloft, a conquering hero.

  But the sensation doesn’t last.

  It never lasts.

  The scene becomes warped. He’s on the ground in the end zone now, brought down by someone who has barreled into him from behind. A rope lassos his neck. His hands are tied, and he’s dragged the length of the football field. Harris somehow finds the strength to raise his head, and as if the man, his attacker, senses he’s being looked at, he stops and turns, giving Harris the full view of his face. It is a monster’s face, twisted by hate, with reddened eyes as round and hard as marbles. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Now a curtain of blood descends over the face, drenching the monster, puddling at his feet. So much blood. Jesus. Run! a voice shouts in his brain . . .