Die For You

ventures had come to Prague. He’d bought the apartment pre-construction in 2003 and now it was worth a fortune. There were legitimate ways to make money. Of course, one had to have money first in order to do that.

He unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed inside. He had a futon and a large flat-screen television equipped with satellite, pulling in hundreds of channels from around the world. In one of the bedrooms, there was a simple platform bed. Then just a desk and his laptop computer. The place smelled of fresh paint and new linens.

In the kitchen, he made himself an espresso and thought of the coffee he’d shared with Isabel on their last morning together. He searched for the pain and the sadness he’d felt as he’d driven off with Ivan. But it was gone. He wondered if he’d ever felt anything at all. Or was it all part of a charade he’d played too well? What did it really mean to love someone? Did it have to last forever to have existed at all?

He took his coffee and sat on the futon, flipped on the television, scanning the menu for CNN. He didn’t have to wait long for the story. After ten minutes of enduring news of the real-estate and mortgage crisis, the discovery of a Texas cult compound, the newest way to lose those extra ten pounds, before he saw Isabel’s face on the screen, then his own. He turned up the volume.

“Detectives working the case have tied the recent crimes to the unsolved 1999 disappearance of Marcus Raine, a man they now believe was murdered. They say they are exploring connections from the current crimes, including the recent murder of Camilla Novak, who was also the girlfriend of the man who went missing in 1999.” A picture of Camilla filled the screen.

Her image faded to an image of his face. This did not disturb him; his facial hair grew quickly and he’d more than doubled his caloric intake. Within a few days, he’d look different enough to pass anywhere unnoticed. Until then he’d stay out of sight.

“This man, whom officials say is Kristof Ragan, is a Czech immigrant who came to the U.S. on a student visa in 1990 and disappeared in violation of his visa after graduating from Hunter College in 1994 with a degree in computer science, and is the husband of bestselling author Isabel Connelly.”

That disturbed him. How had they learned a portion of his true history and his given name? Of course, he wasn’t using that name now, but still. Who knew the truth about him? Sara would not betray him; he knew that. The only other possibility was Ivan. He regretted his decision to spare his brother. Another weakness, another mistake made out of love-or something like it.

“Isabel Connelly is considered a person of interest. Her whereabouts are currently unknown.”

“We urge Ms. Connelly to turn herself in,” said a handsome detective. He was well-dressed, his shield on a chain around his neck. “Kristof Ragan is a dangerous man.”

The shellacked, plastic woman who passed as a newscaster looked deeply into the lens of the camera and said, “In a case that involves murder, identity theft, and the disappearance of over a million dollars, truth, it would seem, is stranger than fiction.”

In his stomach, he felt an uncomfortable mingling of anger and fear. Sara had warned him: “You let Camilla live, and look where it got you. It will be the same with this one. She’ll rest no easier, I promise you.”

“She will,” he’d said, not actually believing it himself. “She has too much to tie her to her life-her work, her family. A threat to them will keep her in line. She can’t afford to come after me.”

“Hmm,” Sara had said skeptically. “I saw her. I think nothing could keep her from coming after you.”

“If that happens, it will be my problem.”

Another error in judgment, another knot to be tied now.

Then the cell phone in his pocket rang. It was a disposable phone he’d picked up at the airport, and only one person had the number. He answered quickly, surprised.

“I didn’t think you’d call,” he said by way of greeting.

There was a pause, a light breathing on the line. He could almost smell the peppermint on her breath.

“I didn’t think I would, either,” she said finally. Her voice was sweet, with a lilting British accent that spoke volumes of her wealth and education. “What you said, about not having time to play games. I liked it. I… don’t want to play games, either.”

“Then I’ll see you tonight?” He had a way of making his voice sound halting, nervous, and vulnerable when he was anything but.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

23

In the East Village studio where he lived, police found evidence of Ben Jameson’s powerful obsession with Linda Book. Stacks of newspaper clippings, photographs from interviews, as well as many taken while she shopped with her kids or dined with her husband or attended her yoga class-he’d been watching her. He’d kept a journal of their imagined affair.

He’d been married, had two small girls. But his wife had left him years ago; he had only limited, supervised time with his children. His wife had cited abuse, mental illness, finally left him after he put her in the hospital with a concussion and a broken nose. She loved him still but was afraid of his terrible rages, the deep well of depression where he often disappeared for weeks, months.

On medication, he was the kindest man, loving and gentle, thoughtful and romantic, she claimed. But without, he could be a monster. She’d been hopeful over the last year. He’d been stable, dutiful about his meds, had seemed almost happy. His visits with the girls were enjoyable, peaceful. But it was his fantasy about Linda Book that had been bolstering him. When he stopped his medication, the downward spiral was quick and final.

“We met at the gallery that was showing my work, at the opening party,” Linda told Erik. “You remember, we had an encounter over a bad review he wrote about one of my shows. But it was fine, even funny. He called a few days later to apologize. We met for coffee. I was networking, you know. But then he kept calling. A week later I bumped into him outside my yoga studio. He said that he’d been in the neighborhood interviewing another artist. But that was the first time I realized there might be something wrong.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

“How long has this been going on, Linda?”

“Six months, on and off.”

“Linda.”

“It’s been so stressful lately. I didn’t want to add anything to our plate. Maybe I thought by ignoring it, it would just go away. He was always polite, never crazy. I don’t know, maybe I liked the attention.”

Erik was silent, his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

She hated herself for her sins of omission, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell the truth, to take another brick out of the foundation of their marriage. Ben was dead. His obsession with her was obvious and documented. No one even seemed to suspect that there was an actual affair. She’d never left him a voice-mail message or sent him an e-mail. She knew his cell phone records, if it came to that, would show a lot of calls to her, but only a couple from her phone. Returning his calls, she’d say. She thought they were friendly, she’d say, if not quite friends. She didn’t want to be rude. He was a reviewer for a major paper, after all. She knew even the text messages she’d sent were purposely vague, innocuous.

“Did you sleep with him, Linda? Were you having an affair?”

She hadn’t expected him to ask the question flat out like that. She tried to muster righteous indignation, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even bring herself to answer.

“Last night on the phone you said, ‘I’ve made mistakes, too.’ Do you remember?”

She nodded. They were alone, for the first time since “the event,” as she’d heard it referred to a number of times. The event of a man blowing his head off in front of their eyes. She found she couldn’t remember anything but the sound of her own screaming. No one should have to see such a thing twice; her psyche seemed to know this and cut her a break. The event, from the moment she heard him call her name on the street, was now a vague black-and-red blur in her memory.