Read No Coming Back for Free Online Page A

palm-down on the beech countertop, both pinned in place by steak knives stabbed through the soft webbing between the thumbs and the index fingers. Not enough to completely tear the skin into flaps, but sufficient to prevent him from pulling free and calling the cops. Trickles of blood had pooled on the wood.
    “Please.” There was a distinct tremor in his voice. “I’ll give you all the money. Every last penny. Just don’t hurt my wife.”
    Tolstoy slid Blake’s checkbook across the counter and slapped a pen down next to it. “So write the check and we can both go back to bed.” He reached over and pulled the steak knife out of the Blake’s right hand.
    A minute later, Tolstoy was on his way back to his pickup when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, squinting at the small screen. It was a text message from an old friend:
    “Jake Olson is back in town. You know what needs to be done.”

Chapter Five
    H arper isn’t what you might call a pulsating metropolis. At best, the population teeters around the two thousand mark. At worst, that number swells in the summertime into the six figures. The reason? Harper is what’s known as a gateway community. A frontier town, clinging to the edge of the great outdoors. Last call for every East Coast city slicker with a permit and a canoe.
    In any other town, Merrill’s Diner would be a trendy coffee shop or a fast-food outlet. One of those big-brand clones that have elbowed their way onto every intersection and kicked out the competition. The one thing small towns have in their favor is charm, and it protects them from the big-boy franchises. Merrill’s has stood on the corner of Charlotte and Main for what seems like forever, or at least since jukeboxes ruled the roost, and that in itself is a lifeti me ago.
    I used to come here all the time with Jenna.
    It’s impossible not to fill my thoughts with her as I sit here waiting, staring through the window at the street lights holding back the dark. Jenna was my first love. It meant something, sti ll doe s. Recently, I think about her more than I have in years—still spellbound by her bright blue eyes and the way the rest of the world dimmed in the brilliance of her smile. Pathetic, I know. A counselor once told me I have a fixation with my feelings for Jenna and an idealistic way of remembering her, both of which act as an overcompensation for her absence. Maybe so. But it doesn’t make me feel or think any differently.
    Ned and Nancy aren’t the only ones who have held a torch for her all these years, I realize. Discovering her remains doesn’t just bring closure, it brings finality and has left me on a knife’s edge.
    I press achy shoulders against the back of the booth and draw a slow breath. A tall mug of coffee is warming my hands. I think about the messages on the answering machine, especially the anonymous recordings. Unsurprisingly, I have enemies in town. People who’d rather I never came back or, better yet, that I’d died in the Twin Cities and spared everyone the heartache. Any lesser person would run a mile. But I’m not easily scared these days, or deterred.
    On the wall, a TV is showing a 24-hour news channel. The scene depicts a Middle East warzone: shelled buildings, speckled with bullet holes; dazed survivors scurrying for cover under the thunder of incoming artillery; dusty babies crying in mothers’ arms; broken bodies mangled in the rubble. It’s the kind of foreign shore where my brother would have defended his country. The clip could be current or ten years old; same scene every day of the week, year in and year out. Far enough from Minnesota to make it somebody else’s problem.
    With a sucking noise, the diner’s door opens, allowing a gust of freezing air to blow in and ruffle the napkins. On the back of it comes an old man in a padded parka. One of those Russian-style ushanka fur hats is curled up on his head like a sleeping mink. He walks with the aid of a cane but his