The Boy from the Woods

by Harlan Coben

  Tim shrugged. “He’s hiding something.”

  Hester did not reply.

  “So back to the city?” Tim asked.

  “Not yet,” Hester said. “Let’s stop at the Westville police station first.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Well, well, well, as I live and breathe. Hester Crimstein in my little station.”

  She sat in the office of Westville police chief Oren Carmichael, who, nearing retirement at age seventy, remained what he’d always been—a grade-A prime slice of top-shelf beefcake.

  “Nice to see you too, Oren.”

  “You look good.”

  “So do you.” Gray hair worked so well on men, Hester thought. Damn unfair. “How’s Cheryl?”

  “Left me,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cheryl always hit me as dumb.”

  “Right?”

  “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “She was beautiful,” Hester added.

  “Yes.”

  “But dumb. Is that insensitive?”

  “Cheryl might think so.”

  “I don’t care what she thinks.”

  “Me neither.” Oren Carmichael’s smile stunned. “This back-and-forth is fun.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “But I somehow don’t think you’re here for my middling repartee.”

  “I could be.” Hester sat back. “What do the kids call it when you do more than one thing at a time?”

  “Multitasking.”

  “Right.” She crossed her legs. “So maybe that’s what I’m doing.”

  Hester would say she’s a sucker for a man in a uniform, but that was such a cliché. Still, Oren Carmichael looked mighty fit in that uniform.

  “Do you remember the last time you were here?” Oren asked.

  Hester smiled. “Jeffrey.”

  “He was dropping eggs on cars from the overpass.”

  “Good times,” Hester said. “Why did you call Ira to pick Jeffrey up instead of me?”

  “Ira didn’t scare me.”

  “And I did?”

  “If you want to use the past tense, sure.” Oren Carmichael tilted his chair back. “Do you want to tell me why you’re here, or should we keep with the banter?”

  “Think we’ll get better at it?”

  “The banter? Can’t get worse.”

  Thirty-four years ago, Oren had been on the posse that found the young boy in the woods. Everyone, including Hester, thought that mystery would be solved quickly, but no one ever claimed Wilde. No one ever found out who left him in the woods or how he’d gotten there in the first place. No one ever figured out how long the little boy had lived on his own or how Wilde had survived.

  No one—still, after all these years—knows who the hell Wilde really is.

  She debated asking Oren about Wilde, just to get an update on him, maybe use that as a way to ease into the rest.

  But Wilde wasn’t her business anymore.

  She had to leave that alone, so she dove into the real reason she was here.

  “Naomi Pine. You know who she is?”

  Oren Carmichael folded his hands and rested them on that flat stomach. “Do you think I know every high school girl in this town?”

  “How did you know she’s a high school girl?” Hester asked.

  “Can’t get anything past you. Let’s say I know her.”

  Hester wasn’t sure how to put it, but again the direct route seemed the best. “A source tells me she’s missing.”

  “A source?”

  Okay, so not so direct. By God, Oren was handsome. “Yes.”

  “Hmm, isn’t your grandson about Naomi’s age?”

  “Let’s pretend that’s a coincidence.”

  “He’s a good kid, by the way. Matthew, I mean.”

  She said nothing.

  “I still coach the basketball team,” he continued. “Matthew is hardworking and scrappy like…”

  He stopped before he could say David’s name. Neither of them moved. For a few moments, the silence sucked something out of the room.

  “Sorry,” Oren said.

  “Don’t be.”

  “Should I pretend again?” he asked.

  “No,” Hester said in a soft voice. “Never. Not when it comes to David.”

  Oren, in his capacity as police chief, had gone to the scene the night of the crash.

  “To answer your question,” Oren said, “no, I don’t know anything about Naomi being missing.”

  “No one called it in or anything?”

  “No, why?”

  “She’s been out of school for a week.”

  “So?”

  “So could you just make a call?”

  “You’re worried?”

  “That’s putting it too strongly. Let’s just say a call would put my mind at ease.”

  Oren scratched his chin. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “Other than my phone number?”

  “Hester.”

  “No, nothing. I’m doing this as a favor.”

  Oren frowned. Then: “I’ll make some calls.”

  “Great.”

  He looked at her. She looked at him.

  Oren said, “I guess you don’t want me to do this later and call you with the results.”

  “Why, are you busy right now?”

  He sighed. Oren called Naomi’s house first. No answer. Then he called the school’s truant officer. The truant officer put him on hold. When the officer came back on the line, she said, “So far, the student’s absences have been verified.”

  “You spoke to a parent?”

  “Not me, but someone in the office.”

  “What did the parent say?”

  “It’s just marked as excused.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Why? Are you requesting that I take a ride out there?”

  Oren looked over the phone at Hester. Hester shook her head.

  “No, I’m just checking all the boxes. Anything else?”

  “Just that this girl will probably need to either repeat the grade or do extensive summer school. She’s been absent a lot this semester.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oren hung up.

  “Thanks,” Hester said.

  “Sure.”

  She thought about it. “I get how you know Matthew,” she said slowly. “From me. From David. From the basketball team.”

  He said nothing.

  “And I know you’re very active in the community, which is commendable.”

  “But you’re wondering how I know Naomi.”

  “Yes.”

  “I probably should have said why from the start.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Remember the movie Breakfast Club?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Oren looked surprised. “You never saw it?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Man, my kids had it on all the time, even though it was before their time.”

  “Is there a point?”

  “Do you remember the actress Ally Sheedy?”

  She bit back a sigh. “No.”

  “Not important. In the movie, Ally Sheedy plays a high school outcast who reminds me of Naomi. In one confessional scene, the character lets down her guard and says, ‘My home life is unsatisfying.’”

  “And that’s Naomi?”

  Oren nodded. “This wouldn’t be the first time she’s run away. Her father—and this is confidential—has three DUIs.”

  “Any signs of abuse?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it. More like neglect. Naomi’s mother walked out, I don’t know, five, ten years ago. Hard to say. The dad works long hours in the city. I think he’s just in over his head raising the girl alone.”

  “Okay,” Hester said. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Let me walk you out.”

  When they reached the door, they turned to each o
ther full-on. Hester felt a blush come to her cheeks. A blush. Are you ever too old?

  “So do you want to tell me what Matthew said to you about Naomi?” Oren asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Please, Hester, let’s pretend that I’m a trained law enforcement officer who has been on the job for forty years. You casually stop by my office and ask about a troubled girl who happens to be a classmate of your grandson’s. The detective in me wonders why and concludes that Matthew must have said something to you.”

  Hester was going to deny it, but that wouldn’t do any good. “Off the record, yes, Matthew asked me to look into it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He waited.

  “I really don’t.”

  “Okay then.”

  “He seems worried about her.”

  “Worried how?”

  “Again: I don’t know. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to look into it a little.”

  Oren frowned. “Look into it how?”

  “I think I’ll stop by her house. Talk to the father. That okay?”

  “Would it matter if I said it wasn’t?”

  “No. And no, I don’t think there is anything to it.”

  “But?”

  “But Matthew has never asked me for anything before. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do, yes,” he said. “And if you learn anything while looking into it…”

  “I’ll call you immediately, promise.” Hester took out her business card and handed it to him. “That’s my cell number.”

  “You want mine?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He kept his eyes on the card. “But didn’t you just say you’d call me?”

  She could feel her heart beating in her chest. Age was a funny thing. When your heart starts beating like this, you’re in high school all over again.

  “Oren?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know we are supposed to be all modern and woke and all that.”

  “Right.”

  “But I still think the guy should call the girl.”

  He held up her business card. “And by coincidence, I now have your phone number.”

  “Small world.”

  “Take care, Hester.”

  * * *

  “Just the basics,” Tim said, handing sheets back to Hester. “More coming soon.”

  They stored a printer in the trunk that hooked up to a laptop Tim kept in the glove compartment. Sometimes Hester’s paralegals downloaded information to her phone, but Hester still preferred the tactile reading experience of paper. She liked to make notes with a pen or underline important phrases.

  Old school. Or just old.

  “You have the address for Naomi Pine?” she asked him.

  “I do.”

  “How far away?”

  Tim looked at the GPS. “Two-point-six miles, six minutes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  She skimmed the notes as Tim drove. Naomi Pine, sixteen years old. Parents divorced. Father, Bernard. Mother, Pia. Father had sole custody, which was interesting in and of itself. In fact, Mother had given up all parental claims. Unusual, to put it mildly.

  The house was old and worn. The paint had at one time been white, but it was more a cream-to-brown now. Every window was blocked by either a thick shade or cracked shutter.

  “What do you think?” Hester asked Tim.

  Tim made a face. “Looks like a safe house from the old country. Or maybe someplace to torture dissidents.”

  “Wait here.”

  A red Audi A6 in mint condition, probably worth more than the house, sat in the driveway. As she got closer to the door, Hester could see that the house had at one point been a grand Victorian. There was a wraparound porch and detailed albeit worn crown molding. The house had been, she bet, what they used to call a Painted Lady, though the paint was scant and whatever feminine charms she had once possessed had long gone to seed.

  Hester knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked some more.

  A man’s voice said, “Just leave whatever at the door.”

  “Mr. Pine?”

  “I’m busy right now. If I have to sign for it—”

  “Mr. Pine, I’m not here for a delivery.”

  “Who are you?”

  His voice had a little slur in it. He had still not opened the door.

  “My name is Hester Crimstein.”

  “Who?”

  “Hester—”

  The door finally opened.

  “Mr. Pine?”

  “How do I know you?” he asked.

  “You don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. You’re on TV or something.”

  “Right. My name is Hester Crimstein.”

  “Whoa.” Bernard Pine snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re that criminal lawyer that’s always on the news, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I knew it.” He startled back half a step, now wary. “Wait, what do you want with me?”

  “I’m here about your daughter.”

  His eyes widened a bit.

  “Naomi,” Hester added.

  “I know my daughter’s name,” he half snapped. “What do you want?”

  “She’s been absent from school.”

  “So? Are you a truant officer?”

  “No.”

  “So what does my daughter have to do with you? What do you want from me?”

  He looked the part of the man who’d just come home from a hard day’s work. His five-o’clock shadow was closer to seven or eight p.m. His eyes were rimmed with red. His suit jacket was off, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up, the tie loosened. Hester would bet there was a glass of something in the spirit family already poured.

  “May I speak to Naomi?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m…” Hester tried on her legendary disarming smile. “Look, I don’t mean any harm. I’m not here in any sort of legal capacity.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I know this is out of the ordinary, but is Naomi okay?”

  “I don’t understand—why is my daughter any of your business?”

  “She’s not. I don’t mean to pry.” Hester tried to consider all the angles on this and decided to go with the most personal and truthful reply. “Naomi goes to school with my grandson Matthew. Maybe she’s mentioned him?”

  Pine’s lips tightened. “Why are you here?”

  “I…Matthew and I just wanted to make sure that she was okay.”

  “She’s fine.”

  He started to close the door.

  “Can I see her?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I know she’s been out of school.”

  “So?”

  Enough with the disarming. She put a touch of steel in her voice. “So where is Naomi, Mr. Pine?”

  “What right do you—?”

  “None,” Hester said. “No right. Zero, zilch. But a friend of Naomi’s is worried about her.”

  “A friend?” He made a scoffing noise. “So your grandson is her friend, is he?”

  Hester wasn’t sure what to make of his tone. “I’m just asking to see her.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she then?”

  “That’s really not your business.”

  A little more steel in the tone now: “You said you’ve seen me on TV.”

  “So?”

  “So you probably know that you don’t want to get on my bad side.”

  She glared at him. He stepped back.

  “Naomi is visiting her mother.” His grip on the knob of the door tightened. “And Ms. Crimstein? My daughter doesn’t concern you or your grandson. Get off my property now.”

  He closed the door. Then, as though to add emphasis, he bolted the lock with an audible click.

  Tim was outside and waiting. He opened the car door as she approached.

  “Douche-nozzle,” Hester muttered.

/>   It was getting late. Night had fallen. The lighting out here, especially near the mountains, was near nonexistent. There was nothing more to be done about Naomi Pine tonight.

  Tim slid into the driver’s seat and started up the car. “We should probably start heading back,” he said. “Your segment starts in two hours.”

  Tim met her eye in the rearview mirror and waited.

  “How long has it been since we’ve been to Wilde’s?” Hester asked.

  “It’ll be six years in September.”

  She should have been surprised at how much time had passed. She should have been surprised that Tim recalled the year and month so quickly.

  Should have been. But wasn’t.

  “Do you think you could still find his road?”

  “This time of night?” Tim considered it. “Probably.”

  “Let’s try.”

  “You can’t call?”

  “I don’t think he has a phone.”

  “He may have moved.”

  “No,” Hester said.

  “Or he may not be home.”

  “Tim.”

  He shifted the car into drive. “On our way.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Tim found the turn on his third pass along Halifax Road. The thin lane of a road was almost entirely camouflaged so that it felt as though they were driving through a giant shrub. The vegetation scraped across the top of the car like those sponge noodles at a car wash. A few hundred yards south was the Split Rock Sweetwater Prayer Camp of the…what did they call themselves now? Ramapough Lenape Nation or Ramapough Mountain People or Ramapough Mountain Indians or simply Ramapoughs, with their murky genealogy some claim came directly from the indigenous people native to this area or maybe native tribes mixing with the Hessians who fought in the Revolutionary War or maybe runaway slaves that hid amongst the old Lenape tribes before the Civil War. Whatever, the Ramapoughs—she’d keep it simple in her own head—were now a reclusive albeit dwindling tribe.

  Thirty-four years ago, when the little boy now called Wilde was found half a mile from here, many had suspected—many still did—that he had to somehow be connected to the Ramapoughs. No one had any specifics, of course, but when you are different and poor and reclusive, legends spring up. So maybe a tribeswoman had abandoned a child she’d had out of wedlock or maybe in some whacky tribal ceremony the child had been sent into the woods or maybe he’d wandered off and gotten lost and now the tribe was afraid to claim him. It was all nonsense, of course.

  The sun had set. Trees didn’t so much line the sliver of road as crowd onto it, the top limbs bending up and over and reaching across like children’s arms playing London Bridge Is Falling Down. It was dark. Hester figured that they’d hit one sensor when they made the turn, probably two or three more as they coasted down the road. When they reached the dead end, Tim made a K-turn so they were now facing the way out.