The Boy from the Woods

by Harlan Coben

  “Okay.”

  “If it meant saving my son, I’d talk.”

  Delia didn’t move.

  “I’d scream, I’d shout, I’d reveal everything. That’s where all our paradox theories would go out the window. If I could go back in time, if I could reveal a truth and it would bring my son back to me, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  Hester’s eyes stayed dry as she nodded and turned away.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The team from Wilde’s old security firm pulled up in two vehicles.

  The first car was a forest-green Honda Odyssey minivan. The driver was Rola Naser, the firm’s founder. When Rola opened the car door, Wilde could hear her kids screeching from the backseat. The radio was blasting out a Wiggles tune about fruit salad being yummy.

  “Mommy will be right back,” Rola said.

  Neither the screeching nor the music paused for that announcement. Rola got out of the minivan and started toward Wilde. Her blue blazer had a stain on the lapel. She wore Puma sneakers and Mom jeans. A diaper bag of some sort was slung over her shoulder.

  She stomped toward him, head high. Rola was barely five feet tall so she had to look up to meet his eye. Wilde braced himself.

  “Are you kidding me, Wilde?”

  “What?”

  “‘What?’” Rola said, doing a pretty good, pretty sarcastic impression of him. “Don’t even with that, okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I deserve better from you, do I not?”

  “You do, yes.”

  “So how long has it been?” Rola asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Yes, you do. Two years. Two frigging years, Wilde. Last time I saw you was when Emma was born.”

  Emma was Rola’s fifth child—three boys, two girls, all under the age of twelve. Years ago, Rola had been his foster sister at the Brewers’ house. Over the years, the Brewer family had almost forty foster kids go through their lives, and all had been made better by the experience. Some stayed only a few months. Some, like Wilde and Rola, stayed years.

  “And this stain you keep staring at”—she pointed to her lapel—“the one I know you are dying to clean off me? That’s Emma’s spit-up, thank you very much. What do you have to say to that?”

  “Gross?”

  She shook her head. Rola’s background, like his, was something of a mystery. Her mother was a Sunni Arab who fled the kingdom of Jordan, arriving in the United States pregnant and unmarried. She’d cut off all ties to family and friends from her native country. She never spoke of them. She never told anyone, not even Rola, who her father was.

  “What the hell, Wilde? Two years.”

  “Sorry,” Wilde said again. He looked toward the minivan. “How is everyone?”

  Rola arched an eyebrow. “For real?”

  “What?”

  “‘How is everyone?’” Rola repeated, doing the impression again. “That’s the best you can do? You don’t visit. You don’t call.”

  “I called,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Today. Just now.”

  Rola’s mouth dropped open. “Are you for real right now?”

  He said nothing.

  “You called because you needed help.”

  “Still a call,” he said.

  Rola shook her head and said with deep regret in her voice: “Ah, Wilde. You’ll never change, will you?”

  He had warned Rola when she’d insisted he be her full-time partner that there was no way he could last. She knew and even understood, but Rola had always been the craziest sort of rah-rah optimist, even when she had no right to be. In the Brewer house, Rola had been outgoing and boisterous and engaged and social and never stopped talking. She’d loved the frenzy of activity, the shuffling of foster kids in and out, in part, Wilde thought, because she hated being alone.

  Rola craved a crowd the way Wilde craved solitude.

  More than overcoming the obstacles, Rola had excelled—valedictorian of her high school class, vice president of the class, captain of her soccer team on every level. As a college standout athlete, she’d been heavily recruited by the FBI. She joined, rose up the ranks quickly, and then when Wilde came home from the army, she somehow convinced him to open a private investigation firm with her. She had decided to call it CRAW—Chloe, Rola, And Wilde.

  Chloe, now deceased, had been the Brewers’ dog.

  “CRAW,” Rola had said at the time. “The name is cute, right?”

  “Adorable.”

  Wilde had tried to hang on and fit in and go to the office, but in the end, he couldn’t stick it out. It wasn’t his way. He tried to give her back his shares, but Rola wouldn’t take them. She still wanted his name on the door, so every once in a while, he did some extracurricular work for her.

  He knew that he should be better about communicating—return calls, be more present, reach out every once in a while, say yes to a social engagement. And he did care about Rola and Scott and their kids. He cared a lot. But he couldn’t do more. It just wasn’t in him.

  “I brought everything,” Rola said, transitioning quickly into serious work mode.

  She shrugged the bag off her shoulder and handed it to him.

  He frowned. “Is this a diaper bag?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s brand-new. No germs. If someone opens it, they’ll just find clean baby clothes and clean diapers. You can tell them you’re a caring uncle, though that will obviously be a big character stretch. Do you need me to show you where the hidden pockets are?”

  “I think I’ll figure it out.”

  “I packed four GPS trackers, three throwaway phones. You need a blade?”

  “No.”

  “There’s still one in the snap-flap closure. Where I keep the wipes.”

  “Terrific.” Wilde looked at the other car. It was a black Buick. “I need three people to cover the Maynards at all times.”

  “Three of our best are in the Buick,” Rola said. She nodded. The car doors opened, and her security team stepped out.

  “All women,” Wilde said.

  “That a problem?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re so progressive, Wilde. And the flaming redhead on the right isn’t a woman. Zelda is gender non-binary.”

  Zelda gave him a little wave. Wilde waved back.

  “The four of us will rotate shifts,” Rola said.

  “Wait. You?”

  “Yes me. I’ll be in the first group.”

  “You can’t bring your kids to the Maynards’.”

  “Really, Wilde? I didn’t realize. Thanks for telling me. Can I just jot that down?” Rola mimed a pen in her hand and pad in her palm. “Don’t. Bring. Kids. To. A. Kidnapping.” She put away the air pen. “There. All set.”

  “Ah, Rola,” he said, now mimicking her. “You’ll never change, will you?”

  That made her smile.

  Wilde looked back over at the Honda Odyssey. “So who’s in your car?”

  “Emma and the twins.”

  The twins, he remembered, were six.

  “I’m dropping Zoe and Elijah at a friend’s birthday in Upper Saddle River at a place called the Gravity Vault. One of the moms said she’d watch Emma until Scott gets there. I’ll be at the Maynards’ within the half hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  “You know the drill.”

  Rola gave him a mock salute. “Right.”

  For a second, the two of them stood there, unsure what to do.

  “I got to go,” Wilde said, awkwardly pointing behind him with his thumb. Then he spun away. He didn’t turn around, but he heard the black Buick peel away, and Rola calmly say, “Zoe, let go of your brother’s hair,” as she climbed back into the minivan.

  Ten minutes later, Wilde arrived at the 7-Eleven down the block from the high school. Ava had texted him that she would meet him here because t
he school itself, after yesterday’s physical altercation with Thor-Bryce, was off-limits. Wilde headed inside, watched the hot dogs circle, saw the Slurpee machines. Nothing changes at a 7-Eleven. Time flows forward everywhere except in a 7-Eleven.

  As Ava O’Brien pulled into the parking lot, Wilde felt his phone buzz. He checked the screen and saw it was Gavin Chambers.

  “Where are you?” Gavin asked.

  “Seven-Eleven.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I could snap a picture of a Slurpee as proof.”

  “Wait there.”

  “Why?”

  “Something you need to see. Don’t move.”

  Chambers hung up. Ava came in and without preamble asked, “What’s so important?”

  No hello. No greeting of any sort. Maybe Ava was upset about yesterday. She looked more harried today, though no less beautiful. Her eyes sparkled when they looked up at him.

  Following her lead, Wilde got to the point: “Do you know Saul Strauss?”

  Ava made a face. “That activist on TV?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know who he is, sure.”

  “I mean, do you know him personally?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’ve never spoken to him or communicated with him in any way?”

  “No. Again: Why?”

  “Because he knew about my encounter with Crash at your school.”

  “So did everyone else,” Ava said. “We ended up out in the parking lot, remember?”

  “He knew more than that.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you asking me here?”

  “I’m trying to figure out Saul Strauss’s source.”

  The sparkling eyes caught fire. “This is why you dragged me out of school during my free period? I’m not his source, Wilde. And why would someone like Saul Strauss care about any of this anyway?”

  Wilde said nothing.

  Ava looked annoyed. “Hello?”

  He didn’t know how much to tell her. He believed her about not knowing Strauss—and even if she did, he couldn’t follow the line of logic. Suppose Ava worked with Strauss somehow. Suppose Ava told Strauss that Wilde had confronted Crash about a missing teenage girl. So what follows? Strauss kidnaps the boy? Did that make any sense?

  Too many missing pieces.

  “Crash Maynard is missing,” Wilde said.

  That surprised her. “Wait, when you say ‘missing’—”

  “Ran away, hiding, kidnapped, whatever. Last night he was home. Today he’s gone.”

  Ava took that in for a moment. “You mean like Naomi?”

  “Yes.”

  She took two steps toward the back so that they were now standing by the chips and salty snacks. He didn’t interrupt with a question. Not yet. He wanted to give her some time.

  “That may explain some stuff,” Ava said.

  “Like?”

  “I thought Naomi was…I don’t know. ‘Lying’ is too strong a word. ‘Exaggerating’ is too mild.”

  Wilde waited. When she didn’t say anything else, he asked, “What about?”

  “Crash.”

  “What about him?”

  “Naomi has been hinting lately that she had a secret boyfriend—someone super popular. I didn’t take it seriously. Do you remember that old bit about the guy who says, ‘Oh, I have a hot girlfriend, but you wouldn’t know her’?”

  Wilde nodded. “She lives in Canada or something.”

  “Right.”

  “You thought Naomi was making it up.”

  “Or imagining it, whatever. Yeah, at first.”

  “And then?”

  “Then after I pushed a little, she told me that the boy was Crash Maynard. She said the whole Challenge game was a cover and that Crash got jealous because she went into the woods with Matthew.”

  Matthew.

  “What did you say to that?” Wilde asked.

  “I started wondering whether Crash was setting her up again.”

  “Pretending to like her so he could ultimately humiliate her?”

  “Yes. Like in Carrie. Or, wait, wasn’t the boy who asked Carrie out in the movie nice? Didn’t he try to defend her but then the bullies poured pig’s blood on her?”

  Wilde didn’t remember. “So you think maybe Crash does like her?”

  “I don’t know,” Ava said, chewing on her lower lip. “But maybe the simplest answer is the best one—Naomi and Crash are together. Maybe they just want a few days alone. Maybe it isn’t our business.”

  Something wasn’t adding up. Or it was adding up too neatly.

  “I have to get back,” Ava said.

  “Let me walk you to your car.”

  They headed out to the parking lot. Ava hit the unlock button. He wanted to open the door for her, but that felt too faux chivalrous. When she got into the driver’s seat, he signaled for her to lower the window for a moment. She did. Wilde leaned against the opening.

  “I also talked to Naomi’s dad.”

  “And?”

  “He said Naomi’s mother was abusive.”

  He filled her in on the details of his conversation with Bernard Pine. As Ava listened, her eyes glistened with tears. “Poor Naomi. I knew the relationship hadn’t been good obviously. But that?” Ava shook her head. “I better go.”

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You want me to stop by your place later?” he asked.

  The words just came out. Wilde hadn’t planned them. That wasn’t like him.

  Ava looked surprised. She took another swipe at her eyes and turned to him. “When?”

  “I don’t know. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow. We can just talk.”

  Ava looked out the front windshield rather than at him.

  “No pressure,” Wilde added. “I may not be free anyway, what with Crash and Naomi—”

  “No, I’d like that.”

  Ava reached through the open window and put her hand on his face. He waited. She looked as though she was about to say more, but in the end, she just took her hand away. She put the car in reverse, pulled out, and headed back toward the school.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  So you got Arnie Poplin ready?” Hester asked.

  Hester stood facing the computer monitor in the Maynards’ state-of-the-art studio/office. The room was white and steel and looked more like something you’d find in a refurbished Manhattan loft rather than this old estate, but there it was. There were television screens lining the walls. Her producer Allison Grant was on the line.

  Rola Naser, someone Hester had known for many years, was setting up the live feed. Hester had always liked Rola, admired her strength under adversity. When Rola and David were teens at the same high school, she’d even hoped that maybe her David would ask her out. She even pushed him a little, surprise, surprise. David never listened, of course, claiming that it would be “weird” because Rola was “like Wilde’s sister.”

  What if he had? Would everything have changed? Would David still be alive?

  “Okay, he’s connected in now,” Allison said.

  Hester shook away the ghosts and leaned toward Rola. “Did you hear that?”

  “Got it,” Rola said as she typed.

  Hester’s idea was a simple albeit an unreliable one. Saul Strauss had said that his source on the Maynard tapes was Arnie Poplin. Arnie Poplin was, if nothing else, an attention whore. Hester got Allison to track him down with the promise of a “pre-interview” that could lead to a live segment.

  Rola said, “You see that monitor on that wall?”

  “You mean that gigantic TV?”

  “Yes, Hester, the gigantic TV.”

  “I see it. I think you could see it from space.”

  “Stand over there,” Rola said. “I’m going to patch Arnie Poplin through.”

  “Stand where exactly?”

  “There’s a spike on the floor.”

  And so there was. A spike was what s
tudios or theaters called the mark, usually made with electrical tape, to tell you where to stand or where to place a piece of the set. Hester stood on it.

  Rola said, “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. Will Arnie be able to see you in the room?”

  “No. His camera will be focused on your face only. It’s why I chose that monitor.”

  “Great, thanks.” Hester smiled at her. “It’s really good to see you, Rola.”

  “And you, Hester. Ready?”

  Hester nodded. Rola clicked a few more keys, and the screen came to life. Arnie Poplin’s familiar (though more bloated) face filled the screen, huge and close-up, too close-up—see-his-skin-pores close-up. Hester was tempted to take a step back, but alas, the spike.

  “Hi, Arnie.”

  He scowled a little too theatrically. “What the hell is this, Hester?”

  They’d met over the years at one thing or another. Twenty-five years ago, Arnie Poplin had starred in a hit family sitcom as the hilarious neighbor. For three years he was beloved and famous. Then, poof, it was over. Like many, he ended up fighting the withdrawal pains from two of society’s most potent addictions—drugs and fame. People underestimate the power of that bright, warm beacon known as fame—and how dark and cold it gets when that beacon goes out.

  So Arnie desperately tried to hang on. Allison Grant half joked that Arnie Poplin would appear at the opening of a garage door. He tried to bow and scrape his way onto game shows, reality shows, home and garden shows, cooking shows—anything to turn on that beacon—less bright, less warm—for even a few seconds.

  Hester said, “I wanted to ask you—”

  “You think I’m an idiot?”

  He was sweaty and red-faced.

  “I saw your Saul Strauss segment, Hester. Do you know what you called me?”

  “A celebrity has-been-turned-conspiracy-nut,” Hester said.

  His mouth dropped open in what she assumed was mock surprise. It took him a few seconds to work up the bluster again. Actors. “You expect me to just forgive you for that?”

  “You have two choices here, Arnie. You can disconnect this call or Skype or whatever this video-cloudy thingy is, or you can tell me your side of it.”

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “Probably not. But if you can convince me you’re telling the truth, even a little bit, I’ll have you on the show.”