by Harlan Coben
“There’s a diner three miles down the road on Route 17.”
“I know it.”
“Wait for me there. I shouldn’t be too long.”
They drove off. As they did, Gavin tried to make out the identity of the woman. He couldn’t be sure—would never swear to it—but he thought that it looked very much like Delia Maynard.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
When Hester woke up the next morning, it took her a minute or two to realize where she was. Her head pounded. Her throat was dry. The sliver of morning light sneaking into the bedroom hurt her eyes. In the distance, coming from downstairs, she heard voices.
She tried to piece it together. It didn’t take long. After leaving Tony’s Pizza and Sub, she’d come to her old home. No one was here yet. Matthew was out with some friends. Laila, well, from what she surmised, Laila was out on a date, which explained Wilde’s remark earlier about him not sleeping over. Left alone, in the house that once held her own family—Ira, Jeff, Eric, David, all her boys, that was what she always called them, her boys, her beautiful, wonderful boys—Hester knew that the only way to quiet the roused ghosts was through some sort of chemical intercession. She found a bottle of Writers’ Tears whiskey in the liquor cabinet and poured some over ice. That was a start, a good start, mellowing the ghosts, letting them sit beside her and hold her hand, but not ridding her of them, so she fumbled into her purse and found the pills. Hester rarely took them, only when she felt a strong need, and if tonight wasn’t the dictionary definition of “strong need,” then she wasn’t sure anything would ever be. Even as she dropped them into her mouth, Hester realized that this wasn’t a smart play on her part, that you never mix booze and medication, that she should be conscious and sharp in case either her family or Wilde needed her.
Most nights that would stop her, but again tonight was not most nights.
She squinted and reached for her phone. How, she wondered, had she made it into the bedroom? She didn’t remember. Had Laila come home and found her former mother-in-law passed out on the couch? Had Matthew? She didn’t think so. She conjured up a vague recollection of being cognizant of her state and preparing for bed before the inevitable overcame her. But she couldn’t be sure.
Hester could still hear voices floating up from downstairs. For a moment she worried that perhaps Laila forgot that she was staying over, that Hester was actually listening to Laila make breakfast for whatever male may have stayed the night. She held her breath and strained to hear.
Two voices. Both female. One was Laila’s, the other…?
Hester’s phone was down to four percent charge. The clock on the screen read 6:11 a.m. She could see the notifications from Oren. He’d called several times. There was one voicemail. It was from Oren too. She hit play.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m…I’m so sorry. I can’t believe how insensitive I was. I got the call, and I just rushed out, not thinking, but that’s no excuse. I’m really sorry. Just so you know, the accident was nothing major, no serious injuries. I don’t know if that matters or not. Call me, okay? Let me know you’re all right?”
But she wasn’t all right.
Hester could hear the worry in his voice. Oren was such a good man, but it was like in one of those movies where a witch cast a curse on you. Oren had been there the night David had died. He’d been called to an accident scene that night too, and there was no way she could shake that and be normal about it. Not now. Not ever. The curse doomed any chance, remote as it probably had been anyway, for them to be happy.
She didn’t want Oren upset. This wasn’t his fault, and he wasn’t a young man anymore. No need to give him additional agita. She typed out a text to Oren:
All good. Super busy. I’ll call you later.
But she wouldn’t call him. Or reply if he called back. Then he’d get the message, and everyone would be better off.
The voices downstairs were getting louder now, on the move. Funny what you remember. This room, which Laila and David had turned into a guest room, had been Hester’s home office way back when. She still could tell from the echoes and volume that the two women had originally been talking in the kitchen and that now they had moved to the foyer near the front door. Probably saying goodbye. Hester looked out the window as, yep, a young woman walked down the cobblestone path to a dark blue car parked in front of the house.
Hester threw on a robe Laila kept for guests and made her way into the hallway. Laila was at the bottom of the steps.
“Good morning,” Laila said.
“Good morning.”
“You were in bed when I got back last night. Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Hester said through the hammering in her head. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you. A client who lives nearby needed to talk.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“There’s brewed coffee in the kitchen, if you want some.”
“You are a goddess,” Hester said.
Laila smiled and picked up her bag. “I have to run before the traffic builds. You need anything?”
“Nothing, Laila, thank you.”
“Matthew should be up soon. If you’re still in town tonight, do you want to do dinner?”
“Let’s play it by ear.”
“Sure.”
With that, Laila smiled, opened the door, and exited. Hester dropped her own smile and put both her hands on her pounding head, pushing at the sides to keep her skull from falling open. She started down the stairs because, no question about it, the coffee would help.
From the window by the door, she could see the young woman in the blue car hadn’t taken off yet. Laila walked over to her. Hester watched them talk for a second or two. Laila put a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. The woman seemed to gain strength from that. She nodded and hit the remote on her car.
“Hey, Nana.”
It was Matthew at the top of the stairs.
“Hey.” Still looking out the window, Hester asked, “Do you know that woman with your mom?”
“Who?”
“The one getting into that blue car.”
Matthew bounded down the steps as only a teenager can. He squinted out the window as the young woman slipped into the car and pulled away. “Oh,” Matthew said. “That’s Ms. O’Brien. I think Mom is helping her with a case.”
Why, Hester wondered, did that name ring a bell?
“Ms. O’Brien?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said. “She teaches art at my school.”
* * *
The Uber driver who, according to the app, was named Mike with a 4.78 rating, didn’t like the looks of the crowd in front of the Maynard Manor security gate.
“What the hell is this?” he asked Hester.
A handful of protestors, no more than ten, stood outside with signs reading FAKE NEWS! and SPIES BELONG IN JAIL FOR TREASON and chanting. An equal number of local police were on the scene, keeping them back from the opening, and as 4.78 Mike of the gray Honda Accord pulled up, a uniformed Oren, of all people, strolled over, leaned his head in the front passenger side of the car, and asked 4.78 Mike, “Are they expecting you?”
From the backseat, Hester said, “Yes.”
Oren turned toward her. “Oh. Hi.”
And with just those two words, David’s ghost materialized and sat next to her.
“Hi.”
For a moment neither of them moved or said anything. Then 4.78 Mike broke the silence. “Can we go in or what?”
“The guard will let you drop Ms. Crimstein off inside the gate,” Oren said. “Have a nice day.”
David’s ghost faded away as Oren pulled back and 4.78 Mike drove through the gate. Wilde was waiting for Hester with the golf cart. After Hester climbed in, Wilde said, “Naomi called my phone.”
“What? When?”
“Last night.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were out on a date.”
“What about later?”
; Wilde tried not to smile. “I didn’t know how well the date went.”
“Don’t be fresh.”
“Sorry.”
“So what did Naomi say?”
“To stop looking for them.”
“Them? As in she wasn’t alone?”
“Correct.”
“Did she sound distressed?”
“Not like she was being-held-for-ransom distressed. Actually, she sounded pretty excited.”
“Like the most popular boy in the school just ran away with you?”
“Could be.”
They started up the drive.
“I got something too,” Hester said.
“Okay.”
“Ava O’Brien was at Laila’s this morning.”
That threw him. “Why?”
“Laila said she was a client.”
“In what way?”
Hester made a face. “We can’t ask—and she can’t tell. Attorney-client privilege, remember?”
Wilde checked the time. “Ava will be getting to school soon. If I hurry, I might be able to catch her on the way in.”
“And ask her what? I’ve been thinking about it. How would a legal matter with Laila have anything to do with this?”
Wilde had no idea, but with the deadline still five hours away, he felt antsy.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“Where are the Maynards?”
“In their library. I’ll drop you off before I head out.”
The night had been long. Wilde hadn’t slept, going instead for a late run through the woods. He liked running through the trees at night, seeing how fast his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the five senses—yes, you used all five—all blending together, making the whole somehow greater than the sum of the parts. He’d checked in on his Ecocapsule. He hadn’t been back since Gavin Chambers’s men surrounded it. He wanted to make sure none of them had come back and tinkered with it. They hadn’t. He also hadn’t showered and changed in a while, so he took care of that too.
When he was back at his capsule, Wilde thought about the decoy idea—the Ghost Army, the tactical deception. The military purpose behind all that had been simple: Create chaos and confusion. Judging by what he’d seen on the news, that was what Rusty Eggers and his people were doing too.
It was working. In a way, when you think about history, it always worked.
He took the Maynards’ Lexus to the high school, hoping to catch Ava. Hester was right. There was probably nothing to learn here. But Wilde liked Ava. Part of him didn’t quite want to accept it, but something made him want to see her again. Ava had been on the back of his mind since yesterday at the 7-Eleven, when he’d surprised himself by suggesting they get back together again. Nothing serious. He knew that. Part of the reason he rarely went back was that while he wouldn’t form an attachment, the short-term partner might. That didn’t seem right or fair. So no encores.
Except, if he could be honest with himself, he wanted one with Ava.
So was showing up at school just an excuse to see her?
Wilde parked across from the teachers’ lot, got out of the car, leaned against it. A few minutes later, he saw Ava’s car pull in and park. When she got out, he watched her for a moment. Ava O’Brien was beautiful, he thought. Strong. Passionate. Independent. Sensitive.
He took a step toward her when a car pulled in front of him, blocking his path.
The driver leaned his head out the window. “Get in.”
It was Saul Strauss.
“Why the hell is everyone suddenly looking for me, Wilde?”
“You tell me.”
“I had nothing to do with that tape going public.”
“I know,” Wilde said.
“So why the hell is Gavin searching for me? Why did you call me?”
“Long story.”
“Get in the car,” Strauss said, his eyes glancing left and right. “I need to show you something.”
Wilde looked toward Ava. She was going through the entrance.
“It’s important,” Strauss said, “but I’m not going to stay out in the open with Gavin Chambers gunning for me. Get in now or I take off.”
Wilde hesitated long enough for Ava to disappear. No better option now. He got into Strauss’s car on the passenger side. Strauss hit the accelerator.
“Where are we going?” Wilde asked.
“Would it be too melodramatic if I answered ‘to find the truth’?”
“Definitely.”
“Then the answer is prison,” Strauss said. “We’re going to prison.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
What do you mean, prison?”
Saul Strauss kept both hands on the wheel. “Why is everyone so anxious to find me?”
“The better question might be, Where have you been?”
“I have enemies, Wilde. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you. So when a calculating fascist like Gavin Chambers, who is working for a pill-popping nihilist like Rusty Eggers, comes a-knocking, I don’t make myself too available, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know you’re not saying where you’ve been.”
“Why do you care? Why does Gavin care?”
Wilde didn’t see a reason not to tell him. “Crash Maynard is missing.”
“What do you mean, missing? Wait, is that why that tape was released?”
Wilde said nothing.
“And, what, you guys think I have something to do with this?”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, right, I’m hiding Crash Maynard. How many armed men does Gavin have guarding that family anyway?”
It was, Wilde thought, a good point. “How did you find me?”
“Just now? I have a guy watching the Maynards’ place. By the way, who the hell calls their house ‘Maynard Manor’? Is that not the most ostentatious, over-the-top, obscene…I mean, if you wanted evidence the rich are too rich, I would make that place Exhibit A. Anyway, my guy tailed you here.”
“And you were in the area?”
“I needed to see you.”
“To take me to prison?”
“Yes.”
“I have to be back at the Maynards’ by eleven thirty.”
“This won’t take long. I hear Hester interviewed Arnie Poplin.”
“You hear a lot of things, Saul.”
“That I do. I assume Hester believes him now.”
Wilde changed subjects. “The other night at the hotel bar, why were you so interested in Naomi Pine?”
“I wasn’t. I was interested in Crash Maynard.”
“Who is now missing.”
“You didn’t believe me, but I told you. The Maynards have damaging tapes.”
“And they’ve been released,” Wilde said.
“Yeah, I watched the news,” Strauss said, “and the reaction. No one cares that Eggers kissed a teenage girl, except those who’d never vote for him anyway.”
They crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge and headed north alongside the Hudson River. If Strauss was being straight about going to “prison,” Wilde had a pretty good idea where they were going.
“Sing Sing?” Wilde asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I need you to see for yourself, Wilde. I need you to understand.”
Less than an hour from Manhattan, the Sing Sing Correctional Facility was one of the most famous prisons in the world. Built in the early 1800s, Sing Sing hid in plain sight. If you were one of the many commuters on the Metro-North train to Grand Central station, your daily journey actually bisected Sing Sing. If you took a boat up the Hudson, you’d see Sing Sing perched atop an otherwise enviable plot of land overlooking the river. The notorious electric chair “Old Sparky” had executed over six hundred people inside Sing Sing’s walls, including the alleged Soviet spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg in 1953. Supposedly, Julius was strapped to Old Sparky first and died quickly. Then Ethel was led to the same chair where her husband had so recently perished—what
must that have been like?—but her execution had complications. Witnesses said it took several attempts to kill her, that her heart kept beating despite repeated electric shocks, that smoke started rising from the top of her head.
Wilde had no idea why Saul Strauss was taking him here.
Strauss parked the car in Sing Sing’s visitor lot and turned off the ignition. “Come on. This won’t take long.”
Strauss had clearly called in a few favors, so they got to move ahead of the line. They emptied their pockets and walked through the metal detector. The visiting room looked like a school cafeteria on steroids. There were tables and chairs—none of that behind-glass stuff you saw on television. Prisoners were being openly embraced by loved ones. You expected adult spouses, partners, parents, siblings, but mostly the visitors were families with young children. Lots of children. Some spent time in the multicolored “family center,” which looked like a daycare or preschool classroom. There were board games and picture books, crafts and toys. Others went outside and hung on the playground.
The guards assigned them a table in clearly marked Row Four right by the prisoner entrance. They were told to sit and remain seated until their inmate joined them. Wilde wanted to ask for details, but he’d gone this far and figured that he’d let Strauss play it out. There was a buzzing noise, and the door to the actual prison slid open. The inmates poured in and hurried toward their families. Wilde looked at Strauss.
“Our guy will be last,” Strauss said.
Wilde didn’t know what that meant, but he would learn soon enough. After the line of men (Sing Sing Correctional was an all-male facility) receded, one final man entered—via a wheelchair. Wilde understood why they were seated near the front.
It was handicap accessible.
The man in the wheelchair was black. His hair was cut short and gray, his skin leathery, his eyes jaundiced. Wilde guessed his age to be fifties, maybe sixties. It would be a cliché to say prison ages a man, but sometimes the cliché is apropos.
Saul Strauss stood and then he bent his tall frame down to hug the man. “Hey, Raymond.”
“Hey, Saul.”
“I want you to meet Wilde. Wilde, this is Raymond Stark.”
