The Boy from the Woods

by Harlan Coben

  “No, we’re not going shopping.”

  “I know, Wilde. I’m just babbling here. You know when you play the silent mountain man I get chatty.”

  “And even when I don’t,” he replied.

  “Funny.”

  “Make the right. Route 32 North.”

  “How long has it been since you called Mom and Dad?”

  She meant the Brewers. “I don’t call them that.”

  “Do you call me your sister?”

  He said nothing.

  “The Brewers were good to us, Wilde.”

  “Very,” he said.

  “They miss you, you know. And I miss you. Of course, sitting here with you now I don’t remember why I miss you. It’s not like I miss this sparkling repartee.”

  “You have your gun?”

  “I told you before we left. Yes. Where are we going?”

  “I think I have a lead on where the boy is being held.”

  “You serious?”

  “No, I’m kidding, Rola. I always was a terrific kidder.”

  She grinned. “That’s more like it, my brother. And I call you that, by the way. My brother.”

  “There’s a rest stop a couple of miles up the road. I want you to pull in and park where we can see everything, but no one can see us.”

  “Got it.”

  Wilde planned out their next moves. They’d park. They’d wait. It wouldn’t be long. Twenty minutes tops. And then…

  “Look,” Rola said.

  Damn, Wilde thought.

  The blue sign read:

  REST AREA—1 MILE

  …in familiar white lettering. But there, slashing across those words, was a neon-orange sign with black letters:

  CLOSED.

  Closed? Wilde hadn’t anticipated that.

  “Now what?” Rola asked.

  “Keep driving. Try to slow down a little, but nothing obvious.”

  The rest stop had clearly been shut down for a while. It had temporary fencing with a padlocked gate on the entrance ramp. Weeds sprang through the cracked pavement. The glass windows of the small convenience store were covered in plywood. A flat canopy led from the gas station’s office to three nonworking pumps. There was a two-car mechanic’s garage. A hut-like building on the right had a faded Dunkin’ Donuts sign half falling off the facade.

  Wilde looked for vehicles. None were visible.

  That made no sense.

  “Now what?”

  Wilde brought up a standard navigation app and used his fingers to spread it out and see the map. “Take the next exit.”

  “Got it.”

  When they reached the end of the ramp, Wilde told her to veer right and then take the first right turn. He looked out the window and told her to slow down.

  “See that Dairy Queen on the right?”

  “Are we stopping for an Oreo Blizzard?” Rola asked.

  “Your comic timing,” he said. “It often sucks.”

  “Good thing I’m cute then.”

  “Uh-huh. Head to the rear. The lot should back up directly behind that rest stop.”

  Rola made the turn. No cars were parked behind the Dairy Queen. Wilde hit the button to lower the window. He looked up the hill and bingo—he spotted the back of the closed gas station.

  “Stay here,” Wilde said, reaching for the door handle.

  “No way.”

  “Fine. Get an Oreo Blizzard.”

  Rola frowned. “My comic timing sucks?”

  “If I don’t check in every ten minutes, call the police.”

  “I’m going.”

  “I need you to—”

  “—call the police if you don’t check in every ten minutes,” Rola said. “I heard you. I’ll have Zelda do that via her phone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you going in unarmed.”

  “Fine, give me your gun.”

  “No offense, Wilde, but you’re trash with a gun,” she said. Which was true.

  “This could be dangerous.”

  “I love danger.”

  “You have k—”

  “Stop,” Rola said, holding up her hand for emphasis. “If you’re going to say I have kids or a family or any other sexist bullshit, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  He said nothing.

  “I’m going, Wilde. This is nonnegotiable, so let’s stop wasting time.”

  Rola got out of the car. Wilde quickly followed and put a hand on her shoulder. She got it. Driving might not be his forte, but approaching quietly was. He should lead. She should follow.

  They started up the hill, staying low. Rola took out the gun and kept it in her right hand, just in case. When they reached the top of the hill, they were maybe thirty, forty yards from the closed gas station. The back wall was cinder block and covered in graffiti, most of it a big bubble-letter tag spelling out the words SPOON and ABEONA.

  Wilde crept closer, his gaze constantly on the move. No signs of life. No signs of a car. He risked a glance at the GPS locator on his phone’s screen. No question about it. The car was right near here.

  He moved toward the back of the gas station. When they were in the clearing, he picked up speed, hoping no one would spot them. Rola kept pace. They reached the cinder block and pressed their backs against it.

  Rola gave him a look that said, Now what?

  He mouthed, Wait here. He slid toward the side. The grass was overgrown enough to lose a third grader. He could see tires strewn about it, a few crowbars, a variety of rusted engine parts. On the side of the concrete wall, someone had long ago painted the words TIRE SERVICE in red and blue. The letters were faded now, beaten and stripped by years of sun.

  Wilde stayed low and moved to the front. The garage bays were closed. Wilde looked at the bottom of the doors. Wind had covered one up, sealing the bottom. The other garage door though had a solid crack opening.

  Someone had not shut it all the way.

  There were tire tracks in the dirt leading up to it.

  Wilde had been confused when he’d first seen that the rest stop was closed. He’d figured that this had been a meeting place, a spot they could come and hash out their kidnapping plan without drawing attention. He figured that maybe he and Rola would park and wait and follow—and that the car would lead him to Crash.

  This, of course, was better.

  Wilde lay on his stomach and moved closer to the opening in the garage door. He peered in. Yep. Just as he expected.

  The car.

  He was here.

  Wilde moved back to the side of the garage. He peeked around the corner, taking it all in, before he saw something that made him pull up. The old Dunkin’ Donuts hut. At first glance there was nothing remarkable about it. The windows were covered by plywood. A sign was hanging by one nail. It was run down and beat up and one day a wrecking ball would end its existence mercifully and effortlessly. There was only one odd thing.

  The air-conditioning unit in the window toward the back.

  It looked new.

  Wilde’s heart started pounding. He headed back to Rola. She greeted him with a What gives? shrug. He signaled for her to follow him. They slid along the back wall. When the Dunkin’ Donuts came into view, Wilde pointed to the air conditioner. It took Rola a second to get it, but then she gave him a thumbs-up.

  Wilde checked the locator app again. They still had ten minutes. As he put the phone back in his pocket, Rola again gave him a look as if to ask, What was that? He shook it off. No time.

  They’d be out in the open. There was no way to avoid that. Rola had the gun out. Wilde gestured that he’d go first. If someone took a shot at him, Rola should be at the ready. She reluctantly agreed. Wilde made the sprint, and as he did, he heard a sound that made the blood in his veins hum. Over the sounds of the cars speeding by on the nearby highway, Wilde could make out the air conditioner.

  It was on.

  Someone was in that Dunkin’ Donuts back room.

  When he was up against the wall of the hut, he looked
over his shoulder toward Rola. He was tempted to signal for her to wait there, but suppose whoever was inside the Dunkin’ Donuts back room—assuming someone was inside and no one had just left the air-conditioning unit on—might be armed.

  She had the gun.

  He waved her forward. Rola kept the weapon at her side, pointed down. She was agile and quick, ever the athlete. When she reached him, they both ducked down. Neither moved for a moment, waiting to see whether they were heard or seen.

  Nothing.

  Wilde crawled toward the air conditioner. He gestured with his hand for her to stay down. She nodded. He lifted himself up. He could feel the exhaust air blowing out the back of the unit.

  The window shade was drawn.

  He couldn’t see in.

  Now what?

  Time was a-ticking. He came back down to her.

  “Someone is in that back room,” he whispered, “but someone may also be in the gas station office. I need you to draw the gun and be ready. I’m going to open the window a crack and pull out the air conditioner. Quietly if I can. You be ready?”

  Rola nodded. “Got it.”

  He stood and inspected the window. The unit didn’t look screwed in or anything like that. All he had to do was slide the window up an inch and pull the air conditioner out, all in one swift move. Wilde rehearsed the action in his mind as he put his hands on the bottom of the window frame.

  Rola stood with her back against the wall. The gun was ready.

  Then Wilde mouthed the countdown to her.

  One, two…

  On three, Wilde pushed the window open and grabbed the air conditioner out. At the same time, Rola swung into action. She spun toward the opening, the gun up and ready.

  When Rola saw who was inside, she pulled the gun to her side. Wilde dropped the air conditioner and looked too.

  Crash Maynard was chained to a bed.

  His hand was wrapped in heavy white gauze. Crash looked back toward them, stunned. Wilde moved fast. He put his index finger to his lips while slipping through the window. He hurried over to the teen and whispered, “Stay quiet, Crash. We’re here to help.”

  Tears started rolling down Crash’s face. “I want to go home.”

  He sounded like a little boy.

  “You’re going home,” Wilde whispered. “I promise you. How many of them are there?”

  Crash held up the gauze-encased hand. “Look what they did to me.”

  “I know. We’re going to get you to a doctor. Focus, Crash. How many of them?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t talk. They wear ski masks. Please. Please. I just want to get home. Please.”

  He started sobbing. Wilde checked the shackle holding the boy in place. The chain traveled from his ankle to a plate in the wall. He looked back at the window for Rola. He was surprised not to see her.

  Two seconds later, Rola popped back into view, this time carrying one of the discarded crowbars. She handed it to him.

  Crash cried, “Please…”

  “It’s okay, Crash. Hold on.”

  Wilde used the crowbar against the plate in the wall. It didn’t take long. Two tugs and the plate popped out.

  At sixteen years old, Crash was pretty close to fully grown. Wilde would be able to carry him if need be, but the teen rolled quickly off the bed and stood.

  “Do you know where they stay?” Wilde asked.

  Crash shook his head. “I want to go home. Please?”

  “How about Naomi?”

  He was pretty sure he knew the answer—but Crash’s baffled expression confirmed it. “Naomi Pine?”

  “Never mind.”

  They moved to the window. Crash climbed through first. Rola helped him. Wilde followed. When they were back outside, they ducked down and stayed as low as possible.

  “Take him back to the car,” Wilde told her.

  “You come with us,” Rola said.

  “No. I have more work to do.”

  “You think Naomi might—?”

  “Just go. Take him.”

  Rola’s eyes bore into his. “We can just call the police, Wilde. They can have a hundred cops surrounding this place in ten minutes.”

  “No,” Wilde said again.

  “I don’t understand—”

  “No time to explain. Take him. I’ll be fine.”

  Rola studied his face. Wilde didn’t like that, but he gave her nothing. She frowned and handed him the gun. “In case you need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m giving you fifteen minutes. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m calling the police.”

  “Don’t wait for me. When you get back to the car, take him immediately to the Valley Hospital. The finger is there. Every second counts.”

  “I don’t like this, Wilde.”

  “Trust me, my sister.”

  Rola’s eyes welled up when he called her that. She looked toward Crash. “Think you can make a run for it?”

  Crash had stopped crying now. “I’m ready.”

  Rola took off first. Crash followed her, cradling his injured hand with his good one. Wilde watched until they were out of sight. He checked the locator app again.

  There wasn’t much time.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Wilde moved to the back of the gas station again, then to the wall with the faded TIRE SERVICE on the side. A few seconds later, he crawled in front of the mechanic bay door that had been opened a crack. He got on his stomach, making himself as flat as possible.

  He needed to hurry.

  Still on his stomach, he looked through the opening. Wilde could see that the door slid up and down on a track with wheels. Manual. Not electric. That was good. He got up on his knees now, cupped his hands to the bottom of the door, and using a bicep curl movement, he moved it up one inch.

  The door squeaked.

  Loud enough for someone to hear? That he didn’t know. He assumed that no one was in the actual garage. The more likely place for the kidnapper to be—the only place left really—was in the adjacent gas station office.

  Wilde stayed still, listening for anyone coming. No one. All he heard was the now-familiar cacophony of cars speeding by. He hoped that no one from the road would see him. He didn’t want someone calling the police to report a strange intruder.

  Not yet anyway.

  He pulled up on the door another inch. Then another.

  Squeak, squeak.

  Enough. He forced it up another six inches. That was all he’d need. He got back on his belly and shimmied into the garage. It was dark. Dust came up and into his nose, but that wouldn’t bother him. The garage reeked of spilled petrol and mildew. Wilde got up, stayed low, moved to the side of the car farthest away from the adjacent office.

  He heard the clack of someone typing on a keyboard.

  Wilde hadn’t lied to Rola, but he hadn’t told her the entire truth either. He hadn’t told her that he’d figured out about this rest stop in the simplest way possible—from the GPS locators Rola herself had given him. He hadn’t told her that the car he’d spotted in this garage bay—the car he was now hiding behind—was the same Chevrolet Cruze that Gavin Chambers had used to meet him at that 7-Eleven.

  That had been a mistake on Gavin’s part.

  Wilde’s suspicions, which had already taken root, blossomed the moment Gavin pulled into that 7-Eleven without his usual driver or SUV vehicle. Why suddenly come alone? Why would a guy with his money, a guy who normally got chauffeured around in a Cadillac Escalade, now be driving a Chevrolet Cruze, a car model used extensively by rental-car companies?

  On its own, that meant nothing. But it was enough.

  Still ducking behind the Chevy—still hearing the clacking of someone typing—Wilde checked the locator app on his phone.

  Two minutes until the other car arrived.

  He had to get ready.

  Wilde crawled from the back tire to the front one, and then to the front bumper. He looked to his left, toward the d
oor to the office.

  It was open.

  He could see a man’s back, but he’d need to get closer to make sure. He moved a little farther out, toward the shelving. He stayed low. When he was about two feet from the back wall, he could make out the profile of the man who was typing.

  Gavin Chambers.

  Without warning, Gavin turned his head toward Wilde.

  Wilde dropped flat on his stomach again. The gun was tucked into his waistband in the back. He reached now and took it out. Gavin Chambers, no doubt, would be armed. If Gavin had spotted him, if he was right now on his way…

  But no.

  The other car had arrived. On its way past the locked gate, it had tripped a sensor. That was what had alerted Gavin. That was why he’d turned his head.

  Wilde crawled back so that he was hidden between the Chevrolet Cruze and the far wall. A minute later, he heard the fumbling of the other bay door. Gavin Chambers rose from his chair. From under the carriage of the Chevy, Wilde could see Gavin’s feet go past. Gavin pulled the bay door all the way open. A car pulled in. Gavin immediately shut the door behind it.

  The driver opened the door and stepped out.

  “Did Maynard send the tape? Did you watch it yet?”

  It was Saul Strauss.

  Gavin said, “I’m just watching it now.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s solid gold,” Gavin said. “Rusty admits he killed Anson, though he claims it was in self-defense.”

  “My God.”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to send it out now. Take no chances.”

  “Agree,” Gavin said.

  The two men headed into the office. Wilde stayed where he was.

  “I knew it,” Strauss said, a lilt in his voice. “I knew that tape existed. I didn’t want it to go this far, but…”

  “I could see why Dash was reticent about giving it up,” Chambers said. “It ruins Rusty, sure, but it hurts him too. I don’t know if Maynard can be charged for helping move the body. That statute of limitations has probably passed. But anyone who hears it will know what he did.”