by Harlan Coben
Myron heard the bathroom door open. Someone leaned against the stall door. Dad's voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper. "I'm fine, Myron."
But Myron again saw Dad at Yankee Stadium. The ink-black hair was gone, replaced with the gray, fly-away wisps. Myron saw Dad challenge the bearded man. He saw the bearded man rise, and then he saw Dad clutch his chest and fall to the ground.
CHAPTER
29
Myron tried to shake it off. No choice really. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. And he couldn't stop worrying. Worrying had never been his style in the past, even when a crisis loomed. All of a sudden he had the worry-queasies in his stomach. It was true what they said: The older you become, the more you are like your parents. Soon he'd be telling a kid not to stick his elbow out the car window or he'd lose it.
Win met him in front of the auditorium. He was in classic Win pose, eyes level, arms crossed, totally relaxed. He wore designer sunglasses and looked ultrasleek. GQ casual.
"Problem?" Win said.
"No."
Win shrugged.
"I thought we were going to meet inside," Myron said.
"That would mean I'd have to listen to more of Sawyer Wells."
"That bad?"
"Imagine, if you will, a Mariah Carey--Michael Bolton duet," Win said.
"Eeuw."
Win checked his watch. "He should be finishing up now. We must be brave."
They headed inside. The Cagemore Center was a sprawling facility that featured oodles of concert and lecture halls that could be cut to any size by sliding walls back and forth. There was a summer camp for young children in one room. Win and Myron stopped and listened to the children sing "Farmer in the Dell." The sound made Myron smile.
"... the farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho-the-dairy-o, the farmer in the dell ..."
Win turned to Myron. "What's a dell?" Win asked.
"No idea."
Win shrugged and moved on to the main auditorium. There was a table out front selling Sawyer Wells paraphernalia. Cassettes, videos, books, magazines, posters, pennants (though what one does with a Sawyer Wells pennant went beyond Myron's capacity to imagine) and yep, T-shirts. Groovy titles too: The Wells Guide to Wellness, The Wells Rules for Wellness, Key to Wellness: It's All About You. Myron shook his head.
The auditorium was packed, the crowd so silent they'd put the Vatican to shame. Up on the stage, jittering to and fro like Robin Williams in his stand-up comic days, was the self-help guru himself. Sawyer Wells was resplendent in a business suit with the jacket off, shirt cuffs turned once, fancy suspenders cutting into his shoulders. A good look for a self-help guru: The expensive suit makes you reek of success while the jacket off and rolled-up sleeves give you the air of a regular guy. A perfectly balanced ensemble.
"It's all about you," Sawyer Wells told the enraptured audience. "If you remember nothing else today, remember that. It's all about you. Make everything about you. Every decision is about you. Everything you see, everything you touch is a reflection of you. No ... more than that--it is you. You are everything. And everything is you."
Win leaned toward Myron. "Isn't that a song?"
"The Stylistics, I think. Circa early seventies."
"I want you to remember that," Sawyer continued. "Visualize. Visualize everything as you. Your family is you. Your job is you. When you're walking down the street, that beautiful tree is you. That blooming rose is you."
Win said, "That dirty commode at the bus terminal."
Myron nodded. "You."
"You see the boss, the leader, the breadwinner, the successful, fulfilled person. That person is you. No one can lead you because the leader is you. You stand in front of your opponent, and you know you can win because you are your opponent. And you know how to beat you. Remember you are your opponent. Your opponent is you."
Win frowned. "But don't you know how to beat you too?"
"It's a paradox," Myron agreed.
"You fear the unknown," Sawyer Wells ranted. "You fear success. You fear taking chances. But now you know that the unknown is you. Success is you. Taking chances is you. You don't fear you, do you?"
Win frowned.
"Listen to Mozart. Take long walks. Ask yourself what you did today. Do that every night. Before you go to sleep, ask yourself if the world is better because of you. After all, it's your world. You are the world."
Win said, "If he breaks into a rendition of 'We Are the World,' I'm using my gun."
"But you are your gun," Myron countered.
"And he is my gun too."
"Right."
Win considered that. "So if he is my gun and my gun kills him, it's a suicide."
"Take responsibility for your actions," Wells said. "That's one of the Wells Rules for Wellness. Take responsibility. Cher once said, 'Excuses won't lift your butt, 'kay?' Listen to that. Believe that with all your heart."
The man was quoting Cher. The crowd was nodding. There is no God.
"Confess something about yourself to a friend--something awful, something you'd never want anyone to know. You'll feel better. You'll still see that you're worthy of love. And since your friend is you, you are really just telling yourself. Have an interest in everything. Thirst for knowledge. That's another rule. Remember that it's all about you. When you learn about other things, you are actually learning about yourself. Get to know you better."
Win looked at Myron, his face pained.
"Let's wait outside," Myron said.
But luck was with them. Two sentences later Sawyer Wells was done. The crowd went ballistic. They stood, they applauded, they hooted like an old Arsenio Hall audience.
Win shook his head. "Four hundred dollars a pop."
"That what this thing costs?"
"He is your money."
People approached the stage, stretching their hands toward the heavens in the vain hope that Sawyer Wells might reach out and touch them. Myron and Win watched. The table with the Wells paraphernalia was swarmed now like rotting fruit with buzzing flies.
"The citified version of a tent revival," Win noted.
Myron nodded.
Eventually Sawyer Wells waved and ran offstage. The crowd continued to cheer and purchase. Myron half expected a voice-over to announce that Elvis had left the building. Win and Myron swam through the crowd.
"Come," Win said. "I have backstage passes."
"Please tell me you're joking."
He wasn't. They actually said "Backstage Pass" on them. A plainclothes security guard scowled at them and scrutinized the passes as if they were the Zapruder film. Satisfied, he let them past the velvet rope. Yep, velvet rope. Sawyer Wells spotted Win and bounced toward them.
"So glad you could come, Win!" He turned to Myron and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Sawyer Wells."
Myron shook it. "Myron Bolitar."
Sawyer's smile flickered but stayed on. "Nice to meet you, Myron."
Myron decided to try a frontal assault. "Why did you fix Clu Haid's drug test so it would appear he was taking heroin?"
The smile was still there, but it wasn't sitting right. "Pardon?"
"Clu Haid. The name ring a bell?"
"Of course. As I told Win yesterday, I worked very hard with him."
"Worked how?"
"To keep him off drugs. I have an extensive background as a drug counselor. That's how I was trained. To help addicts."
"Not so different from what you're doing now," Myron said.
"Pardon?"
"People with addictive personalities need an addiction. If it's not booze or drugs, maybe it's religion or self-help mumbo jumbo. They're simply swapping addictions; we hope to one less damaging."
Sawyer Wells overnodded. "That's a really interesting viewpoint, Myron."
"Gee, thanks, Sawyer."
"I learned much about human frailty, about our lack of self-esteem, from addicts like Clu Haid. As I said, I worked very hard with him. His failure hurt me greatly."
Win said, "Because it was your failure."
"Pardon?"
"You are everything, and everything is you," Win said. "You are Clu Haid. He failed, ergo you failed."
Sawyer Wells maintained the smile. But it was different when he looked at Win. His gestures were tighter too, more controlled. He was one of those guys who tried to imitate the person with whom he was conversing. Myron hated that. "I see you came in at the end of my seminar, Win."
"Did I misunderstand your message?"
"No, it's not that. But a man creates his own world. That's my point. You are what you create, what you perceive. Take responsibility. That's the most important component of the Wells Guide to Wellness. You take responsibility for your own actions. And you admit fault. You know what the two most beautiful sentences in the world are?"
Win opened his mouth, stopped, looked at Myron, shook his head. "Too easy," he said.
"'I am responsible,' " Sawyer continued. "'It's my fault.' " He turned toward Myron. "Say it, Myron."
"What?"
"Come on. It's exhilarating. Say, 'I am responsible. It's my fault.' Stop passing the buck in your life. Say it. Come on, I'll say it with you. Win, you too."
Myron and Sawyer said, "I am responsible. It's my fault." Win remained silent.
"Feel better?" Sawyer said.
"It was almost like sex," Myron said.
"It can be powerful, yes."
"Yeah, uh-huh. Look, Sawyer, I'm not here to critique your seminar. I want to know about Clu's drug test. It was fixed. We have evidence that proves that fact. You helped administer that test. I want to know why you made it look like Clu was on drugs."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The autopsy shows conclusively that Clu hadn't taken drugs for at least two months before his death. Yet you tested him positive two weeks ago."
"Maybe the test was faulty," Sawyer said.
Win tsk-tsked. "Say, 'I am responsible. It's my fault.' "
"Stop passing the buck in your life," Myron added.
"Come on, Sawyer. It's exhilarating."
"That's not funny," Sawyer said.
"Wait," Win said. "You are everything, thus you are the drug test."
"And you are a positive guy," Myron added.
"Ergo the test result was positive."
Sawyer said, "I think I've had just about enough."
"You're finished, Wells," Myron said. "I'll blab to the papers."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about a fixed test."
"Want to hear my theory?" Myron said.
"No."
"You're leaving the Yankees and going to work for Vincent Riverton, right?"
"I'm not working exclusively for anyone. His conglomerate publishes my book."
"He's also Sophie Mayor's archenemy."
"You don't know that," Sawyer said.
"He lived for owning the team. When she took over, he was pissed. She ends up being everything New York wants in an owner because she minds her own business. She makes only one move, acquiring Clu Haid, and it's a beauty. Clu pitches better than anyone dared hope. The Yankees start heading for greatness. Then you step in. Clu fails a drug test. Sophie Mayor looks incompetent. The Yankees tumble."
Sawyer seemed to recoup a bit. Something in what Myron had just said had given him a new lease. Odd. "That makes no sense whatsoever."
"What part?"
"All of it," Sawyer said, chest back out. "Sophie Mayor has been good to me. I was working as a drug counselor at the Sloan State and Rockwell rehab centers when she gave me my chance to move up. Why would I want to hurt her?"
"You tell me."
"I have no idea. I firmly believed that Clu was on drugs. If he wasn't, then the test was faulty."
"You know the results are double-tested. There was no mistake. Someone had to fix it."
"It wasn't me. Maybe you should speak to Dr. Stilwell."
"But you were there? You admit that?"
"Yes, I was there. And I will no longer dignify your questions with answers." With that Sawyer Wells abruptly spun and stormed off.
"I don't think he liked us," Myron said.
"But if it's all about you, then we are he."
"So he doesn't like himself?"
"Sad, isn't it?"
"Not to mention confusing," Myron said.
They headed for the exit.
"So where to, O Motivated One?" Win asked.
"Starbucks."
"Latte time?"
Myron shook his head. "Confront FJ time."
CHAPTER
30
FJ was not there. Myron called his office again. The same secretary told him that FJ was still unavailable. Myron repeated that it was imperative that he speak to Francis Ache Junior as soon as humanly possible. The secretary remained unimpressed.
Myron returned to his office.
Big Cyndi wore a bright green spandex bodysuit with a slogan across the chest--this on a woman who could barely squeeze into a caftan. The fabric screamed in pain, the letters in the slogan so elongated that Myron couldn't read them, kinda like what happens to Silly Putty after you press it against a newspaper headline and stretch it out.
"Lots of clients have been calling, Mr. Bolitar," Big Cyndi said. "They are not pleased by your absence."
"I'll take care of it," he said.
She gave him the messages. "Oh, and Jared Mayor called," she said. "He seemed very anxious to talk to you."
"Okay, thanks."
He called Jared Mayor first. He was in his mother's office at Yankee Stadium. Sophie switched on the speakerphone.
"You called?" Myron said.
"I was hoping you could give us an update," Jared said.
"I think someone is setting up your mother."
Sophie said, "Setting me up how?"
"Clu's drug test was a fix. He was clean."
"I know you want to believe that--"
"I have proof," Myron said.
Silence.
"What kind of proof?" Jared asked.
"There's no time for that now. But trust me on this. Clu was clean."
"Who would have fixed the test?" Sophie asked.
"That's what I want to know. The logical suspects are Dr. Stilwell and Sawyer Wells."
"But why would they want to hurt Clu?"
"Not Clu, Sophie. You. It fits in with everything else we have. Raising the specter of your missing daughter, taking your big baseball trade and turning it against you--I think someone's out to hurt you."
"You're jumping to conclusions," Sophie said.
"Could be."
"Who would want to hurt me?"
"I'm sure you've made your share of enemies. How about Vincent Riverton, for one?"
"Riverton? No. Our whole takeover was far more amicable than the press portrayed it."
"Still, I wouldn't rule him out."
"Listen, Myron, I don't really care about any of this. I just want you to find my daughter."
"They're probably connected."
"How?"
Myron changed ears. "You want me to be blunt, right?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I have to remind you what the odds are that your daughter is still alive."
"Slim," she said.
"Very slim."
"No, I'll stay with slim. In fact, I think it's better than slim."
"Do you really believe Lucy is alive someplace?"
"Yes."
"She's out there somewhere, waiting to be found?"
"Yes."
"Then the big question," Myron said, "is why."
"What do you mean?"
"Why isn't she home?" he asked. "Do you think someone's been holding her hostage all these years?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what other choices are there? If Lucy is still alive, why hasn't she come home? Or phoned home? What is she hiding from?"
Silence.
Sophie broke it. "You think someone has
resurrected my daughter's memory as part of some vendetta against me?"
Myron was not sure how to answer. "I think it's a possibility we have to consider."
"I appreciate your bluntness, Myron. I want you to remain honest with me. Don't hold back. But I'll also keep my hope. When your child disappears into thin air, it creates a huge void. I need something to fill that void, Myron. So until I find out otherwise, I'll fill it with hope."
Myron said, "I understand."
"Then you'll keep looking."
There was a knock on the door. Myron put his hand over the phone and said to come in. Big Cyndi opened the door. Myron gestured to a chair. She took it. In the bright green she looked a bit like a planet.
"I'm not sure what I can do, Sophie."
"Jared will investigate Clu's drug test," she said. "If there was anything amiss, he'll find out about it. You keep your eyes open for my daughter. You may be right about Lucy's fate. Then again you may be wrong. Don't give up."
Before he could reply, the line was disconnected. Myron put the phone back in the cradle.
"Well?" Big Cyndi asked.
"She still has hope."
Big Cyndi scrunched up her face. "There's a fine line between hope and delusion, Mr. Bolitar," she said. "I think Ms. Mayor may have crossed it."
Myron nodded. He shifted in his chair. "Something I can do for you?" he asked.
She shook her head. Her head was a nearly perfect cube and reminded Myron of the old game of Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots. Not sure what else to do, Myron folded his hands and put them on his desk. He wondered how many times he had been alone with Big Cyndi like this. Less than a handful for sure. Wrong to say, but she made him uncomfortable.
After some time had passed, Big Cyndi said, "My mother was a big, ugly woman."
Myron had no comeback for that one.
"And like most big, ugly women, she was a shrinking violet. That's how it is with big, ugly women, Mr. Bolitar. They get used to standing alone in the corner. They hide. They become angry and defensive. They keep their heads down, and they let themselves be treated with disdain and disgust and--"
She stopped suddenly, waved a meaty paw. Myron sat still.
"I hated my mother," she said. "I swore that I would never be like that."
Myron risked a small nod.
"That's why you have to save Esperanza."
"I'm not sure I see the connection."
"She's the only one who sees past this."
"Past what?"
She thought about that one for a moment. "What's the first thing you think when you see me, Mr. Bolitar?"
"I don't know."
"People like to stare," she said.
"Hard to blame them, don't you think?" Myron said. "I mean, the way you dress and stuff."
