by Harlan Coben
"You don't commit murder to stave off life's inconveniences," Myron said.
Win didn't argue, but he didn't agree either. They kept walking. When they reached the car, Win said, "So where does that leave us?"
"With Clip Arnstein," Myron said. "He has some explaining to do."
"You want me to come along?"
"No. I want to talk to him alone."
Chapter 40
By the time Myron arrived at the arena, the game was over. Cars tapped the exits, making it hard to go the opposite way. Myron managed to weave through. He showed his ID to the guard and drove into the players' lot.
He ran to Clip's office. Someone called his name. He ignored it. When he reached the outer office door, he tried the knob. It was locked. He was tempted to break it down.
"Yo, Myron."
It was one of the towel boys. Myron forgot the kid's name. "What's up?" he said.
"This came for you."
The kid handed Myron a manila envelope.
"Who dropped this off?" Myron asked.
"Your uncle."
"My uncle?"
"That's what the guy said."
Myron looked at the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in giant block letters. He tore it open and turned it upside down. First, a letter slid out. He shook again and a black cassette tape fell into the palm of his hand. He put the cassette down and unfolded the letter:
Myron,
I should have given this to you at the cathedral. I'm sorry I didn't, but I got too caught up in Liz's murder. I wanted you to concentrate on catching the killer, not on this tape. I was afraid it would distract you. I still think it will, but that doesn't give me the right to keep it from you. I just hope you stay focused enough to find the bastard who killed Liz. She deserves justice.
I also wanted to tell you that I'm thinking about turning myself in. Now that Liz is gone, there's no reason to keep hiding. I spoke to some old lawyer buddies about it. They've already started reaching out to all the mercenaries Hunt's father hired. They're sure one of them will corroborate my story. We'll see.
Don't listen to this tape alone, Myron. Listen to it with a friend.
Cole
Myron folded the letter. He had no idea what to think. He glanced down the corridor. No sign of Clip. He jogged toward the exit. Most of the players had already left the arena. TC, of course. Last in, first out. Myron got in his car and turned the key. Then he stuck the tape into the car's player and waited.
Esperanza tried dialing Myron's car phone. No answer. Then his cellular. Same deal. He always carried his cellular. If he wasn't picking up, it was because he didn't want to. She quickly dialed Win's cellular. He picked up on the second ring.
"Do you know where Myron is?" she asked.
"He went to the arena."
"Go find him, Win."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"The Raven Brigade robbed the safe-deposit boxes. That's where they got the information they used to blackmail Downing."
"What did they find?"
"I don't know," she said, "but I have a list of the people who rented the boxes."
"So?"
"One was rented to a Mr. and Mrs. B. Wesson."
Silence.
Win said, "Are you sure it's the same B. Wesson who injured Myron?"
"I already checked," she said. "The B stands for Burt, listed on his application as a thirty-three-year-old high school basketball coach. It's him, Win. It's the same Burt Wesson."
Chapter 41
Nothing.
Myron fiddled with the volume knob. Static feedback screeched through the car speakers. He turned it down a second, then back up. He heard muffled sounds, but he had no idea what they were. Then the sounds faded away.
Silence.
Two minutes of blank tape passed before Myron finally heard voices. His ears perked up, but he couldn't make out much. Then the voices grew a little louder, a little clearer. He leaned closer to the speaker and suddenly he heard a gruff voice with frightening clarity: "You have the money?"
A hand reached into Myron's chest, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. He hadn't heard the voice in ten years, but recognition was instantaneous. It was Burt Wesson. What the hell--?
Then the second voice jarred him like a body blow:
"I got half now. A thousand dollars now. You get the other half when he goes down...."
Myron's entire body shuddered. A flash of rage unlike anything he had ever known warmed and then engulfed him. His hands tightened into fists. Tears forced their way forward. He remembered wondering why the blackmailers had contacted him to buy the dirt on Greg; he remembered Cole Whiteman's laugh and Marty Felder's ironic smile when they'd learned that he'd been hired to find Greg Downing; he remembered the voice on Greg's answering machine saying, "He's willing to pay. Is that what you want?" and most of all, he remembered Greg's pained face at the hospital all those years ago. It hadn't been a bond that brought Greg to Myron's bedside.
It'd been guilt.
"Don't hurt him too bad, Burt. I just want Bolitar banged up for a few games..."
Something in the deep recesses of Myron's mind snapped like a dry twig. Without conscious thought, Myron shifted into reverse.
"Look, I really need the money. Can't you give me another five hundred? They're going to cut me soon. It's my last scrimmage and then I'm unemployed..."
He straightened out his car and shifted into drive. His foot pressed down upon the pedal. The speedometer climbed. Myron's face twisted into a mask of incognizant fury. Tears sheeted down his cheeks but no sound came with them. He drove without really seeing.
When he reached the Jones Road exit, Myron wiped his face with his sleeve. He turned into TC's driveway. The security gate blocked his path.
The guard stepped out of his little hut. Myron waved him closer to the car. When the guard was fully out of the box, Myron showed the gun.
"Move and I'll blow your head off."
The guard's hands went up. Myron got out of the car and opened the gate. He ordered the guard inside the car. The car roared up the driveway. Myron slammed on the brake just feet before the front door. He jumped out on the run and without hesitating, he kicked in TC's front door. He ran into the den.
The television was on. TC looked up, startled. "What the fuck--?"
Myron bounded across the room, grabbed TC's arm, twisted it behind his back.
"Hey--"
"Where is he?" Myron demanded.
"I don't know what--"
Myron pulled up on the arm. "Don't make me break it, TC. Where is he?"
"What the fuck are you--?"
Myron silenced him by pushing the arm farther up his back. TC cried out, his huge frame bent at the waist to lessen the pressure. "Last time I ask," Myron said. "Where's Greg?"
"I'm here."
Myron let go and spun toward the voice. Greg Downing stood in the doorway. Myron did not hesitate. Letting out a guttural scream, he pounced.
Greg put up his hands, but it was like quieting a volcano with a squirt gun. Myron's fist landed square in Greg's face. Greg toppled back from the assault. Myron fell on him, his knee landing in his ribs. Something cracked. He straddled Greg's chest and threw another punch.
"Stop!" TC shouted, "You're gonna kill him."
Myron barely heard him.
He cocked his other fist, but TC was on him before he could throw it. Myron rolled with the tackle, digging his elbow into TC's solar plexus. When they hit the wall, the air whooshed out of TC, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air. Myron rose. Greg was scrambling away. Myron vaulted over the couch. He grabbed Greg by the leg and pulled him toward him.
"You fucked my wife!" Greg shouted. "You think I didn't know? You fucked my wife!"
The words slowed Myron, but they didn't stop him. Through his tears, he threw another punch. Greg's mouth filled with blood. Myron cocked his fist again. A hand of iron reached out and grabbed his arm, holding it in place.
"Enough,"
Win said.
Myron looked up, his face distorted by confusion and rage. "What?"
"He's had enough."
"But it's like you said," Myron pleaded. "Wesson did do it on purpose. Greg hired him."
"I know," Win said. "But he's had enough."
"What the hell are you talking about? If it was you--"
"I'd probably kill him," Win finished for him. He looked down and something flickered in his eyes. "But you wouldn't."
Myron swallowed. Win nodded again and let go of Myron's wrist. Myron let his arm fall to his side. He got off Greg Downing.
Greg sat up, coughing blood into his hand. "I followed Emily that night," Greg managed through the hacks. "I saw you two...I just wanted payback, that's all. You weren't supposed to get hurt that bad."
Myron swallowed and breathed deeply. The adrenaline rush would soon ebb, but for now it was still there. "You been hiding here since the beginning?"
Greg touched part of his face, winced, then nodded. "I was afraid they'd think I killed that woman," he said. "And I had the mob chasing me and the custody battle and my girlfriend is pregnant." He looked up. "I just needed some time."
"Do you love Audrey?"
Greg said, "You know?"
"Yes."
"Yeah," Greg said, "I love her a lot."
"Then give her a call," Myron said. "She's in jail."
"What?"
Myron didn't elaborate. He'd hoped throwing that in Greg's face would give him some sort of perverse pleasure, but it didn't. All it did was remind him that he was far from blameless in this.
He turned and walked away.
Myron found Clip alone in that same corporate skybox they'd met in when this all began. He was looking down at the empty court, his back to Myron. He didn't move when Myron cleared his throat.
"You knew all along," Myron said.
Clip said nothing.
"You went to Liz Gorman's apartment that night," Myron continued. "She played the tape for you, didn't she?"
Clip clasped his hands behind his back. Then he nodded.
"That's why you hired me. This wasn't all a coincidence. You wanted me to find out the truth."
"I didn't know how else to tell you." Clip finally turned and faced Myron. His eyes were dazed and hazy. All color was gone from his face. "It wasn't an act, you know. The emotion at the press conference..." He lowered his head, gathered himself, raised it again. "You and I lost touch after your injury. I wanted to call you a thousand times, but I understood. You wanted to stay away. The injury never leaves the great ones, Myron. I knew it would never leave you."
Myron opened his mouth but nothing came out. His entire being felt exposed and raw. Clip came closer. "I thought this would be a way for you to learn the truth," Clip said. "I also hoped this would be something of a catharsis. Not a complete one. Like I said, it never leaves the great ones."
For several moments, they both just stood and stared.
"You told Walsh to play me the other night," Myron said.
"Yes."
"You knew I wouldn't be able to match up."
Clip nodded slowly.
Myron felt the tears come back to his eyes. He blinked them down.
Clip set his jaw. There were tiny tremors in his face, but he stood rigid. "I wanted to help you," he said, "but my reasons for hiring you were not all altruistic. I knew, for example, that you'd always been a team player. You loved that aspect of basketball, Myron--being part of a team."
"So?"
"My plan included making you feel like a member of the team. A real member. So much so that you would never hurt us."
Myron understood. "You figured that if I bonded with my teammates, I wouldn't blow the whistle when I learned the truth."
"It's not in your nature," Clip said.
"But it will come out," Myron said. "There's no way to avoid it now."
"I know that."
"You could lose the team."
Clip smiled, shrugged. "There are worse things," he said. "Just as you now know there are worse things than never being able to play again."
"I always knew," Myron said. "I just maybe needed a reminder."
Chapter 42
He and Jessica sat on the couch in her loft. He told her everything. Jess hugged her knees and rocked back and forth. Her eyes looked pained.
"She was my friend," Jessica said.
"I know."
"I wonder."
"What?"
"What would I have done in the same situation? To protect you."
"You wouldn't have killed."
"No," she said. "I guess not."
Myron watched her. She looked on the verge of tears. He said, "I think I learned something about us in all this."
She waited for him to elaborate.
"Win and Esperanza didn't want me to play again. But you never tried to stop me. I was afraid that maybe you didn't understand me as well as they do. But that wasn't the case at all. You saw what they couldn't."
Jessica studied his face with a penetrating gaze. She let go of her knees and slid her feet to the floor. "We've never really talked about this before," she said.
He nodded.
"The truth is, you never mourned the end of your career," Jessica went on. "You never showed weakness. You stuffed it all in some internal suitcase and moved on. You tackled everything else in your life with a smothering desperation. You didn't wait. You seized whatever was left and pressed it against you, afraid your whole world was as fragile as that knee. You rushed off to law school. You ran off and helped Win. You frantically clung to whatever you could." She stopped.
"Including you," he finished.
"Yes. Including me. Not just because you loved me. Because you were afraid of losing more than you already had."
"I did love you," he said. "I still do."
"I know. I'm not trying to put this all on you. I was an idiot. It was mostly my fault. I admit that. But your love back then bordered on the desperate. You channeled your grief into a grasping need. I was afraid of suffocating. I don't want to sound like an amateur shrink, but you needed to mourn. You needed to put it behind you, not suppress it. But you wouldn't face it."
"You thought my playing again would make me face it," he said.
"Yes."
"It's not like this was a cure-all."
"I know," she said. "But I think it helped you let go a little."
"And that's why you think now is a good time for me to move in."
Jessica swallowed hard. "If you want," she said. "If you feel ready."
He looked up in the air and said, "I'll need more closet space."
"Done," she whispered. "Whatever you want."
She snuggled into him. He put his arms around her, pulled her close, and felt very much at home.
It was a sweltering morning in Tucson, Arizona. A big man opened his front door.
"Are you Burt Wesson?"
The big man nodded. "Can I help you with something?"
Win smiled. "Yes," he said. "I think you can."
Books by Harlan Coben
DEAL BREAKER
DROP SHOT
FADE AWAY
BACK SPIN
ONE FALSE MOVE
THE FINAL DETAIL
DARKEST FEAR
TELL NO ONE
GONE FOR GOOD
NO SECOND CHANCE
JUST ONE LOOK
THE INNOCENT
PROMISE ME
THE WOODS
HOLD TIGHT
FADE AWAY
A Delacorte Press Book PUBLISHING HISTORY
Dell mass market edition published December 1996
Delacorte Press hardcover edition / September 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright (c) 1996 by Harlan Coben Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-44033843-7
v3.0
