by Harlan Coben
The voice cut out like a radio turned off.
Matt held his breath. He strained his ears. Footsteps? Was he hearing footsteps?
He couldn't say for sure. He debated sneaking another glance. If they were on t heir way toward him, what harm would it do? Either way he'd be nailed.
It was too quiet back here.
If the cops were actively searching for him, they'd be calling out to one a nother. If they were being quiet, quiet like this, there was only one e xplanation.
He'd been spotted. They were sneaking up on him.
Matt listened again.
Something jangled. Like something on a policeman's belt.
No question now-- they were coming for him. His heart picked up pace. He could f eel it hammering in his chest. Caught. Again. He pictured what would happen: t he rough handling, the handcuffs, the back of the cruiser . . .
Jail.
Fear gripped him. They were coming. They'd take him away and throw him back into t hat pit. They'd never listen. They'd lock him up. He was an ex-con. Another man w as dead after a fight with Matt Hunter. Forget everything else. This one would b e a slam dunk.
And what would happen to Olivia if he was caught?
He couldn't even explain the truth, even if he wanted to, because then she would e nd up in jail. And if there was one thing that terrified him more than his own i ncarceration . . .
Matt wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly the Mauser M2 was in his hand.
Calm down, he told himself. We're not shooting anybody here.
But he could still use the threat, couldn't he? Except that there were several c ops here, four or five at a minimum, more probably on the way. They'd draw t heir weapons too. Then what? Were Paul and Ethan awake?
He slid to the back part of the toolshed. He risked a peek out from the back.
Two cops were no more than six feet away from him.
He had been spotted. No way around that. They were headed right toward him.
There was no escape.
Matt gripped the gun and got ready to sprint when his gaze was snagged by s omething in Marsha's backyard.
It was Kyra.
She must have been watching the whole time. She was standing near her door at t he garage. Their eyes met. Matt saw something that looked like a small smile on h er face. He almost shook his head no, but he didn't.
Kyra screamed.
The scream shattered the air and rang in the ears. The two cops turned toward h er-- and away from him. She screamed again. The cops sprinted toward her.
"What's wrong?" one of the cops yelled.
Matt did not hesitate now. He used Kyra's diversion and sprinted in the opposite d irection, toward the woods. She screamed again. Matt never looked back, not u ntil he was deep in the trees.
Chapter 43
SITTING WITH HER FEET on her desk, Loren Muse decided to call Max Darrow's w idow.
It was three or four in the morning in Nevada-- Loren could never remember if Nevada was two hours or three behind-- but she suspected that a woman whose h usband gets murdered probably sleeps uneasily.
She dialed the number. It went into voice mail. A man's voice said, "Max and Gertie can't answer your call right now. We're probably out fishing. Leave a m essage, okay?"
The voice from the grave made her pause. Max Darrow, retired cop, was a human b eing. Simple, but you forget that sometimes. You get caught up in the details, i n the puzzle pieces. A life has been lost here. Gertie will have to change that m essage. She and Max won't be going fishing anymore. Sounded like a small thing b ut it was a life, a struggle, a world now shattered.
Loren left a message with her phone number and hung up.
"Hey, what are you working on?"
It was Adam Yates, the FBI chief from Vegas. He'd driven to the county p rosecutor's office with her after their meeting with Joan Thurston. Loren l ooked up at him. "Just a few strange developments."
"Such as?"
She told him about her conversation with Cingle Shaker. Yates grabbed a chair f rom a nearby desk. He sat, never taking his eyes off hers. He was one of those g uys. Big on eye contact.
When she finished, Yates frowned. "I just can't see how this Hunter guy fits i n."
"He should be in custody soon. Maybe we'll learn something then."
Yates nodded, kept up with the eye contact.
Loren said, "What?"
"This case," Yates said. His voice was soft now. "It means a great deal to me."
"Any reason in particular?"
"Do you have children?" he asked.
"No."
"Married?"
"No."
"You gay?"
"Jesus, Yates."
He held up his hand. "That was stupid, sorry."
"Why all the questions?"
"You don't have kids. I don't think you'll understand."
"Are you for real?"
Yates held up the hand again. "I don't mean that the way it sounded. I'm sure y ou're a good person and all."
"Gee, thanks."
"It's just that . . . when you have kids, it just changes things."
"Do me a favor, Yates. Please don't give me that having-children-alters-you s piel. I listen to that crap enough from my painfully few friends."
"It's not that." He paused. "Actually I think single people make better cops.
You can focus."
"Speaking of which . . ." She picked up some papers and pretended to be busy.
"Let me ask you something, Muse."
She waited.
"When you wake up," Yates went on, "who's the first person you think about?"
"Excuse me?"
"Okay, it's morning. You open your eyes. You start getting out of bed. Who is t he first person you think about?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"Well, not to be insulting, but the answer is you, right? There's nothing wrong w ith that. You think about you. That's normal. All single people do that. You w ake up and wonder what you're going to do that day. Oh, sure, you might take c are of an elderly parent or something. But here's the thing. When you have a c hild, you are never number one again. Someone is more important than you. It c hanges your worldview. It has to. You think you know about protect and serve.
But when you have a family . . ."
"Is there a point to this?"
Adam Yates finally stopped with the eye contact. "I have a son. His name is Sam.
He's fourteen now. When he was three years old, he got meningitis. We thought he m ight die. He was in the hospital in this great big bed. It was too big for him, y ou know? It looked like it would swallow him up. And me, I just sat next to him a nd watched him get worse."
He gulped a breath and swallowed hard. Loren let him take his time.
"After a couple of hours, I picked Sam up and held him in my arms. I didn't s leep. I didn't put him down. I just kept holding him. My wife says it was three f ull days. I don't know. I just knew that if I kept Sam in my arms, if I kept w atching him, then death couldn't take him away from me."
Yates seemed to drift off.
Loren spoke softly. "I still don't see the point."
"Well, here it is," he said, his voice back to normal. He locked eyes again. His p upils were pinpricks. "They threatened my family."
Yates put his hand to his face, then back down as if he wasn't sure where he w anted to put it. "When I first started this case," he went on, "they set their s ights on my wife and kids. So you understand."
She opened her mouth, said nothing.
The phone on the desk rang. Loren picked it up.
Lance Banner said, "We lost Matt."
"What?"
"That kid who lives with them. Kyra, whatever. She started screaming and. . . .
Anyway, his wife is here. She says that she was driving the car, not him, and t hat she doesn't know where he is."
"That's crap."
"I know it."
"Bring her in."
"She re
fuses to come."
"Excuse me?"
"We have nothing on her."
"She's a material witness in a murder investigation."
"She's lawyering up. She says we either have to arrest her or let her go."
Her cell phone chirped. Loren checked the caller ID. The call was originating f rom Max Darrow's house.
"I'll get back to you." She hung up the office phone and clicked on the mobile.
"Investigator Muse."
"This is Gertie Darrow. You left me a message?"
Loren could hear the tears in her voice. "I'm sorry about your loss."
"Thank you."
"I don't mean to disturb you at such a terrible time, but I really need to ask y ou a few questions."
"I understand."
"Thank you," Loren said. She grabbed a pen. "Do you know why your husband was in Newark, Mrs. Darrow?"
"No." She said it as though it was the most painful word she ever uttered. "He t old me he was visiting a friend in Florida. A fishing trip, he said."
"I see. He was retired, yes?"
"That's right."
"Could you tell me if he was working on anything?"
"I don't understand. What does this have to do with his murder?"
"This is just routine--"
"Please, Investigator Muse," she interrupted, her voice up a notch. "My husband w as a police officer, remember? You're not calling me at this hour for routine q uestions."
Loren said, "I'm trying to find a motive."
"A motive?"
"Yes."
"But . . ." And then she quieted down. "The other officer. The one who called b efore. Investigator Wine."
"Yes. He works in my office."
"He told me that Max was in a car, that"-- there was a choke in the voice but she k ept it together--"that he had his pants down."
Loren closed her eyes. So Wine had already told her. She understood, she g uessed. In today's society of openness, you couldn't even spare a widow a nymore. "Mrs. Darrow?"
"What?"
"I think that was a setup. I don't think there was any prostitute. I think your h usband was murdered for some other reason. And I think it might involve an old c ase of his. So I'm asking you: Was he working on anything?"
There was a brief silence. Then: "That girl."
"What?"
"I knew it. I just knew it."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Darrow. I'm not sure what you mean."
"Max never talked about business. He never brought it home. And he was retired.
She had no reason to come around."
"Who?"
"I don't know her name. She was a young thing. Maybe twenty."
"What did she want?"
"I told you. I don't know. But Max . . . after she left, he was like a madman.
He started going through old files."
"Do you know what the files referred to?"
"No." Then: "Do you really think this could have something to do with Max's m urder?"
"Yes, ma'am. I think it might have everything to do with it. Does the name Clyde Rangor mean anything to you?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"How about Emma Lemay or Charles Talley?"
"No."
"Candace Potter?"
Silence.
"Mrs. Darrow?"
"I saw that name."
"Where?"
"On his desk. There was a file. Must have been a month ago. I just saw the word 'Potter.' I remember because that was the name of the bad guy in It's a Wonderful Life. Remember? Mr. Potter?"
"Do you know where the file is now?"
"I'll go through the cabinets, Investigator Muse. If it's still here, I'll find i t for you and call back."
Chapter 44
MATT LEARNED HOW to steal cars in prison. Or at least, that was what he thought.
There was a guy named Saul two cells over who had a fetish for joyriding with s tolen cars. He was about as decent a guy as you'd meet in prison. He had his d emons-- his seemingly more innocuous than most-- but the demons did him in. He g ot arrested for stealing a car when he was seventeen, then again when he was n ineteen. On his third go-round, Saul lost control of the vehicle and killed s omeone. He'd already had two priors so he got a life sentence.
"All that stuff you see on TV?" Saul had told him. "That's all crap, unless you w ant a specific make. Otherwise, you don't jam the lock. You don't use tools.
And you don't hot-wire. That only works on old cars anyway. And with all the a larms, you try most of that stuff, the car will lock down on you."
"So what do you do?" Matt asked.
"You use a person's car keys. You open the door like a human being. You drive a way."
Matt made a face. "Just like that?"
"No, not just like that. What you do is, you go to a crowded parking lot. Malls w ork great, though you gotta look out for the rent-a-cops circling around. Those b ig superstores are even better. You find an area where people won't be watching y ou much. You just keep walking and running your hand over a front tire or under t he bumper. People leave their keys there. They also keep them in those cute m agnets under the driver's-side fender. Not everyone. But hey, at least one in f ifty. You do that enough, you'll find a key. Voil ."
Matt wondered. His prison info was at least nine years old and perhaps obsolete.
He had been on foot for more than an hour-- first making his way through the w oods and now keeping off main roads. When he reached the corner of Livingston Avenue, he grabbed a bus to the campus of Bergen Community College in Paramus.
The ride took about an hour. Matt slept for all of it.
Bergen Community was a commuter school. There were tons of cars driven by c arefree coeds. Security was almost nonexistent. Matt began his search. It took a lmost an hour, but as Saul promised, Matt eventually hit pay dirt in the form o f a white Isuzu with a quarter tank of gas. Not bad. The keys had been hidden i n one of those magnets above the front tire. Matt got into the car and drove t oward Route 17. He didn't know Bergen County all that well. It might be smarter t o go north over the Tappan Zee but he chose the route he knew over the George Washington Bridge.
He was on his way to Westport, Connecticut.
When he reached the GWB, he worried that the toll booth operator would recognize h im-- he even went so far as to rip the bandage off his head and replace it with a New York Rangers cap he found in the backseat-- but that didn't happen. He s witched on the radio and listened to the news-- first, 1010 WINS for twenty-two m inutes, then CBS 880. In the movies they always interrupt for a special b ulletin when a man is at large. But neither station said anything about him. In f act, there was nothing on any of it-- nothing about Max Darrow or Charles Talley o r a fleeing suspect.
He needed money. He needed a place to sleep. He needed some meds. The pain had b een held in check by the flow of adrenaline. That was ebbing now. He'd only s lept about an hour in the past twenty-four, and the preceding night, what with t he pictures on his camera phone, hadn't brought him much slumber either.
Matt checked the money. He had thirty-eight bucks. Hardly enough. He couldn't u se his ATM or credit cards. The police would be able to track those down. Ditto w ith getting help from close friends or relatives, not that he had many he could r eally depend on.
There was, however, one person Matt could go to whom the police would never s uspect.
When he got off at the Westport exit, he slowed down. He had never been invited h ere, but he knew the address. When he first got out of prison, he actually d rove past this particular road several times, but he never had the courage to t urn onto the block.
Now he took a right and then another and pulled slowly down the quiet, t ree-lined street. His pulse started kicking up again. He checked the driveway.
Her car was the only one there. He considered using his cell phone, but no, the p olice would be able to access that too. Maybe he should just knock. He thought a bout it, but in the end he decided to play it safe. He drove b
ack toward town a nd spotted a pay phone. He dialed the number.
Sonya McGrath answered on the first ring. "Hello?"
"It's me," he said. "Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"I need your help."
"Where are you?"
"I'm about five minutes from your house."
Matt pulled into the McGraths' driveway.
There was a rusted basketball hoop near the garage. The shredded netting had not b een replaced in a very long time. The hoop didn't fit in with the surroundings.
It was old and unkempt where the rest of the house was so posh, so updated. For a moment Matt stopped and stared at the basketball hoop. Stephen McGrath was t here. He was shooting with nice form, his eyes locked on the front rim. Matt c ould see the backspin on the ball. Stephen was smiling.
"Matt?"
He turned around. Sonya McGrath stood on the front step. She looked over to see w here he'd been staring and her face fell.
"Tell me," Sonya said.
He did-- but as he did, he noticed the devastation in her face did not fade. He h ad seen her take blows like this before. She always came back, if not all the w ay, then enough. That wasn't happening now. Her face maintained that horrid p allor. It wouldn't change. Matt saw it, but he couldn't stop himself. He kept t alking and explaining what he was doing here and somewhere along the line Matt h ad an almost out-of-body experience where he rose above them and actually heard w hat he was saying and how it must sound to her. But he still did not stop. He j ust kept talking while a small voice inside his brain urged him to shut the h ell up. But he didn't listen. He'd trudged on, figuring that he'd somehow make i t through.
But in the end, when you cut through it all, his words sounded like this: Another fight, another death.
When he finally wound down, Sonya McGrath just watched him for several seconds.
Matt could feel himself wither and die under the glare.
"You want me to help you?" she said.
And there it was. So simply stated. He could hear it now, how not only r idiculous it sounded, but how outrageous. How obscene.
He didn't know what to do.
"Clark found out about our meetings," she said.
He was going to say I'm sorry or something similar, but it didn't feel a ppropriate. He kept quiet now and waited.
"Clark thinks I'm after comfort. He has a point, I guess, but I don't think t hat's it. I think I needed closure. I think I needed to forgive you. And I c an't."
