by Harlan Coben
“I’ll protect him,” Myron said.
“No, that’s my job.”
Tires squealed in the driveway. Myron rose and looked out the window. It was Duane. He threw the car in park and leaped out.
“Keep him out,” Deanna said, suddenly out of her chair. “Please.”
“What?”
She ran to the door and threw the dead bolt. “I don’t want him to see.”
“See what?”
But now Myron did see. She turned toward him. She had a gun in her hand. “I’ve already killed twice to save him. What’s a third?”
Myron looked for a safe place to dive, but for the second time in this case he’d been careless. He was out in the open. It would be impossible to miss. “Killing me won’t make it go away,” he said.
“I know,” she replied.
There was a pounding at the door. Duane shouted, “Open up! Don’t say anything to him!” More pounding.
Deanna’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t tell anyone, Myron. No need to say anything anymore. The guilty will have all been punished.”
She placed the barrel of the gun against her head.
“Don’t,” Myron whispered.
From outside the door, Duane shouted, “Mama! Open up, Mama!”
She turned toward the voice. Myron tried to reach her in time, but he had no chance. She pulled the trigger and made one final sacrifice for her son.
48
Time passed. Myron had to persuade Duane to leave his mother alone. It was what she would have wanted, Myron reminded him. When they were both far enough away, Myron placed an anonymous call to the Cherry Hill police. “I think I heard a gunshot,” he said. He gave the address and hung up.
They met up at a stop along the New Jersey Turnpike. Duane was no longer crying.
“Are you going to tell?” Duane asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“Not even Valerie’s mother?”
“I don’t owe her anything.”
Silence. Then Duane started tearing again.
“Did the truth set you free, Myron?”
He ignored the question. “Tell Wanda,” Myron said. “If you really love her, tell her everything. It’s the only chance you have.”
“You can’t be my agent anymore,” Duane said.
“I know,” Myron said.
“There was no other way for her. She had to protect me.”
“There was another way.”
“What? If it was your kid, what would you have done?”
Myron didn’t have the answer. He only knew that killing Valerie Simpson was not it. “Are you going to play tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said. He climbed back in his car. “And I’m going to win.”
Myron did not doubt it.
It was late when he got back to New York. He parked the car at the Kinney lot and headed past the ugly intestinal sculpture and into the building. The security guard greeted him. It was Saturday night. Practically no one was there. But even on street level Myron had seen the light on.
He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. The customary hubbub of activity at Lock-Horne Securities was absent. The floor was dark. Most of the computers had been turned off and covered with plastic, though a few were left on, the bizarre screen savers dancing streaks of lights across the desk. Myron walked toward the light in the corner office. Win was sitting at his desk, reading a book in Korean. He looked up when Myron entered.
“So tell me,” Win said.
Myron did. The whole story.
“Ironic,” Win said when he’d finished.
“What?”
“We kept wondering how a mother could care so little for her son when in reality the problem was just the opposite. She cared too much.”
Myron nodded.
Silence.
Then Win said, “You know?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Dr. Abramson,” Myron said. “Your visiting Valerie enough for her to know your name. It got me thinking.”
Win nodded. “I was going to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to kill him,” Myron said.
“You’re a child sometimes,” Win said. “I did what had to be done.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“Frank Ache would have killed us,” Win said. “The only reason he chose to back off was because Pavel Menansi was dead—ergo the profit was gone. By eliminating Pavel, I took away his motive. Our options were clear: we could have taken on the mob and eventually gotten killed, or we could exterminate a vermin. In the end, sacrificing scum saved our lives.”
“What else did you do to Ache?” Myron asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Frank didn’t show up in the woods just to call off a hit. Something had scared him. He told me to mention our meeting to you.”
“Oh,” Win said, “that.” He stood and grabbed his putter. He dropped a few golf balls on the floor. “I sent him a little package.”
“What package?”
“One containing Aaron’s right testicle. That, added together with Pavel’s death, was enough to convince him that it would be in all of our interests to drop the matter.”
Myron shook his head. “What separates you from Deanna Yeller?”
“Just one thing,” Win said. He lined up a putt and sank it. “I don’t fault her for what she did the night Alexander Cross was murdered. It was practical. It made sense. She didn’t trust the justice system. She didn’t trust a United States senator. In both cases, she was undoubtedly right. And what did she sacrifice? Her lowlife nephew who would have spent his life behind bars anyway. No, in that case we were the same.”
He lined up over the next putt and checked the lie. “Where we differ, however, is that she killed an innocent person the second time around. I did not.”
“You’re drawing a pretty thin line,” Myron said.
“The world is made up of thin lines, my friend. I was there. I visited Valerie every week in the institution. Did you know that?”
Myron shook his head. He was probably closer to Win than anyone, and he hadn’t known that. He hadn’t even known he knew Valerie Simpson.
Win took another putt. “From the first moment I saw her in that godforsaken place I wanted to know what changed her. I wanted to know what monstrosity had deadened the spirit that had soared so. You were the one who figured it out. Pavel Menansi did that to her, just as he would have done it to Janet Koffman if I hadn’t stopped him.” Win looked over at Myron. “You already know this, but I’ll say it just the same: the fact that killing Pavel helped us with Frank Ache was just a bonus. I would have killed him anyway. I really didn’t need any justification.”
“There were other ways to make him pay,” Myron said.
“How?” Win scoffed. “By arresting him? No one would press charges. And even if all was revealed as per your plan, what would happen to him? He’d probably write a book and go on Oprah. He’d tell the world how he’d been abused as a child or some such nonsense. He’d be an even bigger celebrity.” Win took another putt. Another make. “We’re not the same, you and I. We both know that. But it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“Yes, it is. If we were the same it wouldn’t work. We’d both be dead by now. Or insane. We balance each other. It’s why you’re my best friend. It’s why I love you.”
Silence.
“Don’t do it again,” Myron said.
Win did not reply. He lined up another putt.
“Did you hear me?”
“It’s time to move on,” Win said. “This incident is in the past. You know better than to try to control the future.”
More silence. Win sank another putt.
“Jessica is waiting,” Win said. “She told me to remind you about her new oils.”
Myron turned and left then. He felt unclean and unsure. But he knew Win was right: it was over. It would just take a bit of time for things to feel normal agai
n. He would recover.
And, Myron thought as he headed into the elevator, what better way to start the healing process than with Jessica’s oils?
For Anne and Charlotte,
from the luckiest man in the whole world
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following: my friends and college roommates James Bradbeer Jr. and Lawrence Vitale; David Pepe of Pro Agents Inc.; Peter Roisman of Advantage International; my editor and friend Jacob Hoye; Natalie Ayars, M.D.; E. W. Count; the AOL Writers Club; and, of course, Dave Bolt.
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.
1745 Boradway
New York, New York 10019
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 © 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: 978-0-440-33843-7
v3.0_r2
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Fade Away
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
“Just behave.”
“Me?” Myron said. “I’m always a delight.”
Myron Bolitar was being led through the corridor of the darkened Meadowlands Arena by Calvin Johnson, the New Jersey Dragons new general manager. Their dress shoes clacked sharply against the tile and echoed through empty Harry M. Stevens food stands, Carvel Ice Cream carts, pretzel vendors, souvenir booths. The smell of sporting-event hot dogs—that sort of rubbery, chemically, yet nostalgically delicious aroma—wafted from the walls. The stillness of the place consumed them; there is nothing more hollow and lifeless than an empty sports arena.
Calvin Johnson stopped in front of a door leading to a luxury box. “This may all seem a bit strange,” he said. “Just go with the flow, okay?”
“Okay.”
Calvin reached for the knob and took a deep breath. “Clip Arnstein, the owner of the Dragons, is in there waiting for us.”
“And yet I’m not trembling,” Myron said.
Calvin Johnson shook his head. “Just don’t be an ass.”
Myron pointed to his chest. “I wore a tie and everything.”
Calvin Johnson opened the door. The luxury box faced midcourt. Several workers were putting down the basketball floor over the hockey ice. The Devils had played the night before. Tonight was the Dragons’ turn. The box was cozy. Twenty-four cushioned seats. Two television monitors. To the right was a wood-paneled counter for the food—usually fried chicken, hot dogs, potato knishes, sausage and pepper sandwiches, that sort of stuff. To the left was a brass cart with a nicely stocked bar and minifridge. The box also had its own bathroom—this so the corporate high rollers would not have to urinate with the great unwashed.
Clip Arnstein faced them, standing. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie. He was bald with patches of gray over both ears. He was burly, his chest still a barrel after seventy-some-odd years. His large hands had brown spots and fat blue veins like garden hoses. No one spoke. No one moved. Clip glared hard at Myron for several seconds, examining him from head to toe.
“Like the tie?” Myron asked.
Calvin Johnson shot him a warning glance.
The old man made no movement toward them. “How old are you now, Myron?”
Interesting opening question. “Thirty-two.”
“You playing any ball?”
“Some,” Myron said.
“You keep in good shape?”
“Want me to flex?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
No one offered Myron a seat and no one took one. Of course the only chairs in here were the spectator seats, but it still felt weird to stand in a business setting where you’re supposed to sit. Standing suddenly became difficult. Myron felt antsy. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He took out a pen and held it, but that didn’t feel right. Too Bob Dole. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stood at a weird angle, like the casual guy in the Sears circular.
“Myron, we have an interesting proposition for you,” Clip Arnstein said.
“Proposition?” Always the probing interrogatory.
“Yes. I was the one who drafted you, you know.”
“I know.”
“Ten, eleven years ago. When I was with the Celtics.”
“I know.”
“First round.”
“I know all this, Mr. Arnstein.”
“You were a hell of a prospect, Myron. You were smart. You had an unbelievable touch. You were loaded with talent.”
“I coulda been a contenda,” Myron said.
Arnstein scowled. It was a famous scowl, developed over some fifty-plus years in professional basketball. The scowl had made its first appearance when Clip played for the now-defunct Rochester Royals in the forties. It grew more famous when he coached the Boston Celtics to numerous championships. It became a legendary trademark when he made all the famous trades (“clipping” the competition, ergo the nickname) as team president. Three years ago Clip had become majority owner of the New Jersey Dragons and the scowl now resided in East Rutherford, right off Exit 16 of the New Jersey Turnpike. His voice was gruff. “Was that supposed to be Brando?”
“Eerie, isn’t it? Like Marlon’s actually in the room.”
Clip Arnstein’s face suddenly softened. He nodded slowly, giving Myron the doelike, father-figure eyes. “You make jokes to cover the pain,” he said gravely. “I understand that.”
Dr. Joyce Brothers.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Arnstein?”
“You never played in a single professional game, did you, Myron?”
“You know very well I didn’t.”
Clip nodded. “Your first preseason game. Third quarter. You already had eighteen points that game. Not bad for a rookie in his first scrimmage. That was when fate took over.”
Fate took the form of big Burt Wesson of the Washington Bullets. There had been a collision, a searing pain, and then nothing.
“Awful thing,” Clip said.
“Uh huh.”
“I always felt bad about what happened to you. Such a waste.”
Myron glanced at Calvin Johnson. Calvin was looking off, arms crossed, his smooth black f
eatures a placid pool. “Uh huh,” Myron said again.
“That’s why I’d like to give you another chance.”
Myron was sure he’d heard wrong. “Pardon?”
“We have a slot open on the team. I’d like to sign you.”
Myron waited. He looked at Clip. Then he looked at Calvin Johnson. Neither one was laughing. “Where is it?” Myron asked.
“What?”
“The camera. This is one of those hidden camera shows, right? Is this the one with Ed McMahon? I’m a big fan of his work.”
“It’s not a joke, Myron.”
“It must be, Mr. Arnstein. I haven’t played competitive ball in ten years. I shattered my knee, remember?”
“All too well. But as you said, it was ten years ago. I know you went through rehabilitation to rebuild it.”
“And you also know I tried a comeback. Seven years ago. The knee wouldn’t hold up.”
“It was still too early,” Clip said. “You just told me you’re playing again.”
“Pickup games on weekends. It’s a tad different than the NBA.”
Clip dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. “You’re in shape. You even volunteered to flex.”
Myron’s eyes narrowed, swerving from Clip to Calvin Johnson, back to Clip. Their expressions were neutral. “Why do I have the feeling,” Myron asked, “that I’m missing something here?”
Clip finally smiled. He looked over to Calvin Johnson. Calvin Johnson forced up a return smile.
“Perhaps I should be less”—Clip paused, searched for the word—“opaque.”
“That might be helpful.”
“I want you on the team. I don’t much care if you play or not.”
Myron waited again. When no one continued, he said, “It’s still a bit opaque.”
Clip let loose a long breath. He walked over to the bar, opened a small hotel-style fridge, and removed a can of Yoo-Hoo. Stocking Yoo-Hoos. Hmm. Clip had been prepared. “You still drink this sludge?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
He tossed Myron the can and poured something from a decanter into two glasses. He handed one to Calvin Johnson. He signaled to the seats by the glass window. Exactly midcourt. Very nice. Nice leg room too. Even Calvin, who was six-eight, was able to stretch a bit. The three men sat next to one another, all facing the same way, which again felt weird in a business setting. You were supposed to sit across from one another, preferably at a table or desk. Instead they sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the work crew pound the floor into place.
