by Harlan Coben
37
Myron and Win looked through the one-way glass at Clara Steinberg’s back and the faces of Stan and Edwin Gibbs. Kimberly Green stood with them. So did Eric Ford. Emily had gone to the hospital to sit vigil while Greg was in surgery. No one seemed to know if he’d make it.
“Why aren’t you listening in?” Myron asked.
“Can’t,” Ford replied. “Attorney-client.”
“How long they been at it?”
“On and off since we took him into custody.”
Myron checked the clock behind his head. Nearly three in the morning. Evidence collection teams had leveled the house, but still no clue where Jeremy was. Fatigue lined everyone’s face, except maybe Win’s. Fatigue never registered on his face. Win must internalize it. Or maybe it had something to do with having little to no conscience.
“We don’t have time for this,” Myron said.
“I know,” Eric Ford said. “It’s been a long night for all of us.”
“Do something.”
“Like what?” Ford snapped. “What exactly would you like me to do?”
Win picked up that one. “Perhaps you could speak to Ms. Steinberg in private.”
That hooked Ford’s attention. “What?”
“Take her into another room,” Win said, “and leave me alone with your suspect.”
Eric Ford looked at him. “You shouldn’t even be here. He”—a gesture toward Myron—“represents the Downing family, as much as I don’t like it. But you got no reason to be here.”
“Make a reason,” Win said.
Eric Ford waved his hand as if this wasn’t worth his time.
Win kept the voice at a low, soothing level. “You don’t have to be a part of it,” he said. “Simply talk to his attorney. Leave Gibbs alone in the room. That’s all. Nothing unethical about that.”
Ford shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
“We need answers,” Win said.
“And you want to beat them out of him.”
“Beating leaves marks,” Win said. “I never leave marks.”
“That’s not how it works, pal. Ever heard of the U.S. Constitution?”
“It’s a document,” Win said, “not a trump card. You have a choice. The obscure rights of that subhuman”—Win gestured through the glass—“or a young boy’s right to live.”
Ford leaned his forehead against the glass.
“If the boy dies while we’re standing here,” Win said, “how will you feel then?”
Ford shut his eyes. In the holding room, Clara Steinberg rose from her chair. She turned, and for the first time, Myron saw her face. He knew that she had represented bad people before—very, very bad people—but whatever horrors she was now hearing had washed away her skin tone and etched in something that would probably never leave. She approached the one-way mirror and knocked. Ford hit the sound switch.
“We need to talk,” she said. “Let me out.”
Eric Ford met Clara and Stan by the door. “Let’s head down this way,” he said.
“No,” Clara said.
“Pardon me?”
“We’ll talk in here,” she said, “where I can watch my client. Wouldn’t want an accident, now, would we?”
There were no chairs so they all stood by the one-way window—Kimberly Green, Eric Ford, Clara Steinberg, Stan Gibbs, Myron, and Win. Stan kept his head down and plucked at his lower lip with his fingers. Myron tried to meet his eyes. Stan never gave him the chance.
“Okay,” Clara said. “First off, we need a D.A.”
“What for?” Eric Ford asked.
“Because we want a deal.”
Ford tried to snicker. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No. My client is the only one who can tell you where Jeremy Downing is. He’ll only do so under specific conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“That’s why we need a D.A.”
“A D.A. will back whatever I agree to,” Eric Ford said.
“I’ll still want it in writing.”
“And I want to hear what you’re looking for here.”
“Okay,” Clara said, “here’s the deal. We help you find Jeremy Downing. In exchange, you guarantee not to seek the death penalty for Edwin Gibbs. You also agree to psychiatric tests. You then recommend he be placed in a proper mental health facility, not a prison.”
“You have to be kidding me.”
“There’s more,” Clara said.
“More?”
“Mr. Edwin Gibbs will also agree to donate bone marrow to Jeremy Downing if the need arises. I understand that Mr. Bolitar is representing the family here. For the record, we should note that he is present as a witness to this agreement.”
No one said anything.
“So we clear?” Clara said.
“No,” Ford said, “we’re not.”
Clara adjusted her eyeglasses. “This deal is nonnego-tiable.” She turned to leave, her gaze snagging on Myron’s. Myron just shook his head.
“I’m his attorney,” she said to him.
“And you’ll let a boy die for him?” Myron said.
“Don’t start,” Clara said, but her voice was soft.
Myron studied her face again, saw no give. He turned to Ford. “Agree,” he said.
“Are you nuts?”
“The family cares about retribution. But they care more about finding their son. Agree to her terms.”
“You think I’m taking orders from you?”
Myron’s voice was soft. “Come on, Eric.”
Ford frowned. He rubbed his face with his hands and then dropped them back to his side. “This agreement assumes, of course, that the boy is still alive.”
“No,” Clara Steinberg said.
“What?”
“Alive or dead does not change the state of Edwin Gibbs’s mental health.”
“So you don’t know if he’s alive or—”
“If we did, it would be an attorney-client communication and thus confidential.”
Myron looked at her in stark horror. She met his eyes and would not blink. Myron tried Stan, but his head was still lowered. Even Win’s face, usually the model of neutrality, was on edge. Win wanted to hurt somebody. He wanted to hurt somebody badly.
“We can’t agree to that,” Ford said.
“Then there’s no deal,” Clara said.
“You have to be reasonable—”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
Eric Ford shook his head. “No.”
“See you in court, then.”
Myron moved into her path.
“Step aside, Myron,” Clara said.
He just looked down at her. She raised her eyes.
“You think your mother wouldn’t be doing the same thing?” Clara said.
“Leave my mother out of this.”
“Step aside,” she said again. Aunt Clara was sixty-six. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked older than her age.
Myron turned back to Eric Ford. “Agree,” he said.
He shook his head. “The boy is probably dead.”
“Probably,” Myron repeated. “Not definitely.”
Win spoke up this time. “Agree,” he said.
Ford looked at him.
“He won’t get off easily,” Win said.
Stan’s head finally rose at that one. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Win gave him flat eyes. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I want this man kept away from my father.”
Win smiled at him.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Stan said. “None of you get it. My father is sick. He’s not responsible. We’re not making this up. Any competent psychiatrist in the world will agree. He needs help.”
“He should die,” Win said.
“He’s a sick man.”
“Sick men die all the time,” Win said.
“That’s not what I mean. He’s like someone who has a heart condition. Or cancer. He needs hel
p.”
“He kidnaps and probably kills people,” Win said.
“And it doesn’t matter why he does it?”
“Of course it doesn’t matter,” Win said. “He does it. That’s enough. He should not be put in a comfortable mental hospital. He should not be allowed to enjoy a wonderful film or read a great book or laugh again. He should not be able to see a beautiful woman or listen to Beethoven or know kindness or love—because his victims never will. What part of that don’t you understand, Mr. Gibbs?”
Stan was shaking. “You agree,” he said to Ford. “Or we don’t help.”
“If the boy dies because of this negotiation,” Win said to Stan, “you will die.”
Clara stepped into Win’s face. “You threatening my client?” she shouted.
Win smiled at her. “I never threaten.”
“There are witnesses.”
“Worried about collecting your fee, Counselor?” Win asked.
“That’s enough.” It was Eric Ford. He looked at Myron. Myron nodded. “Okay,” Ford said slowly. “We agree. Now, where is he?”
“I’ll have to take you,” Stan said.
“Again?”
“I wouldn’t be able to give you directions. I’m not even sure I can find it after all these years.”
“But we come along,” Kimberly Green said.
“Yes.”
There was an empty space, a sudden stillness that Myron didn’t like.
“Is Jeremy alive or dead?” Myron asked.
“Truth?” Stan said. “I don’t know.”
38
Eric Ford drove with Kimberly Green riding shotgun and Myron and Stan in the backseat. Several cars’ worth of agents followed them. So too did the press. Nothing they could do about that.
“My mother died in 1977,” Stan said. “Cancer. My father was already unwell. The one thing in his life that mattered to him—the one good thing—was my mother. He loved her very much.”
The time on the car clock read nearly 4:03 A.M. Stan told them where to turn off Route 15. A sign read DINGSMAN BRIDGE. They were heading into Pennsylvania.
“Whatever sanity was still there, my mother’s death stripped away. He watched her suffer. Doctors tried everything—used all their technological advances—but it only made her suffer more. That’s when my father started with the strength of the mind. If only my mother hadn’t relied on technology, he thought. If only she used her mind instead. If only she’d seen its limitless potential. Technology killed her, he said. It gave her false hope. It stopped her from using the one thing that could save her—the limitless human brain.”
No one had a comment.
“We had a summerhouse out here. It was beautiful. Fifteen acres of land, walking distance to a lake. My father used to take me hunting and fishing. But I haven’t been out here in years. Haven’t even thought about the place. He took my mother out here to die. Then he buried her in the woods. See, it’s where her suffering finally ended.”
The obvious question hung in the air, unasked: And who else’s?
Myron would later remember nothing about the drive. No buildings, no landmarks, no trees. Outside his window was total night, the black folding over black, eyes squeezed shut in the darkest of rooms. He sat back and waited.
Stan told them to stop at the foot of a wooded area. More crickets sounded. The other cars pulled up alongside them. Feds got out and started combing the area. Beams from powerful flashlights revealed uneven earth. Myron ignored them. He swallowed and ran. Stan ran with him.
Before morning broke, the federal officers would find graves. They’d find the father of three children, the female college student, and the young newlyweds.
But for now, Myron and Stan kept running. Branches whipped Myron’s face. He tripped over a root, curled into a roll, stood back up, kept running. They spotted the small house, barely visible in the faint moonlight. There were no lights on inside, no hint of life. Myron did not bother trying the knob this time. He took it full on, crashing the door down. More darkness. He heard a cry, turned, fumbled for the light switch, flipped it up.
Jeremy was there.
He was chained to a wall—dirty and terrified and still very much alive.
Myron felt his knees buckle, but he fought them and stayed upright. He ran to the boy. The boy stretched out his arms. Myron embraced him and felt his heart fall and shatter. Jeremy was crying. Myron lifted his hand and stroked the boy’s hair and shushed him. Like his father. Like his father had done to him countless times. A sudden, beautiful warmth streamed through his veins, tingling his fingers and toes, and for a moment, Myron thought that maybe he understood what his father felt. Myron had always cherished being on the son side of the hug, but now, for just the most fleeting of moments, he experienced something so much stronger—the intensity and overwhelming depth of being on the other side—that it shook every part of him.
“You’re okay,” Myron said to him, cupping the boy’s head. “It’s over now.”
But it wasn’t.
An ambulance came. Jeremy was put inside. Myron called Dr. Karen Singh. She didn’t mind being woken at five in the morning. He told her everything.
“Wow,” Karen Singh said when he finished.
“Yes.”
“We’ll get someone to harvest the marrow right away. I’ll start prepping Jeremy in the afternoon.”
“You mean with chemo.”
“Yes,” she said. “You done good, Myron. Either way, you should be proud.”
“Either way?”
“Come by my office tomorrow afternoon.”
Myron felt a thumping in his chest. “What’s up?”
“The paternity test,” she said. “The results should be in by then.”
Jeremy was on his way to the hospital. Myron wandered back outside. The feds were digging. The news vans were there. Stan Gibbs watched the mounds of earth grow, his face now beyond emotion. No sound, not even the crickets now, except for shovel hitting dirt. Myron’s knee was acting up. He felt bone-weary. He wanted to find Emily. He wanted to go to the hospital. He wanted to know the results of that test and then he wanted to know what he was going to do with them.
He climbed back up the hill toward the car. More media. Someone called out to him. He ignored them. There were more federal officers working in silence. Myron walked past them. He didn’t have the heart to hear what they’d found. Not just yet.
When he reached the top of the landing—when he saw Kimberly Green and the lifeless expression on her face—his heart took one more plummet.
He took another step. “Greg?” he said.
She shook her head, her eyes hazy and unfocused. “They shouldn’t have left him alone,” she said. “They should have watched him. Even after a careful search. You can never search too carefully.”
“Search who?”
“Edwin Gibbs.”
Myron was sure he’d heard wrong. “What about him?”
“They just found him,” she said, having trouble with the words. “He committed suicide in his cell.”
39
Karen Singh summed it up for them: You can’t get bone marrow from a dead man. Emily did not collapse when she heard the news. She took the blow without blinking and immediately segued to the next step. She was on a calmer plane now, somewhere just outside panic.
“We have incredible access to the media right now,” Emily said. They were sitting in Karen Singh’s hospital office. “We’ll make pleas. We’ll set up bone marrow drives. The NBA will help. We’ll get players to make appearances.”
Myron nodded, but the enthusiasm wasn’t there. Dr. Singh mimicked his motion.
“When will you have the paternity results?” Emily asked.
“I was just about to call for them,” Dr. Singh said.
“I’ll leave you two alone, then,” Emily said. “I have a press conference downstairs.”
Myron looked at her. “You don’t want to wait for the results?”
“I already know
the results.”
Emily left without a backward glance. Karen Singh looked at Myron. Myron folded his hands and put them in his lap.
“You ready?” she asked.
He nodded.
Karen Singh picked up the phone and dialed. Someone on the other end answered. Karen read off a reference number. She waited, tapping a pencil on the desk. Someone on the other end said something. Karen said, “Thank you,” hung up, focused her eyes on Myron.
“You’re the father.”
Myron found Emily in the hospital lobby, giving the press conference. The hospital had set up a podium with their logo perfectly positioned behind it, sure to be picked up by any and all television cameras. Hospital logo. Like they were McDonald’s or Toyota, trying to sleaze some free advertising. Emily’s statement was direct and heartfelt. Her son was dying. He needed new bone marrow. Everyone who wanted to help should give blood and get registered. She plucked the strings of societal grieving, making sure it rang personal in the same way that Princess Diana’s and John Kennedy Jr.’s deaths rang personal, wanting the public to mourn as if they actually knew him. The power of celebrity.
When she finished her statement, Emily hurried off without answering questions. Myron caught up to her in the closed-off area near the elevators. She glanced at him. He nodded, and she smiled.
“So now what are you going to do?” she asked him.
“We have to save him,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
Behind them the press were still yelling out questions. The sound trickled and then faded into the background. Someone ran by with an empty gurney.
“You said Thursday was the optimum day,” Myron said.
Hope lit her eyes. “Yes.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “We try it on Thursday.”
The bullet that had struck Greg had entered in the lower part of his neck and traversed toward his chest. It had stopped short of the heart. But it had done plenty of damage anyway. He survived surgery but remained unconscious in “critical” and “guarded” condition. Myron looked in on him. Greg had tubes in his nose and a frightening assortment of machinery Myron hoped never to understand. He looked like a corpse, waxen and gray-white and sucked dry. Myron sat with him for a few minutes. But not very long.
