The Final Detail mb-6

by Harlan Coben

  No, Zorra said.

  Everyone stopped. What's wrong? Pat said.

  Zorra looked at Myron. We are not interested in hurting you, Zorra said.

  More reassurances.

  But we can't let you know where you're going, dreamboat. You'll have to be blindfolded.

  You're kidding, right?

  No.

  Fine, blindfold me. Let's go.

  No, Zorra said again.

  What now?

  Your friend Win. Zorra assumes he's close by.

  Who?

  Zorra smiled. He-she wasn't pretty. Lots of transves tiies are. Lots of times you can't even tell.

  But Zorra had a five o'clock shadow (a look Myron found to be less than alluring in a woman),

  big hands with hairy knuckles (ditto), a skewered wig (call him picky), a rather masculine,

  whispery voice (comme ci, comme ?a) and despite the outer trappings, Zorra looked like, well, a

  guy wearing a dress. Don't insult Zorra's intelligence, dreamboat.

  You see him?

  If Zorra could, Zorra said, then someone has grossfy overexaggerated his reputation.

  So what makes you so sure Win's here?

  You're doing it again, Zorra said.

  Doing what?

  Insulting Zorra's intelligence.

  Nothing like a psycho who refers to himself in the third person.

  Please ask him to come forward, Zorra said. We have no interest in hurting anyone. But Zorra

  knows that your colleague will follow wherever you go. Then Zorra will have to follow him. It

  will lead to conflict. None of us wants that.

  Win's voice came from Myron's cell phone. Must have taken off the mute. What guarantee do

  we have that Myron will return?

  Myron lifted the cell phone into view.

  You and Zorra will sit and enjoy a drink, dreamboat, Zorra said into the phone. Myron will

  travel with Pat.

  Travel where? Myron asked.

  We can't tell you.

  Myron frowned. Is this cloak-and-dagger stuff really necessary?

  Pat leaned back now, letting Zorra handle it. You have questions, we have questions, Zorra

  said. This meeting is the only way to satisfy both.

  So why can't we talk here?

  Impossible.

  Why?

  You have to go with Pat.

  Where?

  Zorra cannot tell you.

  Who are you taking me to see?

  Zorra cannot tell you that either.

  Myron said, Does the fate of the free world rest in Zorra's maintaining silence?

  Zorra adjusted his lips, forming what he probably read someplace was known as a smile. You

  mock Zorra. But Zorra has kept silent before. Zorra has seen horrors you cannot imagine. Zorra

  has been tortured. For weeks on end. Zorra has felt pain that makes what you felt with that cattle

  prod seem like a lover's kiss.

  Myron nodded solemnly. Wow, he said.

  Zorra spread his hands. Hairy knuckles and pink nail polish. Hold me back. We can always

  choose to part ways, dreamboat.

  From the cell phone Win said, Good idea.

  Myron lifted the receiver. What?

  If we agree to their terms, Win said, I cannot guarantee they won't kill you.

  Zorra guarantees it, Zorra said. With her life.

  Myron said, Excuse me?

  Zorra stays here with Win, Zorra went on, the glint in the overmascaraed eye sparkling anew.

  Something was there, and it was not lucidity. Zorra will be unarmed. If you don't return in

  perfect health, Win kills Zorra.

  Heck of a guarantee, Myron said. Ever thought about becoming a car mechanic?

  Win entered the bar now. He walked straight toward the table, sat down, hands under it. If you'd

  be so kind, Win said to Zorra and Pat, please put all hands on the table.

  They did.

  And, Ms. Zorra, if you wouldn't mind kicking off your heels?

  Sure, dreamboat. Win kept his eyes on Zorra. Zorra kept his on Win. There would be no

  blinking here. Win said, I still cannot guarantee his safety. Yes, I have the option of killing you

  if he does not return. But for all I know, Pat the Bunny here doesn't give a rodent's buttocks

  about you.

  Hey, Pat said, you have my word.

  Win just looked at him for a moment. Then he turned back to Zorra. Myron goes armed. Pat

  drives. Myron keeps the gun on him.

  Zorra shook his head. Impossible.

  Then we have no deal.

  Zorra shrugged. Then Zorra and Pat must bid you adieu.

  They rose to leave. Myron knew that Win wouldn't call them back. He whispered to Win, I need

  to know what's going on here.

  Win shrugged. It's a mistake, he said, but it's your call.

  Myron looked up. We agree, he said.

  Zorra sat back down. Under the table Win kept the gun on him.

  Myron keeps his cell phone on, Win said. I listen to every word.

  Zorra nodded. Fair enough.

  Pat and Myron started to leave.

  Oh, Pat? Win said.

  Pat stopped.

  Win's voice was how's-the-weather casual. If Myron isn't returned, I may or may not kill Zorra.

  I will decide at the appropriate time. Either way, I will use all my considerable influence and money and time and effort to find you. I will offer rewards. I will search. I will not sleep. I will find you. And when I do, I won't kill you. Do you understand?

  Pat swallowed, nodded. Go, Win said.

  Chapter 25

  When they reached the car, Pat frisked him. Nothing. Then he handed Myron a black hood. Put this on.

  Myron made a face. Tell me you're joking.

  Put it on. Then lie down in the backseat. Don't look up.

  Myron rolled his eyes, but he did as he was asked. His six-four frame wasn't all that comfortable, but he made do. Big of him. Pat got in the front seat and started the car.

  Quick suggestion, Myron said.

  What did you say?

  Next time you do this, try vacuuming out the car first. It's disgusting back here.

  Pat drove. Myron tried to concentrate, listening for sounds that would give him a clue where they were going. That always worked on TV. The guy would hear, say, a boat horn and know he'd gone to Pier 12 or something, and they'd all rush in and find him. But all Myron heard were, not surprisingly; traffic noises: the occasional horn, cars passing or being passed, loud radios, that kind of thing. He tried to keep track of turns and distances but quickly realized the futility. What did he think he was, a human compass?

  The drive lasted maybe ten minutes. Not enough time to leave the city. Clue: He was still in Manhattan. Gee, that was helpful. Pat turned off the engine.

  You can sit up, he said. But keep the hood on. You sure the hood goes with this ensemble? I want to look my best for Mr. Big.

  Someone once tell you were funny, Bolitar? You're right. Black goes with everything. Pat sighed. When nervous, some people run. Some hide. Some grow silent. Some get chatty. And some make dumb jokes.

  Pat helped Myron out of the car and led him by the elbow. Myron again tried to pick up sounds. The cooing of a seagull maybe. That too always seemed to happen on TV. But in New York seagulls didn't coo as much as phlegm cough. And if you heard a seagull in New York, it was more likely you were near a trash canister than a pier. Myron tried to think of the last time he had seen a seagull in New York. There was a picture of one on a sign for his favorite bagel store. Caption: If a bird flying over the sea is a seagull, what do you call a bird flying over the bay? Clever when you think about it.

  The two men walked where to, Myron had no idea. He stumbled on uneven pavement, but Pat kept him upright. Another clue. Find the spot in Manhattan with uneven pavement. Christ, he practically had
the guy cornered.

  They walked up what felt like a stoop and entered a room with heat and humidity slightly more stifling than a Burmese forest fire. Myron was still blindfolded, but light from what might be a bare bulb filtered through the cloth. The room reeked of mildew and steam and dried sweat like the most popular sauna at Jack La Lanne's gone to seed. It was hard to breathe through the hood. Pat put a hand on Myron's shoulder.

  Sit, Pat said before pushing down slightly.

  Myron sat. He heard Pat's footsteps, then low voices. Whispers actually. Mostly from Pat. An argument of some sort. Footsteps again. Coming closer to Myron. A body suddenly cut off the bare lightbulb, bathing Myron in total darkness. One more step. Someone stopped directly over him.

  Hello, Myron, the voice said.

  There was a tremor there, an almost manic twang in the tone. But there was no doubt. Myron

  was not great with names and faces, but voices were imprints. Memories flooded in. After all

  these years his recall was instantaneous.

  Hello, Billy Lee.

  The missing Billy Lee Palms, to be exact. Former frat brother and Duke baseball star. Former

  best bud of Clu Haid. Son of Mrs. My-Life-Is-but-a-Wallpaper-Tapestry.

  Mind if I take the hood off now? Myron asked.

  Not at all.

  Myron reached up and grabbed the top of the hood. He pulled it off. Billy Lee was standing over

  him. Or at least he assumed it was Billy Lee. It was as if the former pretty boy had been kidnapped and replaced with this fleshier counterpart. Billy Lee's formerly prominent cheekbones looked malleable, tallow skin in mid-shed clung to sagging features, his eyes sunken deeper than any pirate treasure, his complexion the gray of a city street after a rainfall. His hair was greasy and jutting all over the place, as unwashed as any MTV video jockey's.

  Billy Lee was also holding what looked liked a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from Myron's

  face.

  He's holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from my face, Myron said

  for the benefit of the cell phone.

  Billy Lee giggled. That sound too was familiar.

  Bonnie Franklin, Myron said.

  What?

  Last night. You were the one who hit me with the cattle prod.

  Billy Lee spread his hands impossibly wide. Bingo, baby!

  Myron shook his head. You definitely look better with the makeup, Billy Lee.

  Billy Lee giggled again and retrained the shotgun on Myron. Then he held out his free hand.

  Give me the phone. Myron hesitated but not for long. The sunken eyes, once Myron could see them, were wet and unfocused and tinged with a dull red. Billy Lee's body was one tremor. Myron checked out the short sleeves and saw the needle tracks. Billy Lee looked like the wildest and most unpredictable

  of animals: a cornered junkie. Myron handed him the phone. Billy Lee put it to his ear.

  Win?

  Win's voice was clear. Yes, Billy Lee.

  Go to hell.

  Billy Lee giggled again. Then he clicked off the phone, untethering them from the outside world,

  and Myron felt the dread rise in his chest.

  Billy Lee stuck the phone in Myron's pocket and looked over at Pat. Tie him to the chair.

  Pat said, What?

  Tie him to the chair. There's rope right behind it.

  Tie him how? I look like a goddamn Boy Scout?

  Just wrap it around him and tie a knot. I want to slow him down in case he gets dumb before I

  kill him.

  Pat moved toward Myron. Billy Lee kept an eye on Myron.

  Myron said, It's not really a good idea to upset Win.

  Win doesn't scare me.

  Myron shook his head.

  What?

  I knew you were strung out, Myron said. But I didn't realize how badly.

  Pat started winding the rope around Myron's chest. Maybe you should call him back, Pat said.

  If the San Andreas quaked like his voice, they'd be calling for an evacuation. We don't need him

  searching for us too, you know what I'm saying?

  Don't worry about it, Billy Lee said.

  And Zorra's still there

  Don't worry about it! Screaming this time. A shrill, awful scream. The shotgun bounced

  closer to Myron's face. Myron tensed his body, preparing to make a move before the rope was

  knotted. But Billy Lee jumped back suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that Myron was in

  the room.

  Nobody spoke. Pat tightened the rope and tied it in a knot. Not well done, but it'd serve its stated purpose i.e., slow him down so that Billy Lee would have plenty of time to blow Myron's head off.

  You trying to kill me, Myron?

  Strange question. No, Myron said.

  Billy Lee's fist slammed into the lower part of Myron's belly. Myron doubled over, the air gone,

  his lungs spasming in the pure, naked need for oxygen. He felt tears push into his eyes.

  Don't lie to me, asshole.

  Myron fought for breath.

  Billy Lee sniffed, wiped his face with his sleeve. Why are you trying to kill me?

  Myron tried to respond, but it took too long. Billy Lee hit him hard with the butt of the shotgun,

  exactly on the Z spot Zorra had sliced into him the night before. The stitches split apart, and blood mushroomed onto Myron's shirt. His head began to swim. Billy Lee giggled some more. Then he raised the butt of the shotgun over his head and started it in an arc toward Myron's head.

  Billy Lee! Pat shouted.

  Myron saw it coming, but there was no escape. He managed to tilt the chair with his toes and roll

  back. The blow glanced the top of his head, scraping his scalp. The chair teetered over, and

  Myron's head banged against the wooden floor. His skull tingled.

  Oh Christ

  He looked up. Billy Lee was raising the butt of the shotgun again. A straight blow would crush

  his skull. Myron tried to roll, but he was hopelessly tangled up. Billy Lee smiled down at him. He held the shotgun high above his head, letting the moment drag out, watching Myron struggle the way some people watch an injured ant before stomping it with their foot.

  Billy Lee suddenly frowned. He lowered the weapon, studying it for a moment. Hram, he said.

  Might break my gun that way.

  Myron felt Billy Lee grab his shoulders and lift him and the chair back up. The shotgun was at

  eye level now.

  Fuck it, Billy Lee said. Might as well just shoot your sorry ass, am I right?

  Myron barely heard the giggling now. When a gun is pointed so directly in your face, it has a

  tendency to block out everything else. The double barrel's opening grows, moves closer,

  surrounds you until everything you are and see and hear is consumed in its black mouth.

  Pat tried again. Billy Lee

  Myron felt the sweat under his arms begin to gush. Calm. Keep the tone calm. Don't excite him.

  Tell me what's going on, Billy Lee. I want to help.

  Billy Lee snickered, the shotgun still shaking in his hand. You want to help me?

  Yes.

  That made him laugh. Bullshit, Myron. Total bullshit.

  Myron kept still.

  We were never even friends, were we, Myron? I mean, we were frat brothers, and we hung out and stuff. But we were never really friends. Myron tried to keep his eyes on Billy Lee's. This is a heck of a time to go tiptoeing through the past, Billy Lee.

  I'm trying to make a point here, asshole. You're peddling this crap about wanting to help me. Like we're friends. But that's a load of bullshit. We're not friends. You never really liked me. Never really liked me. Like they were third graders during recess. I still helped pull your ass out of a few fires, Billy Lee.

  The smile. Not my ass, Myron. Clu's. It was always about Clu, wasn't it? The drunk driving

&nb
sp; thing when we were living in Massachusetts. You didn't drive up to save my ass. You drove up

  because of Clu. And that brawl at that bar in the city. That was also because of Clu.

  Billy Lee suddenly tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound. Why weren't we friends,

  Myron?

  Because you didn't invite me to your birthday party at the roller rink?

  Don't fuck with me, asshole.

  I liked you just fine, Billy Lee. You were a fun guy.

  But it got tired after a while, didn't it? My whole act, I mean. While I was a college star, it was

  pretty cool, right? But when I failed in the pros, I wasn't so cute and funny anymore. I was

  suddenly pathetic. That sound about right, Myron?

  You say so.

  So what about Clu?

  What about him?

  You were friends with him.

  Yes.

  Why? Clu partied the same way. Maybe even harder. He was always getting his ass in trouble.

  Why were you his friend?

  This is stupid, Billy Lee.

  Is it?

  Put the gun down already.

  Billy Lee's smile was wide and knowing and somewhere just south of sane. I'll tell you why you stayed friendly with Clu. Because he was a better baseball player than me. He was going to the bigs. And you knew that. That's the only difference between Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms. He got drunk and took drugs and screwed tons of women, but it was all so funny because he was a pro.

  So what are you trying to say, Billy Lee? Myron countered. That pro athletes are treated differently from the rest of us? Hell of a revelation.

  But the revelation sat uneasily on Myron. Probably because Billy Lee's words, while wholly irrelevant, were at least in part true. Clu was charming and quirky simply because he was a pro athlete. But if the velocity of his fastball had dropped a few miles per hour, if the rotation of his arm had been just a little askew or if his finger position had not allowed for good ball movement on his pitches, Clu would have ended up like Billy Lee. Alternate worlds totally different lives and fates are right there, separated by a curtain no thicker than membrane. But with athletes, you can see your alternate life a little too clearly. You have the ability to throw the ball just a little faster than the next guy, you end up a god rather than the most pitiful of mortals. You get the girls, the fame, the big house, the money instead of the rats, the dull anonymity, the crummy apartment, the menial job. You get to go on TV and offer life insights. People want to be near you and hear you speak and touch the hem of your cloak. Just because you can hurl the rawhide with great velocity or put an orange ball in a metallic circle or swing a stick with a slightly more pure arc. You are special.