by Harlan Coben
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."
Chapter 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.
He returned to the offices of MB SportsReps the next day.
"Lamar Richardson is coming in this afternoon," Esperanza said.
"I know."
"You okay?"
"Dandy."
"Life goes on, huh?"
"Guess so."
Special Agent Kimberly Green came semi-bouncing by a few minutes later. "It's all wrapping up," she told him, and for the first time he saw her smile.
Myron sat back. "I'm listening."
"Edwin Gibbs, under his Dennis Lex/Davis Taylor identity, still had a locker at work. We found the wallets of two of his victims, Robert and Patricia Wilson, in there."
"They were the honeymoon couple?"
"Yes."
They both took a moment, out of respect for the dead, Myron guessed. He pictured a healthy young couple beginning their life, coming to the Big Apple to see some shows and do a little shopping, walking the bustling streets hand in hand, a little scared ab
out the future but ready to give it a go. El fin.
Kimberly cleared her throat. "Gibbs also rented a white Ford Windstar using the Davis Taylor credit card. It was one of those automatic reservations. You just make a call, walk straight to the rental, and drive off. No one sees you."
"Where did he pick up the van?"
"Newark Airport."
"I assume that's the van we found in Bernardsville," Myron said.
"The very."
"Tidy," he said, using a Win word. "What else?"
"Preliminary autopsies reveal that all the victims were killed with a thirty-eight. Two shots to the head. No other signs of trauma. We don't think he tortured them or any of that. His modus operandus seemed to involve the early scream and then he just killed them."
"He ends the seed sowing for them," Myron said, "but not the families."
"Right."
"Because for his victims, the terror would be real. He wanted it all in the mind." Myron shook his head. "What did Jeremy tell you about his ordeal?"
"You didn't talk to him about it?"
Myron shifted in his chair. "No."
"Edwin Gibbs wore the same disguise he used at work — the blond wig and beard and glasses. He blindfolded Jeremy as soon as he had him in the van and drove straight to that cabin. Edwin told him to scream into the phone — even made him practice first to make sure he had it right. After the call, Edwin chained him up and left him alone. You know the rest."
Myron nodded. He did.
"What about the plagiarism charge and the novel?"
She shrugged. "It was like you and Stan said. Edwin read it, probably right after his wife was dying of cancer. It influenced him."
Myron stared at her for a moment.
"What?" she said.
"You guys figured that part out when you first got the novel," Myron said. "That Stan hadn't plagiarized. That the book influenced the killer."
She shook her head. "No."
"Come on. You knew that the kidnappings had taken place. You just wanted to put pressure on Stan so he'd talk. And maybe you wanted to embarrass him a little."
"That's not true," Kimberly Green said. "I'm not saying some of our agents didn't take it personally, but we believed that he was the Sow the Seeds kidnapper. I already told you some of the reasons why. Now we know that a lot of the same evidence pointed to his father."
"What same evidence?"
She shook her head. "It's not important anymore. We knew Stan was more here than just a reporter. And we were right. We even thought he was getting stuff wrong on purpose — that he was using the book rather than what he'd really done just to throw us off."
Her words didn't resonate the way the truth does, but Myron didn't argue the point. He scanned his Client Wall and tried to bring his focus around to Lamar Richardson's visit. "So the case is closed."
She smiled. "Like legs in a nunnery."
"You make that one up?"
"Yup."
"Good thing you carry a gun," Myron said. "So are you going to get a big promotion?"
She rose. "I think I get to be a super-secret-special agent now."
Myron smiled. They shook hands. Kimberly left then. Myron sat alone for a while. He rubbed his eyes and thought about what she'd said and what she hadn't said and realized that something was still very wrong.
Lamar Richardson, shortstop extraordinaire, showed up on time and by himself. Positively shocking. The meeting went well. Myron gave his standard spiel, but the standard spiel was pretty good. Damn good, actually. All businesspeople need a spiel. Spiel is good. Esperanza spoke up too. She had started developing her own spiel. Well honed. The perfect complement to Myron's. Quite the partnership, this was becoming.
Win stopped by briefly as planned. If recruitment was a baseball game, Win was the big closer. People knew his name. They checked out his reputation — er, his business reputation, that is. When prospective clients learned that Windsor Horne Lockwood III himself would handle their finances, that Win and Myron further insisted that clients meet with Win at least five times a year, they started smiling. Score one for the small agency.
Lamar Richardson played it close to the vest. He nodded a lot. He asked questions but not too many. Two hours after arriving, he shook their hands and said he'd be in touch. Myron and Esperanza walked him to the elevator and bade him good-bye.
Esperanza turned to Myron. "Well?"
"Got him."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I'm all-seeing," Myron said. "All-knowing."
They moved back into Myron's office and sat down. "If Lamar chooses us over IMG and TruPro" — she stopped, smiled—"we're baaaaack."
"Pretty much."
"And that means Big Cyndi will come back."
"That's supposed to be a good thing, right?"
"You're starting to love her, you know."
"Yeah, don't rub it in."
Esperanza studied his face. She did that a lot. Myron didn't much believe in reading faces. Esperanza did. Especially his. "What happened in that law office?" she asked. "With Chase Layton?"
"I boxed his ears once and punched him seven times."
Her eyes stayed on his face.
"You're supposed to say, 'But you saved Jeremy's life,' " Myron added.
"No, that's Win's line." She adjusted herself and faced him full. She wore an aquamarine business suit, cut low with no blouse, and it was a wonder Lamar had been able to concentrate on anything. Myron was used to her, but the effect was still there, still dazzling. He just saw the dazzle from a different angle.
"Speaking of Jeremy," she said.
"Yes."
"You still blocking?"
Myron thought about it, remembered the embrace in that cabin, stopped. "More than ever," he said.
"So what now?"
"The blood test came back. I'm the father."
Something popped onto her face — regret maybe— but it didn't stay long. "You should tell him the truth."
"Right now I just want to save his life."
She kept studying the face. "Maybe soon," she said.
"Maybe soon what?"
"You'll stop blocking," Esperanza said.
"Yeah, maybe."
"We'll chat then. In the meantime…"
"Don't be stupid," he finished for her.
The health club was located in a chi-chi hotel in mid-town. The walls were fully mirrored. The ceiling and the trim and the front desk were whole-milk white. Same with the clothes worn by the personal trainers. The weights and exercise machines were sleek and chrome and so beautiful you didn't want to touch them. Everything about the place gleamed; you were almost tempted to work out in sunglasses.
Myron found him on a bench press, struggling without a spotter. Myron waited, watching him wage war on gravity and the barbell. Chase Layton's face was pure red, his teeth gritted, veins in his forehead doing their pop-up video. It took some time, but the attorney achieved victory. He dropped the weight onto the stand. His arms fell to his sides like he'd missed a brain synapse.
"You shouldn't hold your breath," Myron said.
Chase looked over at him. He didn't seem surprised or upset. He sat up, breathing heavily. He wiped his face with a towel.
"I won't take up much of your time," Myron said.
Chase put the towel down and looked at him.
"I just wanted to say that if you want to press charges, Win and I won't get in your way."
Chase did not reply.
"And I'm very sorry for what I did," Myron said.
"I watched the news," Chase said. "You did it to save that boy's life."
"Doesn't excuse it."
"Maybe not." He stood and added a plate to both sides of the bar. "Frankly, Mr. Bolitar, I'm not sure what to think."
"If you want to press charges—"
"I don't."
Myron was not sure what to say, so he settled for "Thank you."
Chase Layton nodded and sat back on the bench. Then he looked at
Myron. "Do you want to know what the worst part of it is?"
No, Myron thought. "If you want to tell me."
"The shame," Chase said.
Myron started to open his mouth, but Chase waved him quiet.
"It's not the beating or the pain. It's the feeling of total helplessness. We were primitive. We were man to man. And there was nothing I could do but take it. You made me feel like" — he looked up, found the words, looked straight at Myron—"like I wasn't a real man."
The words made Myron cringe.
"I went to these great schools and joined all the right clubs and made a fortune in my chosen profession. I fathered three kids and raised them and loved them the best I could. Then one day you punch me — and I realize that I'm not a real man."
"You're wrong," Myron said.
"You're going to say that violence is no measure of a man. On some level you're right. But on some level, the base level that makes us men, we both know you're wrong. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. It'd just be a further insult."
Myron swallowed down the cliches. Chase took deep breaths and reached for the bar.
"Need a spotter?" Myron said.
Chase Layton gripped it and jerked it off the stand. "I don't need anybody," he said.
Thursday came. Karen Singh introduced him to a fertility expert named Dr. Barbara Dittrick. Dr. Dittrick handed Myron a small cup and told him to masturbate into it. There were more surreal and embarrassing experiences in life, Myron guessed, but being led to a small room to masturbate into a cup while everyone waited for you in the next room had to be right up there with the best of them.
"Step in here, please," Dr. Dittrick said.
Myron frowned at the cup. "I usually insist on flowers and a movie."
"Well, at least you got the movie," she said, pointing at the television. "The TV has X-rated videos." She left the room and closed the door behind her.
Myron checked the titles. On Golden Blonde. Father Knows Breast (starring Robert Hung). Field of Wet Dreams ("If you watch it, they will come"). He frowned and passed. So to speak. He stared at the swivel leather chair, one of those lean-back kind, where probably hundreds of other men had sat and… He covered it with paper towels and did his bit, though it took some time. His imagination was spinning in the wrong direction, generating an aura about as erotic as mole hair on an old man's buttock. When he was, uh, finished, he opened the door and handed the cup to Dr. Dittrick and tried to smile. He felt like the world's biggest doofus. She wore rubber gloves, even though the, uh, specimen was in a cup. Like it might scald her. She brought it to a lab where they "washed" (their expression, not his) the semen. The semen was declared "serviceable but slow." Like it was falling behind in algebra.
