by Harlan Coben
I had him now. It was just a question of time.
And then I heard a noise, a voice actually, shouting in a foreign language. I debated letting go to see who it was, but I held on. That was my mistake. A second man had entered the room. He hit me in the back of the neck, probably with a knife hand, what you'd call a classic karate chop. A numbness swept through me as if my entire body had just become my funny bone banged the wrong way. My grip loosened.
I heard the man shout again, in the same foreign language. It confused me. The first man slipped out of my grip, gasping for breath. He rolled away. There were two of them now. I looked at the second man. He pointed a gun at me.
I was finished.
"Don't move," the man said to me with a foreign accent.
My brain searched for an out, but I was too far away. The first man rose to his feet. He was still breathing hard. We looked at each other, our eyes met, and I saw something strange there. Not hatred. Respect maybe. I don't know.
I looked at the man with the gun again.
"Don't move," he said a second time. "And don't follow us."
Then they both ran away.
19
I stumbled to the elevator. I hoped that I could make it to my room without being seen, but the elevator stopped in the lobby. A family of six Americans looked at me, at my torn shirt and bleeding mouth and all the rest of it, and still got on and said, "Hi!" For the next few floors I heard the big sister picking on the brother and the mother begging them to stop and the father trying to ignore them and the other two siblings pinching each other when the parents weren't looking.
When I got to the room, Terese freaked out, but only briefly. She helped me in and called Win. Win arranged for a doctor. The doctor came quickly and declared nothing broken. I would be okay. My head hurt, probably from a concussion. I craved rest. The doctor gave me something and everything became a little fuzzy. The next thing I remember was sensing Win standing across the dark room. I opened one eye, then the other.
Win said, "You're an idiot."
"No, I'm fine, really, don't start with all the concern."
"You should have waited for me."
"Nobody likes a Monday morning quarterback." I struggled to sit up. My body was somewhat willing; my head shrieked in protest. I grabbed my skull with both hands, trying to keep it from splitting open.
"I think I learned something," I said.
"I'm listening."
The curtains were still open. Darkness had fallen. I looked at my watch. It was ten PM now, and I remembered something. "The graveyard," I said.
"What about it?"
"Are they exhuming the body?"
"You still want to go?"
I nodded and quickly got dressed. I didn't bother saying good-bye to Terese. We had discussed it earlier--she saw no reason to be there. Win had a limo pick us up at the front entrance, pull into a private lot, and then we changed cars.
"Here," Win said.
He handed me a mini-revolver, the NAA Black Widow. I looked at it. "A twenty-two?"
Win usually favored larger weapons. Like, say, bazookas or rocket launchers.
"The UK has some pretty strict laws against carrying a firearm." He handed me a nylon ankle holster. "Better to keep it concealed."
"Is that what you're carrying?"
"Heavens no. Do you want something bigger?"
I didn't. I strapped it onto my ankle. It reminded me of a brace I used when I played basketball.
When we arrived at the cemetery, I expected to be more ghouled out, if you will, but I wasn't. The two men were standing in the hole, almost done. They both wore matching aqua blue velour sweat suits from my aunt Sophie's Miami collection. The majority of the digging had been done earlier in the day by a small yellow excavator that sat to the right as if looking down at its handiwork. The two velour-clad gents just needed to scrape the coffin enough to open it and remove a few samples, some bone or something, and then they could close it back up and pour the dirt back over the contents.
Okay, maybe now I was feeling ghoulish.
A misty rain fell upon us. I stood and looked down. Win did too. It was dark, but our eyes had adjusted enough to see the shadows. The men were bent low now, almost out of sight.
"You said you learned something."
I nodded. "The men following me. They spoke Hebrew and knew Krav Maga."
Krav Maga is an Israeli martial art.
"And," Win added, "they were good."
"You see where I'm going with this?"
"A good tail, good fighter, got away without killing you, spoke Hebrew." Win nodded. "Mossad."
"Explains all the interest."
Below us, we heard one of the men curse.
"Is there a problem?" Win called down.
"They put a bleeding lock on these things," a voice said. He flicked on the flashlight. Now all we could see was the coffin. "For cripes' sake, why? My house doesn't have a lock this strong. We're trying different keys."
"Break it," Win said.
"You sure?"
"Who's going to know?"
The two men forced up a laugh the way, well, men digging up a grave might. "True, right that," one said.
Win turned his attention back to me. "So why would Rick Collins be involved with Mossad?"
"No clue."
"And why would a car accident from ten years ago reach a level where the Israeli secret service would show interest?"
"Again, no clue."
Win thought about it. "I will call Zorra. Maybe she can help."
Zorra, a very dangerous cross-dresser who had helped us out in the past, had worked for Mossad in the late eighties.
"That could work." I thought about it. "Suppose the guy I hit with the table was Mossad. That might explain a few things."
"Like why Interpol would freak out when we tried to get an ID," Win said.
I thought about that. "But if he was Mossad, so was the guy I shot."
Win thought about that. "We don't know enough yet. Let's contact Zorra and see what she can find out."
We heard exertion and scraping and pounding from below. Then a voice called up, "Got it!"
We looked down. The flashlight showed two sets of hands pulling up on the lid. The men grunted from the effort. The casket looked regulation size. That surprised me. I had expected something smaller for a seven-year-old girl. But maybe that was the point, right? Maybe that was what was saving me from feeling overly ghoulish--I didn't think we would find a seven-year-old's skeleton.
I really didn't want to watch anymore so I stepped away. I was here just to observe, to make sure they actually took a sample from the grave. This was crazy enough without knowing that everything involving this test was rock solid. If it came back negative, I didn't want anyone saying, "But how do you know it was from the right grave?" or "Maybe they just said they dug but didn't." I wanted to eliminate as many variables as possible.
"Got the casket opened," one of the diggers called up.
I saw Win look down. Another voice floated up from the hole in a whisper. "Sweet Jesus."
Then silence.
"What?" I asked.
"A skeleton," Win said, still peering down. "Small. Probably a child's."
Everyone just stood there frozen.
"Get a sample," Win said.
One of the diggers said, "What kind of sample?"
"A bone. Some fabric if you find any. Seal it in those plastic bags."
A child was buried here. I guess that I really didn't expect that. I looked at Win. "Could we be all wrong about this?"
Win shrugged. "DNA doesn't lie."
"So if it's not Miriam Collins, whose skeleton is that?"
"There are," Win said, "other possibilities."
"Such as?"
"I had one of my people do a little investigating. Around the time of the car accident, a little girl from Brentwood went missing. People were sure the father did it, but no body was ever found. The father remains free to this day
."
I thought about what Win had said before. "You're right. We're getting ahead of ourselves."
Win said nothing.
I looked back down into the hole. A dirty face from below handed up the plastic bag. "All yours, mate. Good luck to ya and go to hell."
Win and I left then, carrying a brittle bone of a child we had dug up from her quiet sleep in the middle of the night.
20
WE got back to the Claridge's at two in the morning. Win immediately left for some "Mee Time." I took a long hot shower. When I checked the room's minibar, a small smile crossed my face. Stocked with chocolate Yoo-hoos. That Win.
I chugged down a cold one and waited for the sugar buzz. I put on the TV and continuously flipped stations because that's what real men do. American shows from last season. Terese's door was closed, but I doubted that she was sleeping. I sat by myself and took deep breaths.
The clock read two AM. Eight PM back in New York. Five PM in Scottsdale, Arizona.
I looked down at my phone. I thought about Ali and Erin and Jack in Arizona. I didn't know much about Arizona. It was the desert, right? Who wants to live in the desert?
I dialed Ali's cell phone. It rang three times before she answered with a wary "Hello?"
"Hey," I said.
"Your number didn't pop up on the caller ID," Ali said.
"I have a different phone but it's the same number."
Silence.
Ali asked, "Where are you?"
"I'm in London."
"As in England?"
"Yep."
I heard a noise. Sounded like Jack. Ali said, "One second, honey, I'm on the phone." I noticed that she didn't say who she was on the phone with. Normally she would have.
"I didn't realize you were overseas," Ali said.
"I got a call from a friend in trouble. She was--"
"She?"
I stopped. "Yes."
"Wow, that didn't take long."
I was about to say, It's not like that, but I stopped myself. "I've known her for ten years."
"I see. Just a sudden visit to London to see an old friend then?"
Silence. Then I heard Jack's voice again, asking who was on the phone, the sound traveling from some desert across most of the continental United States and across the Atlantic Ocean and making me cringe.
"I have to go, Myron. Was there something you wanted?"
Good question. There probably was, but now was not the time. "I guess not," I said.
She hung up without another word. I looked at the phone, felt the weight, then thought, wait a second--Ali had ended it, hadn't she? Hadn't she made it crystal clear just, what, two days ago? And what had I really wanted to accomplish with this damn phone call?
Why had I called?
Because I hate loose threads? Because I wanted to do the right thing here, whatever the heck that meant?
The pain from the fight was starting to come back. I rose, stretched, tried to keep my muscles loose. I looked at Terese's door. It was closed. I tiptoed over and peeked in her room. The light was out. I listened for her breathing. No sound. I started to close the door.
"Please don't go," Terese said.
I stopped and said, "Try to get some sleep."
"Please."
I have always treaded so carefully when it comes to matters of the heart. I did the right thing always. I never just acted. Except for that one time on an island ten years ago, I worried about feelings and repercussions and what came next.
"Don't go," she said one more time.
And I didn't.
When we kissed, there was a surge and then a release, a letting-go like I had never known before, a letting-go like you are staying very still and surrendering and your heart pounds against your rib cage and your pulse races and your knees grow weak and your toes curl and your ears pop and every part of you relaxes and happily gives in.
We smiled that night. We cried. I kissed that beautiful bare shoulder. And in the morning, she was gone again.
BUT only from the bed.
I found Terese having coffee in the sitting room. The curtain was open. To paraphrase an old song, the morning sun in her face showed her age--and I liked it. She wore the hotel's terry-cloth robe and it was opened just a little, just a hint at the bounty beneath. I don't think I had ever seen anything so damn beautiful.
Terese looked at me and smiled.
"Hi," I said.
"Stop with the smooth lines. You already got me in bed."
"Dang, I was up all night working on that one."
"Well, you were up all night anyway. Coffee?"
"Please."
She poured. I sat next to her oh so gingerly. The beating was taking effect now. I winced and thought about grabbing some of those painkillers the doctor had left for me. But not just yet. Right now I wanted to sit with this spectacular woman and drink our coffee in silence.
"Heaven," she said.
"Yes."
"I wish we could just stay here forever."
"I'm not sure I could afford the room."
She smiled. Her hand reached out and took mine. "Do you want to hear something awful?"
"Tell me."
"Part of me wants to forget all this and just run away with you."
I knew what she meant.
"I have dreamed so many times about this chance at redemption. And now that it may be here, I can't help but have the feeling it will destroy me."
She looked at me.
"What do you think?"
"I won't let it destroy you," I said.
Her smile was sad. "You think you have that power?"
She was right, but I make dumb declarations like that sometimes. "So what do you want to do?"
"Find out what really happened that night."
"Okay."
"You don't have to help," she said.
"Have to," I said, "especially since you put out last night."
"That's true."
"So what's our next step?" I asked.
"I just got off the phone with Karen. I told her it was time she came clean."
"How did she respond?"
"She didn't argue. We're going to meet in an hour."
"Do you want me to come?"
She shook her head. "This time it has to be just the two of us."
"Okay."
We sat there and had our coffee and didn't want to move or talk or do anything.
Terese broke the silence. "One of us should say, 'About last night.' "
"I will leave it to you."
"It was pretty frigging awesome."
I smiled. "Yeah. I knew I should leave it to you."
She rose. I watched her. She wore only the bathrobe. Ladies, save your frilly lace, your merry widows, your Victoria's Secret, your Frederick's of Hollywood, your G-strings, your thongs, your silk stockings, your petticoats and baby dolls. Give me a beautiful woman in a hotel-room terry-cloth robe any day of the week.
"I'm taking a shower," she said.
"Is that an invitation?"
"No." "No."
"Oh."
"Not enough time."
"I can work fast."
"I know. But when you do, it's not your best work."
"Ouch."
She bent down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Thank you," she said.
I was about to crack wise--something like "tell all your friends" or "sigh, another satisfied customer"--but something in her tone made me pull up. Something in her tone overwhelmed me and made me ache. I squeezed her hand and stayed silent and then I watched her walk away.
21
WIN took one look at me and said, "You finally got some."
I was going to argue, but what would be the point? "Yep."
"Details, please," he said.
"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."
He gave me crestfallen. "But you know I love details."
"And you know I never tell you any."
"You used to let me watch. When we were dati
ng Emily in college, you used to let me look in the window."
"I didn't let you. You just did. And when I fixed the shade, you usually broke it again. You're a pig, you know that?"
"Some would call me an interested friend."
"But most would call you a pig."
Win shrugged. "Love me for all my faults."
"So where are we?" I asked.
"We're both getting some."
"Besides that."
"I had a thought," Win said.
"I'm listening."
"Maybe there's a simpler explanation for how the dead girl's blood got to the crime scene. This Save the Angels charity. One of the things it deals with is stem cell research, correct?"
"In some manner, I guess. They're against it, I think."
"And we know that Rick Collins may have discovered that he has Huntington's disease. Certainly his father had it."
"Okay."
"People save their children's umbilical cord blood nowadays--they freeze them or some such thing for future use. They're full of stem cells and the idea is that somewhere down the line those stem cells could save your child's life, or even your own. Perhaps Rick Collins saved his daughter's. When he found out he had Huntington's, he decided that he could use it."
"Stem cells can't cure Huntington's."
"Not yet, no."
"So you figure he had the frozen cord blood when he was murdered and it, what, thawed out?"
Win shrugged. "Does that scenario make less sense than Miriam Collins being alive this whole time?"
"And the blond hair?"
"There are lots of blondes in this world. The young woman you saw might just be another."
I thought about it. "It still doesn't tell us who killed Rick Collins."
"True."
"I still think whatever this is, it started with the car accident ten years ago. We know that Nigel Manderson was lying."
"We do," Win agreed.
"And Karen Tower is holding something back."
"What about this Mario fellow?"
"What about him?"
"Is he holding something back?"
I thought about that. "Could be. I'm seeing him this morning to go over Rick's work files. I'll take another run at him then."
"Then we also have the Israelis--maybe Mossad--following you. I called Zorra. She'll check her sources."
"Good."
"And lastly, your Parisian confrontation and the mug shot that sent warning bells all the way up the Interpol hierarchy."
