Harlan Coben - Home

“Thorough,” Myron said.

“We try to be.”

“So you know why I’m here.”

“We do.”

“And?”

“I assume you are working for the boy’s family?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. We do rescues, of course. It is all a matter of profit, to tell you the truth. I learned this from the great Eshan, who had a religion-you’d call it a cult-outside Varanasi in India. He was a wonderful man. He spoke of peace and harmony and charity. He was so charismatic. Teenagers flocked to him and gave his temple all their earthly possessions. They lived in tents on well-guarded barren land. Sometimes the parents wanted their child back. The great Eshan would accommodate. He wouldn’t ask too much-never be too greedy, he would say-but if he could receive from the parents more than he could make from having their child work or beg or recruit, he would take the money. I am no different. If one of my workers makes the most contribution working sex, that is what he or she does. If the worker is best suited for robbery, as our friend Garth attempted with you, that is where we place him.”

Man, this guy liked to talk.

“How much?”

“One hundred thousand pounds cash for each boy.”

Myron did not reply.

“This amount is nonnegotiable.”

“I’m not negotiating.”

“Wonderful. How long will it take you to raise this sum?”

“You can have it immediately,” Myron said. “Where are the boys?”

“Come, come. You don’t have that kind of cash on you.”

“I can get it within an hour.”

Fat Gandhi smiled. “I should have asked for more.”

“Never be too greedy. Like the great Eshan said.”

“Are you familiar with Bitcoin?”

“Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter. Our transaction will be via cybercurrency.”

“I don’t know what that is either.”

“Get the cash. You’ll be instructed what to do.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Fat Gandhi said. “I will call you and set it up.”

“Sooner is better.”

“Yes, I understand. But you should also understand, Myron. If you try to circumvent our arrangement in any manner, I will kill the boys and they will never be found. I will kill them slowly and painfully and there will not be an ash left. Do I make myself clear?”

An ash? “You do,” Myron said.

“Then you can go.”

“One thing.”

Fat Gandhi waited.

“How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

“You question my word?”

Myron shrugged. “I’m just asking.”

“Perhaps it is a scam,” Fat Gandhi said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t bother coming back tomorrow.”

“I’m not trying to play chicken here. You”-Myron pointed at him-“you are smart enough to get that.”

Fat Gandhi stroked his chin and nodded.

Psychos, Myron knew, fall for flattery almost every time.

“I just think,” Myron continued, “for that kind of money, a little evidence would be nice. How do I know you have the boys?”

Fat Gandhi raised his hand again and snapped his fingers.

The documentary disappeared from the screen.

For a moment, there was only black. Myron thought that maybe they had shut off the television. But no, that wasn’t it. Fat Gandhi moved toward a keyboard and slowly started tapping the brightness button. The screen started to light up now. Myron could see a room with concrete walls.

And there, in the center of the room, was Patrick.

His eyes were black. His lip was swollen and bloody.

“He’s being held off-site,” Fat Gandhi said.

Myron tried to keep his voice steady. “What did you do to him?”

Fat Gandhi snapped his fingers again. The screen went dark.

Myron stared at the blackness. “What about the other boy?”

“I think that’s enough. It is time for you to leave.”

Myron met his eye. “We have a deal now.”

“We do.”

“So I don’t want anyone touching either one of them. I want your word.”

“And you won’t get it,” Fat Gandhi said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow. Now please get out of my office.”

Last time they were in London, Win had put them in his favorite suite, the Davies, at Claridge’s Hotel on Brook Street. That trip had ended poorly for all of them. This time, maybe to change it up a bit, Win chose the more boutiquey Covent Garden Hotel on Monmouth Street near Seven Dials. When Myron got to his room, he used a throwaway phone Win had given him to call Terese.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know.”

“There’s been too much of this in our past.”

“I agree.”

“We wanted to put this all behind us.”

“We did. We do.”

“I don’t do the wait-and-worry wife well.”

“Nice alliteration. The two D ’s and then all those W ’s.”

“Years of being a top-rated news anchor,” Terese said. “Not that I like to brag.”

“Alliteration is only one of your many skills.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Love me for all my faults.”

“What else is there? Okay, so fill me in. And please don’t make the obvious double-entendre joke using my ‘fill me in’ opening.”

“Opening?”

“I love you, you know.”

“I love you too,” Myron said.

And then he told her everything.

When he was done, Terese said, “He likes being called Fat Gandhi?”

“Loves.”

“It’s like you and Win live in an old Humphrey Bogart film.”

“I’m too young to get that reference.”

“You wish. So you’ll be doing the ransom drop?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” Myron said.

“Uh-huh.”

“About the families, I mean. The parents, mostly.”

“You mean Patrick’s and Rhys’s.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“And,” she said, “you want my expert opinion on the matter.”

Terese had lost a child many years ago. It had nearly destroyed her.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Wrong response,” she said. “If you tiptoe around it, it’s much worse.”

“I want to start a family with you.”

“I want that too.”

“So how do we do it?” Myron asked. “When you love something that much. How do you live with the fear that they can be hurt or killed at any time?”

“I could tell you that that’s life,” Terese said.

“You could.”

“Or I could point out, what choice do you have?”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Myron said.

“You do. But I think there’s another answer, one that took me a long time to understand.”

“And that is?”

“We block,” Terese said.

Myron waited. Nothing. “That’s it?”

“You expected something deeper?”

“Maybe.”

“We block,” she said, “or we would never be able to get out of bed.”

“I love you,” he said again.

“I love you too. And so if I lose you, I will experience crippling pain. You get that, right?”

“I do.”

“If you want to experience love, then you have to be ready for pain. One doesn’t come without the other. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you. If you want laughter, expect tears.”

“Makes sense,” Myron said. Then: “You know what?”

“Tell me.”

“You’re worth it.”

“That’s the point.”

Myron heard the key in the door. Win stepped into the room. Myron said his good-byes and hung up the phone.

“How is she?” Win asked.

“Concerned.”

“Let’s hit a pub, shall we? I’m famished.”

They started down toward Seven Dials. Matilda the Musical was playing at the Cambridge Theatre.