Harlan Coben - Home

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'ANOTHER INSTANT COBEN BOLITAR CLASSIC' Michael J Fox
For ten long years two boys have been missing.
Now you think you've seen one of them.
He's a young man. And he's in trouble.
Do you approach him?
Ask him to come home with you?
And how can you be sure it's really him?
You thought your search for the truth was over.
It's only just begun.

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“Not exactly. For one thing, the police have confiscated your clothing.”

“I liked those pants.”

“Yes, they were very slimming. But they’ll test the blood on them. It will be a match with the victim’s, of course.”

Myron finally gave in and took a sip. “Will that be a problem?”

“I don’t think so. Do you remember your black friend with the machete?”

“Black friend?”

“Oh yes, let’s be politically correct right this very moment. Is he Anglo-African? I must consult the handbook.”

“My bad. What about him?”

“His name is Lester Connor.”

“Okay.”

“When the police arrived on the scene, Lester was unconscious and-surprise, surprise-had the bloody knife in his hand. Naturally he said the knife had been planted.”

“Naturally.”

“But you could say that you saw Lester stab Scott Taylor in the throat.”

“I could indeed.”

“But?”

“But I won’t,” Myron said.

“Because?”

“Because it wouldn’t be true.”

“Mr. Connor tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, but to be fair, I broke his laptop.”

“False equivalency,” Win said.

“Better than false testimony.”

“Touché.”

“If they ask, I’ll say that someone stabbed the guy and he fell on me. In the confusion, I didn’t see who or even notice.”

“That should play,” Win said.

“Are there any leads on Rhys?”

“Remember what I said about a better source,” Win said.

“What about him?”

“What about her ?” Win shook his head. “God, Myron, you’re such a sexist. And here she is now.”

Win looked toward the door. Myron did the same and immediately recognized the woman who’d entered. It was Brooke Baldwin, Win’s cousin and, more to the point, mother of the still-missing Rhys.

Myron hadn’t seen Brooke in, what, five years, he surmised.

A barstool appeared between Myron and Win. They both scooched over to make room. Brooke walked over without hesitation, grabbed the beer that Nigel had already put out for her, and started guzzling. Half was gone when she put it down. Nigel gave a nod of approval.

“Needed that,” Brooke said.

Myron had met too many parents/spouses/loved ones of missing people. Most appeared frail and drained, which seemed both obvious and right. With Brooke, it was more the opposite. She was tanned, defiant, healthy, with a coiled energy, as though she had just finished her morning laps in some Olympic-sized pool or gone a few rounds with a boxing trainer. Her petite frame was thick with ropy muscles. The word that first came to mind when you saw this wealthy suburban soccer mom who had taken one of life’s cruelest body blows: fierce.

Brooke Lockwood Baldwin might have been raised in stone mansions and elite prep schools, but she fit in in a pub like this. She could probably challenge you to a game of darts or sweep the glasses off the bar and kick your ass in arm wrestling.

Brooke turned to Myron and, without so much as a hello, said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He did. He told her everything from his arrival in London through the police questioning. She gazed at him steadily with bright green eyes.

When he finished, Brooke said, “So you had Rhys by the ankle.”

“I think so, yeah.”

Her voice was softer now. “You touched him.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Myron said. “I tried to hang on.”

“I’m not blaming you. Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“So we don’t know for certain it was Rhys.”

“I can’t say for sure, no,” Myron said.

Brooke looked at Win. Win said nothing. She turned back to Myron.

“On the other hand, we have no reason to believe it isn’t my son, do we?”

Win spoke for the first time. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Do we know for certain the other boy is Patrick?”

“Yes,” Brooke said. “At least, Nancy says he’s Patrick.”

“She’s sure?” Myron asked.

“That’s what she and Hunter say. They’re divorced now, you know. Hunter and Nancy. They broke up not long after.”

She didn’t say after what. She didn’t have to.

“We all flew over together. The four of us. Back together again. I don’t remember the last time we even talked to each other. We’re still neighbors. We should have moved out, I guess, but… she always blamed me. Nancy, I mean.”

“Seems unfair,” Myron said.

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t patronize me, okay?”

“Not my intent.”

“The boys were at my house. It was my au pair. I should have been home watching them. If the roles were reversed… Whatever; it was a long time ago.”

Win asked, “Is there any independent confirmation that the boy is Patrick?”

“Like what?”

“Like DNA.”

“I mentioned that. I guess they’ll do it eventually, but right now there is some sort of legal mumbo jumbo. Patrick-I mean, assuming it’s Patrick-is a minor, so they need to get permission from his parents.”

Win nodded. “And yet there is no concrete proof Nancy and Hunter are the boy’s parents.”

“Irony, right?”

“So what has Patrick said?” Myron asked. “Where have they been? Who took them?”

Brooke picked up the mug, looked at the contents for a second, then downed them. Myron and Win watched and waited.

“Patrick hasn’t said anything yet.”

Silence for a moment.

“He’s that wounded?”

“Apparently. It’s not like they let me see him. Only family allowed in the hospital room.”

“How serious are the injuries?”

“Nancy says he’ll survive, but he’s been pretty much out of it. Talk about irony. For ten years, we don’t have a clue about Rhys. Not a peep. Now suddenly there is someone who can give me answers, and I can’t even talk to him.”

Brooke closed her eyes and rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. Myron reached out to touch her shoulder. Win stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Anyway,” she said as her eyes opened, “we are holding a press conference this afternoon. As you know, the media has gotten some of the story. Now it’s time to release the rest.”

“It’s been three days,” Myron said. “Why the wait?”

Brooke stood and turned so she could lean her back on the bar. “So, day one, two detectives or whatever they call them from Scotland Yard sit Chick and me down. ‘We have a dilemma,’ they say. If we go to the press and splash Rhys’s age-progression photograph all over the place, there are, the detectives explained, two things that might happen. One”-Brooke raised her index finger-“we mount pressure and find Rhys. Two”-the middle finger joined the index-“we mount pressure and whoever is holding him kills him and dumps the body.”

“They told you that?” Myron said.

“Just that way. They advised us to give them a little time and see if they could dig up any leads quietly.”

“I assume they haven’t.”

“Correct. Rhys, it seems, has vanished without a trace. Again.”

Again.

And again her eyes closed. And again Myron reached his hand out. And again Win stopped him with a shake of his head. Win wasn’t being cold. He just didn’t want her to fall apart yet. Myron got it.

“So the investigators,” Win said, “they changed their suggestion?”

“No,” Brooke said, “I did. I decided. My choice. We go public. Will that help find my son or kill him? Don’t know. Nice, right?”

“It’s the right move,” Win said. “It’s the only move.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

Myron saw Brooke’s two fists tighten. Her face started to redden, and when it did, Brooke suddenly looked like her cousin Win, or at least you could see the family resemblance. When Brooke spoke again, there was an edge in her voice.

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