Harlan Coben - Home

His phone vibrated. Another text message, this time from Terese: Got a job interview in Jackson Hole. For prime time anchor slot.

This was great news. Myron wrote back: Wow, that’s terrific.

Terese: Heading to owner’s ranch on his private plane tomorrow.

Myron: Great. I’m thrilled for you.

Terese: I don’t have the job.

Myron: You’ll kill the interview.

Terese: He can be a little handsy.

Myron: And I can kill him.

Terese: Love you, you know.

Myron: Love you too. But I mean it about killing him if he gets handsy.

Terese: You always know just what to say.

Myron was smiling. He was about to text a comeback when something caught his eye.

Or someone.

Nancy Moore, Patrick’s mother, had just entered the coffee shop. He typed a quick “Have to run” and hit send.

Where Brooke Baldwin was all strength and resolve, Nancy Moore looked small and drained. Her blond hair was pulled back into a rushed ponytail, the grays poking free. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the word LONDON across the front, the L being formed by an old phone box and a double-decker bus. She had probably rush-packed and bought it at some tourist shop when she arrived.

Nancy Moore said something low to the barista, who gestured that he couldn’t hear her by putting his hand to his ear. She repeated her order and then started fumbling in her purse for some money.

Myron stood. “Mrs. Moore?”

His voice startled her. The coins fell from her hand and landed on the floor. Myron bent down to pick them up. Nancy started to follow, but it was as though the effort was too much for her. Myron stood up and dropped the coins into her hand.

“Thank you.”

Nancy Moore stared at him for a moment. An odd look crossed her face. Was it recognition? Surprise? Both?

“You’re Myron Bolitar,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Once,” Myron said.

“At…” She stopped. It had been at the Baldwin home, the site of the awful event, maybe a month after the kidnapping. Win and Myron had been called in too late. “You’re Win’s friend.”

“Yes.”

“And you… you’re the one who…” She blinked, looked down. “How do I even begin to thank you for saving my boy?”

Myron blew past that. “How’s Patrick doing?”

“Physically, he’ll be fine.”

The barista came back over with two coffees in to-go cups. He placed them down in front of her.

“You saved his life,” she said. There was awe in her voice. “You saved my son’s life.”

“I’m glad he’ll be okay,” Myron replied. “I hear he’s awake?”

Nancy Moore didn’t reply right away. When she did, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How much do you remember of your life before you turned six?”

He knew where this was going, but he went there anyway. “Not much.”

“And how about between the ages of six and sixteen?”

This time Myron stayed silent.

“It was everything, right? Elementary school, middle school, most of high school. That’s what shapes us. That’s what makes us everything we are.”

The barista gave her the total. Nancy Moore handed him the coins. He handed some back to her, along with a to-go bag.

“I don’t mean to push you,” Myron said. “But has Patrick said anything about what happened to him or where Rhys might be?”

Nancy Moore put the money back into her purse with a little too much care. “Nothing that would help,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

She just shook her head.

“What has he said?” Myron asked. “Patrick, I mean. Who took them? Where have they been all this time?”

“You want answers,” she said. “I just want my son.”

“I want answers,” Myron said, “because there is still a boy missing.”

Her gaze had steel behind it now. “You don’t think I care about Rhys?”

“No, not at all. I’m sure you care a lot.”

“You don’t think I know what Brooke and Chick are going through?”

“To the contrary,” Myron said, “I don’t think anyone knows as well as you do.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

Myron waited.

“Patrick can barely talk right now. He’s… not well. Mentally I mean. He hasn’t really spoken yet.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” Myron said, “but are you sure it’s Patrick?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

“Have you done a DNA test?”

“No, but we will, if that’s required. He recognizes us, I think. Me anyway. But it’s Patrick. It’s my son. I know it sounds like an awful cliché, but a mother knows.”

Might be a cliché. Might not. Then again, to coin another cliché, we see what we want to see, especially when we are a desperate mother hoping to end a decade of pain.

Tears started flooding her eyes. “Some maniac stabbed him. My boy. You found him. You saved him. Do you get that? He would have bled out. That’s what the doctors said. You…”

“Nancy?”

The voice came from behind him. Myron turned and spotted Hunter Moore, Nancy’s ex-husband and Patrick’s father.

“Come on,” the man said. “We have to go.”

He let go of the door and disappeared to the left.

If Hunter Moore had recognized Myron, he didn’t show it. Then again, there was little reason he would have. They had never met before-he hadn’t been at the Baldwin house that day-and he seemed in a rush to hurry along his ex-wife.

Nancy scooped up the bag and coffee. She turned to Myron.

“It feels so inept to say thank you again. The idea that after all these years, that after finding Patrick alive, he would have been killed if it wasn’t for you…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll always be in your debt.”

She hurried away then, out the door and turning left to follow her ex’s path. For a moment Myron didn’t move. The barista said, “Would you like a refill?”

“No, thanks.”

Myron still didn’t move.

“You okay, mate?” the barista asked.

“Fine.”

He stared at the door some more. And then a curious thought hit him. The hospital was to the right. But both Hunter and Nancy Moore had turned left.

Did that mean anything?

Nope. At least, not on its own. They could be picking up something at a pharmacy or getting some fresh air or…

Myron moved to the door. He stepped outside onto the street and looked to his left. Nancy Moore was stepping into a black van.

“Wait,” Myron said.

But she was too far away and the street was noisy. The van door slid closed as Myron started to run.

“Hold up a second,” he shouted.

But the van was already on its way. Myron watched it head down the street and disappear around a corner. He stopped and took out his smartphone. It was probably nothing. Maybe the police were taking them someplace for questioning. Maybe after round-the-clock sitting beside their son they needed a few hours of rest.

Both of them?

Uh-uh, no way. Did Nancy Moore strike him as the type who would need a break from the child who had been missing for ten years? No chance. More likely that she would never leave his side, that she would be afraid to take her eyes off him for more than a moment.

Myron took out his phone and hit what was still speed dial 1 on his phone. He didn’t worry about a trace. The number would bounce to and fro and end up on some untraceable burner.

“Articulate,” Win said.

“I think there’s a problem.”

“Do tell.”

He told him about Nancy and Hunter Moore and the black van. He crossed the street and headed toward the hospital entrance. He finished telling Win what he knew and hung up. Then he called Brooke’s phone. No answer.