Harlan Coben - Home

Brooke considered that. “I’m not sure I see the point. We’ve been over the crime scene a million times.”

“Yes, but we go back at it now with fresh eyes. We can see ahead of us a bit. It’s like a car trip where you don’t know where you’re going. Last week, you only knew the starting point. Now we know where the car was three days ago. So we can try again.”

“It can’t hurt to try,” Brooke agreed.

“But more than that, we have to get Patrick to open up.”

“Yes.”

“Nancy’s text before we boarded-what did you make of it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Chick doesn’t seem to trust her. How about you?”

Brooke thought about that. “She’s a mother.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, in the end, she’ll do what’s best for her kid. Not mine.”

Mee brought over waters and warmed nuts. She set them down and turned away.

“You don’t think she wants to help?” Myron asked.

“No, Nancy gets the pain. She gets it more than anyone, I suppose. But self-interest is a powerful motive. So is a mother concerned for her child. She said in her text, ‘I’m doing what’s best for my son. And yours.’ She didn’t type, ‘I’m doing what’s best for our sons.’ Do you see?”

“I do.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“We do what’s best for your son,” Myron said. “And hers.”

When they landed, there was another message from Nancy to Brooke: We’ll come by your house tomorrow at 9 AM, okay?

Brooke read the message to Myron and Chick.

“Who the hell is ‘we’?” Chick asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Ask her.”

“I think we should wait,” Brooke said. “I feel like maybe it’ll spook her.”

“Spook her how?” Chick asked.

“I don’t know. Myron?”

“I think you wait,” Myron said.

Brooke typed the reply: Ok, see you tomorrow.

There were two limos waiting, one for the Baldwins and one for Myron. Brooke stopped before she got in and turned to Myron.

“You should be there tomorrow. You saved their son. They’re in your debt.”

Myron wasn’t so sure about that, but he said, “Okay.”

He waited until Brooke and Chick and the limousine were out of sight before heading toward his. When he slid into the back, the driver said, “It’s all been arranged. I’m to stay with you all night.”

“Great.”

“So to the high school?”

Myron checked his watch. “Yeah, that should work.”

He sat back. The world would probably fall apart tomorrow, but tonight would be, if not life affirming, somewhat normal. It was six thirty P.M. when they hit the town oval in front of the high school. The oval, a half-mile perimeter where the townsfolk liked to jog or take brisk walks or share some gossip, had been cleverly dubbed “the Circle” because, hey, close enough. The town police station was across the street. The town library was on the bottom right as you entered the Circle. The town recreation center was on the top right. The town church took up a lot of the left, and there on the top of the oval, front and center, if you will, was the expansive town high school.

Key word: “town.”

The driver pulled up to the gym. Myron opened the heavy metal door and stepped inside. The gym was empty, dark. That surprised him, but then he remembered that they had built a new facility back behind the football field. This one, the one that had meant so much to Myron, was now the “old gym.” It looked it. It looked a hundred years old. It looked like something that should have peach baskets instead of basketball hoops.

Myron took a few steps, his shoes echoing against the old parquet wood floor. He stopped and stood at center court for a moment. The familiar smell of sweat still hung in the air. They probably still held gym classes in here, or was that a smell, mixed with some sort of heavy-duty janitorial cleaner, that would always be embedded in the woodwork? To some the smell was probably horrid. For Myron it was something closer to celestial.

Smells brought you back. “Déjà vu” was too weak a term for what Myron was experiencing now. He slowly spun, taking it all in. He looked up at the concrete-and-brick wall above the door. The sign was still there.

TOP BASKETBALL SCORERS OF ALL TIME

1. MYRON BOLITAR

The memories rushed at him so hard and fast he nearly fell back. The old rickety stands were pushed into the wall, but in Myron’s eyes they were accordion-pulled-out and full. His mind’s eye saw his old teammates and coaches, and for a moment he tried to calculate how many hours he had spent in this gymnasium, how it had all gone so well here, on this floor, in the confines of the basketball court. Sports were supposed to be a reflection of life, a life lesson, a test of endurance and strength, a great preparation for the real world. That was what they always told you. But that wasn’t the case for Myron.

Everything came easy to Myron on the court. In real life, not so much.

He walked back outside and into the sunlight. He got back into the limo. “Wrong gym,” Myron said. “I think the new one is around the other side of the football field.”

The driver took him toward the new facility. When he opened the door, he heard the comforting echo from a dribbling basketball and the familiar squeak of sneakers on the playing surface. Mood music. The new gymnasium was state-of-the-art, whatever that meant. It had bright lights and cool scoreboards and comfortable seats with backs. Everything glistened. But the smell-the combo of sweat and chemical cleaners-was still there. That made Myron smile.

The high school boys’ team was scrimmaging, half the team wearing white, the other half green. Myron sat in the front row and watched and tried not to smile too broadly. They were good players, in better shape and more physical than in his day. The Lancers were undefeated so far this season, and rumor had it that they had a chance of breaking the winning streak set more than twenty-five years ago when the last basketball All-American graced this court.

Yep, you guessed it.

There were good players running up and down this court, some even great, but one stood out among the rest.

A sophomore named Mickey Bolitar. Myron’s nephew.

Mickey circled to the corner, juked, got the pass, faked the three, drove hard to the hoop on the baseline. The kid was poetry in motion. It was damn near impossible to take your eyes off him. You could see it right away. The greatness. Myron studied his nephew’s face and saw that look of what they called “being in the zone,” focused yet relaxed, on edge yet laid back, whatever terminology you wanted to use, but really it could all be summed up in one word.

Home.

When Mickey was on the court, like his uncle before him, he was home. The court made sense. You could control life on the court. You had friends; you had enemies; you had the ball and those two hoops. You had rules. You had consistency. You were yourself. You were safe.

You were home.

Coach Grady spotted Myron and came over. Some things might change. Others didn’t. The coach still wore a polo shirt with an embroidered logo on the pocket and shorts that were a hair too tight. He gave Myron a handshake and followed it with a hug.

“Been too long,” Myron said to him.

“Yeah.” Coach Grady spread his hands. “What do you think of the new gym?”

Myron looked around for a moment. “I kinda miss the old one, you know?”

“I do.”

“Then again, maybe we are just being old and grumpy.”

“Could be that too.”

“Maybe I should stand on the porch and yell for the kids to get off my lawn.”

They both turned to the court and watched. Mickey faked a three-pointer, drawing the defender toward him, and then threw a pass down the middle to his teammate for an easy layup.