Harlan Coben - Home

“No ‘but,’” Lionel said. And then: “I just need you to understand. Patrick has been through a tremendous ordeal.”

“Really?” Chick said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “We wouldn’t know anything about that, would we?”

“Chick.” It was Brooke. She shook her head for him to stop. “Go on, Doctor.”

“I could dance around this for a bit,” Lionel said, “but let me just tell you this right from the get-go. No stalling. No fancy words. No excuses. Just the flat-out truth.”

Oh boy, Myron thought.

“At this juncture, Patrick can’t help you.”

Chick opened his mouth, but Brooke silenced him with a wave. “What do you mean, he can’t help us?”

“I understand that last night Mrs. Moore suggested you meet at your house.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I overruled that decision. That’s why you’re here. To bring Patrick back to the place where it all began, the scene of the crime, if you will-it could be devastating to his already fragile psyche. Patrick is nearly catatonic. When he does speak, it is to say he’s hungry or thirsty, and even that only occurs when he’s prompted.”

Myron spoke for the first time. “Have you asked him about Rhys?”

“Of course,” Lionel said.

Brooke: “And?”

Lionel again gave her the most understanding, compassionate, phony expression possible. “He can’t tell us anything about your son. I’m sorry.”

“That’s BS,” Chick said.

Nancy stepped toward Brooke. “We’re trying our best,” she said.

“You have your son back,” Brooke said. “We don’t. Don’t you get it? We are no closer to finding Rhys than we were before all this.”

“I don’t think there is much he can tell you anyway,” Lionel said.

Chick was having none of that. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I am with him constantly. We are doing all we can so that Patrick opens up. But right now he remembers very little. It’s as though he remembers being a child here, and that’s it. Even if he could tell you about the actual kidnapping, I don’t think that would help very much. All we know for now is that your son was being held by the same man who held Patrick.”

Myron said, “Patrick confirmed that?”

“Not in so many words. The key is to get him acclimated. Patrick is spending a great deal of time with his sister, Francesca. I think he finds Francesca to be a comfort. We want to let him start hanging out with people his own age, start to socialize a bit, but we need to take baby steps.”

Chick: “What the hell is going on here?”

Hunter said, “Calm down, Chick.”

“Like hell, I’ll calm down. Your kid knows what happened to mine. He has to talk to us.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Lionel said.

“Are you for real? This is a kidnapping investigation. I’m calling the cops.”

“That won’t do any good,” Lionel said.

“Why the hell not?”

“The police have been here, of course. But as Patrick’s doctor, I’ve advised the family against allowing him to be questioned at this time. My job is to worry about my patient and my patient only, but in truth, I think it’s best for all. Again, I want to assure you that we are doing all we can to put Patrick in a space where he feels comfortable opening up.”

“And when might that be?” Chick asked.

“Chick,” Nancy said, “we are all trying our best here.”

“So what do you expect us to do?” Brooke asked, the edge in her voice now. “Should we, what, go home and wait for you to call us?”

“I know how difficult this must be,” Nancy said.

“Yeah, Nancy, I’d think you would.”

“But I have to worry about my son too.”

“Your son”-Brooke’s hands formed two fists-“is home. Do you not get that? He’s home. You can hold him. You can feed him and make sure he’s warm at night. My son…”

And for the first time, Myron saw the chink in Brooke’s armor. So did Chick.

“The hell with this,” Chick said. He stormed out of the room and toward the front of the house.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lionel asked.

Chick didn’t answer. He headed for the stairs. “Patrick?”

“Wait,” Hunter said, “you can’t just go up there.”

“Stop,” Lionel said. “You’ll traumatize him.”

Chick didn’t even bother glancing behind him. He started up the stairs. Hunter hurried after him. Not sure exactly what to do, Myron moved his body a little, just enough to throw Hunter off the straight path.

Chick called out, “Patrick?”

Myron heard a door open, then close. Hunter and Lionel rushed up the stairs. Myron stayed right behind them, ready to intervene further if he needed to. Brooke and Nancy were behind him. Everyone, except Myron, was shouting. When they got to the top of the stairs, Chick was in front of the final door.

“No!” Hunter shouted. He dove toward Chick, but he was too late.

Chick opened the door. When he looked inside, he froze.

Myron was a lot bigger and stronger than Lionel. It didn’t take much to block him out so Myron could get to the door first. When he got there, he followed Chick’s gaze to the far corner of the bedroom.

There, huddled into the corner as though he was trying to burrow into the wood, was Patrick Moore.

The room had clearly not been changed in the past decade. It was the room of a six-year-old. The bed was shaped like a race car. There was a poster for an old superhero movie on one wall. Three modest-sized sports trophies sat on one shelf. His name was spelled out in big wooden letters above his closet. The wallpaper was a lively blue. The carpet was designed to look like a basketball key.

Patrick wore flannel pajamas. There were headphones on the floor in front of him, but right now, he had his hands covering his ears. His eyes were shut. His knees were up against his chest, and he rocked back and forth.

He started muttering, “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me,” as though it were a mantra.

Nancy Moore pushed past Myron and ran across the room. She dropped to her knees and took her son into her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder. Nancy turned toward the door with a baleful look. Hunter stepped into the room behind her. Lionel did the same. The three of them were lined up now, almost in a formation, to protect the crying teen.

“We tried to explain it to you nicely,” Hunter said. “Now I want you to get out of our house.”

I love Rome.

I always stay in the Excelsior hotel’s Villa La Cupola, a suite that takes up the top two stories of this former palace. I like the outdoor sundeck overlooking the Via Veneto. I like the frescoes on the dome, painted in such a way as to match the horizon out the window. I like the private theater, the sauna, the steam bath, the Jacuzzi.

Who wouldn’t?

Back in the day, Vincenzo the concierge knew and handled my, shall we say, entertainment likings. It would be his task to have what they politely referred to as a “lady of the evening” or “courtesan” awaiting my arrival. Sometimes two. On rare occasions, three. The Villa La Cupola suite had six bedrooms. This made it easy for whatever company was hired to spend the night, if she so desired, but not with me. This was my way. This was how I preferred it.

Yes, I have hired prostitutes on many occasions. I will pause while you gasp out loud in indignation and then tsk-tsk your moral superiority.

Done? Terrific.

I would point out that these escorts were “high-end” or “upscale,” but in truth that makes it no better or worse and it would make me even more of a hypocrite to pretend otherwise. For me it was a business transaction that worked both ways. I like sex. Alert the media. I like sex-and by sex, I mean strictly the pleasures of the flesh-a great deal. I like sex in its purest form, meaning I do not like strings or attachment or other common distractions. Myron believes that what he labels “love” or “feelings” enhances sex. I do not. I believe that those things dilute it.