Harlan Coben: Home

“Yowza,” Terese said.

“I know, right?”

“That was…”

“I know, right?”

Myron had a way with postcoital banter.

Terese swung her legs out of bed, rose, and moved toward the window. Myron watched. He liked the way she moved naked, panther-like, all coiled and toned and confident. The apartment was perched above Central Park on the West Side. Terese looked out the window toward the lake and Bow Bridge. If you’ve ever seen a New York City movie where a couple in love runs across a footbridge, you’ve seen Bow Bridge.

“God, what a view,” Terese said.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Are you ogling my ass?”

“I prefer to think of it as watching. Guarding.”

“In a protective manner, then?”

“It would be unprofessional of me to look away.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to appear unprofessional.”

“Thank you.”

Then, with her back still toward him, his fiancée said, “Myron?”

“Yes, my love.”

“I’m happy.”

“Me too.”

“That’s scary.”

“Terrifying,” Myron agreed. “Come back to bed.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Oh, I can keep them,” Myron said. Then: “Is there a place around here that delivers oysters and vitamin E?”

She turned, gave him her best smile, and ka-boom, his heart exploded into a million pieces. Terese Collins was back. After all the years of separations and anguish and instability, they were finally going to get married. It felt incredible. It felt wonderful. It felt fragile.

And that was when the phone rang.

They both stopped as though they sensed it. When things are going this well, you sort of hold your breath because you want it to last. You don’t want to stop or even slow down time as much as you just want to stay safe in your little bubble.

That phone ring, to keep with this piss-poor metaphor, was a bubble burster.

Myron checked the caller ID but the number was blocked. They were in the Dakota building in Manhattan. When Win had disappeared a year ago, he had put the place in Myron’s name. For most of that year, Myron had chosen to stay in his childhood home in nearby Livingston, New Jersey, trying his best to raise his teenage nephew, Mickey. But now his brother, Mickey’s father, was back, and so Myron had given them the house and come back to the city.

The phone rang a second time. Terese turned to the side, as though the sound had slapped her across the cheek. He could see the scar from the bullet wound on her neck. The old feeling, the need to protect, started to rise in him.

For a moment, Myron debated letting it go to voicemail, but then Terese closed her eyes and nodded, just once. Not answering, they both knew, would only delay the inevitable.

Myron picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

There was an odd hesitation and some static and then the voice he hadn’t heard in so long came through: “Don’t you mean ‘articulate’?”

Myron had tried to brace himself, but he still gasped. “Win? My God, where have you been-?”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Think.”

Myron had wondered, but he hadn’t dared voice it. “Wait, both of them?”

“Just Patrick.”

“Wow.”

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Catch the next plane to London. I need your help.”

Myron looked at Terese. The shatter was back in her eyes. That shatter had always been there, since they first ran off together years ago, but he hadn’t noticed it since her return. He reached out his hand toward her. She took it.

“Life’s a little complicated right now,” Myron said.

“Terese has returned,” Win said.

Not a question. He knew.

“Yes.”

“And you’re finally getting married.”

Again not a question.

“Yes.”

“Did you buy her a ring?”

“Yes.”

“From Norman on Forty-Seventh Street?”

“Of course.”

“More than two carats?”

“Win…”

“I’m happy for you both.”

“Thank you.”

“But you can’t get married,” Win said, “without your best man.”

“I already asked my brother.”

“He’ll step aside. The flight leaves from Teterboro. The car is waiting.”

Win hung up.

Terese looked at him. “You have to go.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Win doesn’t make casual requests,” Myron said.

“No,” she agreed. “He doesn’t.”

“It won’t take long. I’ll be back and we will get married. I promise.”

Terese sat on the bed. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

“How much could you hear?”

“Just bits and pieces.” Then: “Is the ring more than two carats?”

“It is.”

“Good. So tell me.”

“Do you remember the Alpine kidnappings ten years back?”

Terese nodded. “Sure. We reported on it.”

She had worked for years as an anchorwoman on one of those all-news channels.

“One of the kidnapped boys, Rhys Baldwin, is related to Win.”

“You never told me that.”

Myron shrugged. “I didn’t really have much to do with it. By the time we got involved, the case was pretty cold. Still, it’s always been on my back burner.”

“But not Win’s.”

“Nothing is ever on Win’s back burner.”

“So he has a new lead?”

“More than that. He says he saw Patrick Moore.”

“So why doesn’t he call the police?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you didn’t ask.”

“I trust his judgment.”

“And he needs your help.”

“Yes.”

Terese nodded. “Then you better get packed.”

“You’re okay?”

“He was right.”

“About?”

She rose. “We can’t get married without your best man.”

Win had sent a black limo. It was waiting under the Dakota’s archway. The limo took him out to Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey, which was about half an hour away. Win’s plane, a Boeing Business Jet, was waiting on the tarmac. There was no security, no check-in, no ticket. The limousine dropped him off by the steps. The flight attendant, a lovely young Asian woman, greeted Myron in an old-fashioned fitted uniform, complete with puffy blouse and pillbox hat.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Bolitar.”

“You too, Mee.”

In case you didn’t get the memo: Win was rich.

Win’s real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, as in Lock-Horne Investments and Securities and the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue. His family was old money, the kind of money that got off the Mayflower with a pink polo shirt and desirable tee time.

Myron ducked his six-four frame through the plane’s door. There were leather seats, wood trim, a couch, plush green carpeting, zebra-striped wallpaper-the plane had been owned by a rapper, and Win decided not to refurbish it because it made him feel “phat”-a wide-screen television, a sofa bed, and a queen-sized bed in the back bedroom.

Myron was alone on the plane, which made him feel self-conscious, but he’d get over it. He took a seat and buckled up. The plane began moving toward the runway. Mee did her safety demonstration. She kept the pillbox hat on. Win, Myron knew, liked that hat.

Two minutes later, they were up in the air.

Mee came over and said, “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Have you seen him?” Myron asked. “Where has he been?”

“I’m not allowed to answer that,” Mee replied.

“Why not?”

“Win told me to make you comfortable. We have your customary beverage on board.”

She was carrying a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

“Yeah, I’m off those,” Myron said.