Harlan Coben - Home

“What’s going on, Myron? Why won’t they help us?”

“I don’t know that they can.”

“You too? You’re buying this?”

“I don’t even know what they’re selling, Chick.”

“I told you I went to my lawyers today, right?”

“Right.”

“So I asked them what we could do. You know. To make the kid talk.”

“What did they suggest?”

“Nothing! They say there’s nothing to be done. Can you believe that? Patrick doesn’t have to say a damn thing. You can’t compel him to tell you. Even if he knows something crucial. Hell, even if he knows where Rhys is right now. It’s nuts.”

Chick signaled to the bartender, who poured him some Johnnie Walker Black. The bartender looked over at Myron. Myron shook his head. Too early in the day.

When Chick got his drink, he huddled around it as though it were a fire providing warmth. “I appreciate your help here,” he said, a little calmer now. “Win, well, I know Win doesn’t like me. No surprise really. We are from two different worlds. Plus he thinks Brooke walks on water. No one would be good enough for her, you know?”

Myron nodded, just because he wanted him to keep talking.

“But Brooke and me, we have a solid marriage. It’s had its problems, sure. Like any other. But we love each other.”

“Those problems,” Myron said, spotting the opening. There was no reason to wait any longer. “Was Nancy Moore one of them?”

Chick had been bringing the whiskey to his lips. He hesitated, debating whether he should reply first or take a sip. He chose the sip. He placed the drink back on the bar and turned to Myron.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Myron just stared at him. He tried to wait it out.

“Well?” Chick said.

“I know about the texts.”

“Ah.” Chick rose, took off his suit jacket, hung it neatly over the back of the barstool. He sat back down and fiddled with the gold cuff link on his left wrist. “And how do you know about the texts?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Chick said, shrugging it away too casually. “They’re nothing.”

Myron tried to stare him down again.

Chick was trying to sound nonchalant, but it wasn’t holding. “Does Win know?”

“Not yet.”

“But you’ll tell him?”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Even if I ask you not to?”

“Even if.”

Chick shook his head. “You don’t get my life.”

Myron said nothing.

“The rest of them, they got everything handed to them. I worked. I scraped. I got nothing easy. News flash, Myron”-he leaned and cupped his hand around his mouth-“the game is rigged for the rich. It ain’t a level playing field. I started with nothing. My father owned a barbershop in the Bronx. You want to get up there with them? You need to cheat a little.”

“Wait, let me write this down.” Myron mimed a pen and paper. “Cheat. A. Little.” He looked up. “Great tip. Are you also going to tell me that behind every great fortune there’s a great crime?”

“You mocking me?”

“Maybe a little, Chick.”

“You think, what, this country is a meritocracy? That we all start in the same place, all have the same chances? That’s crap. I played college football. I was a running back. Was pretty good too. One day I realize that every guy who is trying to tackle me is on steroids. And every guy who is trying to take my position? Steroids. So I have a choice. I can take steroids too. Or I can stop competing.”

“Chick?”

“What?”

“This is an odd argument for cheating on your wife,” Myron said.

“I didn’t cheat.” He leaned in close. “But my point is, either way, you’re leaving this alone.”

“Is that a threat, Chick?”

“Those texts have nothing to do with my kid. And I get your motive here.”

“My motive is finding your kid.”

“Right, sure. You want to hear something that still haunts me? Brooke wanted to call Win as soon as Rhys was taken. Day one. But I talked her out of it. I thought the cops could handle it. I wanted to-and this is funny after what I just told you-I wanted to play by the rules. Do things by the book. Funny, right? So I live with that.”

“You’re not making any sense, Chick.”

He leaned in close. Myron could smell the whiskey. “Whatever happened between me and Nancy,” he said through gritted teeth, “it has nothing to do with my son. You hear me? You need to step off before someone gets badly hurt.”

Myron’s cell phone sounded. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Brooke Baldwin calling. He showed it to Chick before bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Chick told me you two were meeting,” Brooke said. “Is he with you now?”

Myron looked at Chick. Chick nodded and leaned into the phone. “I’m right here, hon.”

“Did you both see CNN?”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“I taped it,” Brooke said. “I’ve been watching it freeze-frame.”

Chick said, “So?”

“So I’m not convinced that boy is Patrick Moore.”

Just seeing Terese’s name on his caller ID made Myron’s bunched shoulder muscles unknot. He hit the answer button as he headed to his car and without preamble said, “I love you so much.”

“No knock on Win,” Terese replied, “but that’s a much cooler way of answering the phone than ‘Articulate.’”

“I may not use it for everyone,” Myron said.

“Oh, why not? Make someone’s day.”

“Where are you?”

“In my hotel room,” Terese said. “Hey, remember the last time we were in a hotel room together?”

Myron couldn’t help but grin. “How many calls did we get complaining about the noise?”

“Well, Myron, you were awfully loud.”

Myron switched the phone to his other ear. “My toes were numb for a week.”

“I don’t get that reference.”

“Me neither, but somehow it sounded right.”

“It did,” she agreed. “I miss you.”

“Me too.”

“This job.”

“Yes?”

“If I get it-and that’s a big if-but if I get it, they may want me to relocate to Atlanta or DC.”

“Okay,” Myron said.

“You’d move?”

“Sure.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I mean, I could commute at first,” she said.

“No commute. We move.”

“God, you’re sexy when you’re bossy.”

“And even when I’m not.”

“Don’t push it.” Then Terese said, “Are you sure? I can back out. There will be other job opportunities.”

Myron had lived his whole life in this area. He had been born here, raised here, spent four years in college in North Carolina, returned here. He was so attached to this area that he had even bought his childhood home rather than let go of the past.

“I’m sure,” Myron said. “I want you to have the career you want.”

“Ugh, don’t sound so PC.”

“I also want to be a kept man.”

“That might require performing sexual favors on demand,” Terese said.

Myron sighed. “I give and I give.”

She laughed. Terese didn’t laugh often. He loved the sound. “I better get ready,” she said. “The second interview is in an hour.”

“Good luck.”

“Where are you headed?” Terese asked.

“After this call? To a cold shower. Then I’m going to see my parents and Mickey.”

“I saw that press interview on TV.”

“Any thoughts?”

“What you said.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re missing something.”

They got off the phone then with a minimum of mushiness. Myron started driving toward his hometown. Could he really do it? Could he move out of the area he had always called home?