Harlan Coben - Home

The answer, for the first time in his life, was a resounding yes.

Win called him during the drive.

“Hello?”

“Tell all,” Win said.

“Did you see the Moore family interview?” Myron asked.

“I did.”

In the background, Myron could hear men shouting in a foreign language. “Where are you exactly?”

“Rome.”

“Italy?”

“No. Rome, Wyoming.”

“No reason for sarcasm.”

“Who needs a reason?”

“Brooke is not positive the boy is Patrick,” Myron said.

“Yes, she texted me that.”

“I called PT down in Quantico. He has a friend who might be able to help us. She does stuff with forensic facial reconstruction or something.”

“I did my own cursory check,” Win said. “Comparing a still shot of what we saw today with Patrick at age six and via age progression.”

“Any conclusions?”

“No,” Win said. “But I ask myself two questions. If it isn’t Patrick, then who is it? If it isn’t Patrick, what possible motive would Nancy and Hunter have to lie about it?”

Myron thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“A DNA test would help.”

“It would,” Myron agreed. “But again, suppose we find out it isn’t Patrick. What would that mean? You got a second?”

“I do.”

“So let’s look at all the possible angles, even the most outrageous.”

“Such as?” Win said.

“Such as, suppose Nancy and Hunter killed both boys and hid their bodies. I know, I know, outrageous, but just for the sake of this thought experiment, let’s suppose it’s possible.”

“Okay.”

“So maybe to throw suspicion off themselves, they set out to bring a fake Patrick back. They find a teenager who’s the right age and right look. They send you those emails leading you in that direction. You find the teen at King’s Cross or whatever. You with me?”

“Not fully,” Win said.

“Right, because even the most outrageous scenario makes no sense. That’s my point. There was no heat on any suspects-not after all these years. No one was starting to suspect them. If they had killed the boys-again I’m just talking here; I don’t think that’s the case-they’d gain nothing by pretending Patrick was found.”

“True,” Win said. Then: “Of course, it could be another sort of con.”

“That being?”

“Let’s say the boy isn’t Patrick.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s say, though,” Win continued, “that someone is setting up Nancy and Hunter. They arrange to have this fake Patrick found. They know that Nancy and Hunter want it so much to be their son that they’d be easily fooled.”

“The desire for resolution,” Myron said.

“Precisely. It can be blinding.”

“But again: What’s the motive? Is this fake Patrick going to steal money or something?”

Win considered that. “No, I don’t think that would be it.”

“And the boy’s injuries were real. He was stabbed. We’re lucky he didn’t die.”

“At the hands of Fat Gandhi,” Win said. “Myron?”

“Yes?”

“We are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Ignoring Sherlock’s axiom. We need more data.”

Win was right. They often quoted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s beloved Sherlock Holmes: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“What else is wrong?”

Myron let loose a deep breath. “You’re not going to like this.”

“Oh, then please stall and sugarcoat it for me.”

“More sarcasm?”

“More stalling?”

Myron dove straight in, telling Win about his visit to Neil Huber and the texts between Chick Baldwin and Nancy Moore. When he finished, Win went quiet for a moment. Myron could still hear the men shouting in a foreign-he assumed Italian-tongue.

“Why are you in Rome?” Myron asked.

“I’m getting close to Fat Gandhi.”

“He’s in Italy?”

“Doubtful.” Then: “Do you believe Chick when he says those text exchanges were innocent?”

“No,” Myron said. “But that doesn’t mean they have anything to do with the kidnapping.”

“True,” Win said.

“You want me to take a run at Nancy? Confront her about the texts?”

“I do, yes.”

“And what about Brooke?”

“What about her?”

“Do we tell her about the text exchanges?” Myron asked.

“Not yet.”

Myron remembered her reaction in London to not being told about the emails Win had received. “She’ll be angry you’re holding out on her again.”

“I can live with that,” Win said. There was a pause. “Are we done, Myron?”

“I think so.”

“Good, I need to go.”

The team name popped up just as Myron was noting that Cousin Brooke would be angry that I was holding out on her again.

SHARK CRYPT I.

“I can live with that,” I tell him, completely distracted now. It is time to get off the phone. “Are we done, Myron?”

“I think so,” Myron says.

“Good, I need to go.”

I end the call before Myron replies. I am in that same back room with Carlo, Renato, and Giuseppe. They are all still geared up, but their mood is more serious today, more somber, as the Muzzles of Rage challenge has begun. My plan is a simple one: Draw out Fat Gandhi.

From everything I know about him, Fat Gandhi is a competitive bastard in this techno-video-whatever world. His biggest rival is ROMAVSLAZIO, which is, thanks to my anonymous largesse, hosting this brand-new prestigious event. The question we need to answer: Even if Fat Gandhi is somewhat underground, even if he is at least temporarily in hiding, will he come out if challenged to a high-stakes, heavily sponsored quasi-military first-person-shooter tournament?

The answer, I now know, is yes.

I point to the new name, SHARK CRYPT I, on the leaderboard. “That’s Fat Gandhi,” I say.

“You can’t tell,” Carlo shouts at me, still clicking the keyboard. “He hasn’t started to play yet.”

“But once he plays for a few minutes, we’ll know,” Renato adds. “Half hour tops. He’s got a distinct style of play. He never uses machine guns or automatic weapons-only a sniper rifle, and he never misses.”

“There’s always a distinct system,” Carlo says.

“Like any sport, you don’t have to see the face to know the players,” Renato agrees.

“Don’t wait,” I say. “That’s our target.”

“How can you be so sure?”

It is simple, really. “Shark Crypt I” is an anagram of “Patrick Rhys.”

My plan here is obvious. The challenge for ROMAVSLAZIO has nothing to do with winning the Muzzles of Rage championship. The challenge for them is to pretend that there is a match so that they can figure out via some hacking method I have no interest in understanding exactly where Fat Gandhi is currently residing.

Referee Giuseppe says, “Let’s go, boys. Find him.”

My car and private plane are at the ready. I have the pilots and a key associate waiting. The moment they find Fat Gandhi’s location, whilst the Muzzles of Rage contest continues, we will speed to the location and take Fat Gandhi down.

At least, that is the plan.

“I still don’t know if we should do this,” Carlo says.

Again he is facing one wall, Renato the other.

“Me neither,” Renato agrees.

“We aren’t cops.”

“You heard Mr. Lockwood,” Giuseppe says. “The man pimps out underage boys.”

“How do we know he’s telling the truth?” Carlo asks.

“Yeah,” Renato adds, turning to Win, “how do we know you’re not the pervert?”