Harlan Coben: Home

People think meditation clears the mind. That’s nonsense. You can’t clear the mind. The harder you try not to think about something, the more you will think about it. You need to allow the thoughts in if you really want to relax. You learn to observe them and not judge or react. So that was what Myron did now.

He thought about seeing Win again, about Esperanza and Big Cyndi, about his mother and father down in Florida. He thought about his brother, Brad, and his nephew, Mickey, and about the changes in their lives. He thought about Terese finally being back in his life, about their impending marriage, about starting a life with her, about the sudden, tangible possibility of happiness.

He thought about how shockingly fragile it all felt.

Eventually, the plane landed, slowed, taxied. When it came to a complete stop, Mee pulled the handle and opened the door. She gave him a wide smile. “Good luck, Myron.”

“Same to you, Mee.”

“Tell Win I say hello.”

The Bentley was waiting for him on the tarmac. As Myron started down the steps, the back door opened. Win came out.

Myron hurried his step, feeling his eyes brim with tears. When he was ten feet away from his friend, he stopped, blinked, smiled.

“Myron.”

“Win.”

Win sighed. “You’re going to want to make this a moment, aren’t you?”

“What’s life without them?”

Win nodded. Myron stepped forward. The two men hugged fiercely, hanging on as though the other were a life preserver.

Still holding on, Myron said, “I have a million questions.”

“And I’m not going to answer them.” They both let go. “We need to concentrate on Rhys and Patrick.”

“Of course.”

Win gestured for Myron to get in the back. Myron did so, sliding across to make room for Win. The Bentley was a black stretch. The privacy window to the driver was up. There were only two seats, lots of legroom, a stocked bar. Most stretches have more seating. Win didn’t see the need.

“A drink?” Win asked.

“No, thanks.”

The car started to move. Mee was by the plane door. Win lowered his window and waved. She waved back. There was a wistful look on Win’s face. Myron just stared at his friend, his best friend since their freshman year at Duke University, afraid that if he looked away, Win might vanish again.

Win said, “She has a top-quality derriere, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh. Win?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been in London the whole time?”

Still looking out the window, Win said, “No.”

“Where, then?”

“Many places.”

“There were rumors.”

“Yes.”

“They said you’d become a recluse.”

“I know.”

“Not true?”

“No, Myron, not true. I created those rumors.”

“Why?”

“Later. Right now we need to concentrate on Patrick and Rhys.”

“You said you saw Patrick.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Believe so?”

“Patrick was six when he disappeared,” Win said. “He would be sixteen now.”

“So there was no way you could get an exact ID on him.”

“Correct.”

“So you spotted someone you believed was Patrick.”

“Correct again.”

“And then?”

“And then I lost him.”

Myron sat back.

“This surprises you,” Win said.

“It does.”

“You’re thinking, ‘That’s not like you.’”

“I am indeed.”

Win nodded. “I miscalculated.” Then he added: “There was collateral damage.”

That was never a good thing with Win.

“How much?”

“Perhaps we should press the rewind button first.” Win reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Read this.”

Win handed him what looked to be a printed email. It was addressed to Win’s personal email account. Myron had sent the account half a dozen messages over the past year. He had never gotten a reply. The sender was listed as anon5939413. It read:

You are looking for Rhys Baldwin and Patrick Moore. For most of the last ten years, they have been together, but not always. They’ve been separated at least three times. They are back together now.

They are free to go but might not with you. They aren’t who you think they are anymore. They aren’t who their families remember either. You may not like what you find. Here is where they are. Forget the reward money. I will one day ask for a favor.

Neither one of them remembers much of their life before. Be patient with them.

Myron felt a chill scramble down his spine. “I assume you tried to figure out where the email came from?”

Win nodded.

“And I assume you got nothing.”

“VPN,” Win said. “No way to track down where or from whom it originated.”

Myron read it again. “That last paragraph.”

“Yes, I know.”

“There is something about it.”

“An air of authenticity,” Win said.

“Which is why you took it seriously.”

“Yes,” Win said.

“And this address they list?” Myron asked.

“It’s a rather small yet sordid area in London. An underpass where all sorts of illicit trade takes place. I canvassed the spot.”

“Okay.”

“Someone who strongly resembles those age-progression images of Patrick showed up.”

“When?”

“About an hour before I called you.”

“Did you hear him talk?”

“Pardon?”

“Did he speak? I’m trying to get a better handle on his ID. Maybe his accent was American.”

“I didn’t hear him speak,” Win said. “We also don’t know. He could have been here, on these streets, for his entire life.”

Silence.

Then Myron repeated, “His entire life.”

“I know,” Win said. “No reason to dwell on it.”

“So you saw Patrick. Then what?”

“I waited.”

Myron nodded. “You were hoping Rhys would show.”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Three men who appeared to be unhappy with Patrick assaulted him.”

“And you stopped them?”

For the first time a small smile played with Win’s lips. “It’s what I do.”

It was indeed.

“And all three?” Myron asked.

Win smiled, shrugged.

Myron closed his eyes.

“These men were the worst sort of thugs,” Win said. “They will not be mourned.”

“It was self-defense?”

“Yes, fine, let’s go with that. Are we really going to second-guess my methods right now, Myron?”

He was right.

“So then what happened?”

“Whilst I was preoccupied with said thugs, Patrick fled. The last time I saw him, he was heading into King’s Cross station. Not long after that, I called you for help.”

Myron sat back. They were approaching Westminster Bridge and the river Thames. The London Eye, basically a gigantic Ferris wheel that moved at what could generously be dubbed a glacial pace, shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Myron had gone on it once years ago. It had bored him silly.

“You understand,” Win said, “how pressing this is.”

Myron nodded. “They’ll make the boys disappear.”

“Precisely. Move them out of the country, or if they feel threatened with exposure…”

Win didn’t have to finish the thought.

“Have you told the parents?”

“No.”

“Not even Brooke?”

“No,” Win said. “I saw no reason to give her false hope.”

They were driving north. Myron looked out the window. “They’ve been gone since they were six years old, Win.”

He said nothing.

“Everyone thought that they were long dead.”

“I know.”

“Except you.”

“Oh, I thought they were dead.”

“But you kept looking.”