Harlan Coben - Home

“I do.”

“The pressure becomes so great. I mean, maybe if there are no cracks to start with, you can get past it. But I couldn’t handle it. So I ran away. I lived overseas for a while. But I couldn’t move on. The horror, the images… I started drinking. A lot. Then I would do AA, get better for a little while, start drinking again, sober up. I kept cycling like that. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

Hunter held up the bottle. “Guess where I am in the cycle now?”

Silence. Myron crushed it.

“Did you know about the texts between your wife and Chick Baldwin?”

The muscles in his face stiffened. “When?”

Interesting response, Myron thought. He looked at Win. Win found it interesting too. “Does that matter?”

“No,” Hunter said. “I don’t know, don’t care. And she isn’t my wife.”

Myron turned toward him. “I’m talking about back then. Before your son disappeared. Nancy and Chick were close to having an affair. Maybe they went through with it; I don’t know.”

Hunter’s grip on the gun tightened. He still stared out, but if the view was offering even an iota of comfort, you wouldn’t know it from his face. “Who cares?”

“Did you know?”

“No.”

He said it too quickly. Myron looked toward Win. Win said, “I found Fat Gandhi.”

That got Hunter’s attention. “Is he in jail?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He told me that Rhys is dead.”

“Oh my God,” Hunter said, but the surprise in his voice sounded forced. “He killed him?”

“No. He never met Rhys. He said that Patrick told him that Rhys is dead.”

“He said what?”

Win bit back a sigh. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hunter shook his head. “So let me get this straight. This psycho criminal who stabbed and almost killed my son”-Hunter looked at Win, then at Myron, then back at Win-“you believe him?”

“We do,” Win said.

“Hunter,” Myron tried, “don’t you think Patrick owes the Baldwins the truth?”

“Of course. Of course they’re owed the truth.” Hunter looked stunned now. “I’ll try to talk to Patrick about this as soon as I can. See what he says.”

“Hunter?”

It was Win.

“Yeah?”

“I’d like to use your washroom before we leave.”

Hunter smiled up at him. “You think they’re inside?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Win said. “Either way, I need to urinate.”

Only Win could use the word “urinate” in a completely natural way in a nonmedical setting.

“Use a tree.”

“I don’t use trees, Hunter.”

“Fine.”

As he started to his feet, Win easily grabbed the rifle from him, which was the closest thing to the old saw about stealing candy from a baby Myron had ever witnessed.

“I got a license,” Hunter said. “I can shoot deer on my property. It’s perfectly legal.”

Win looked at Myron. “Would it be beneath me to note that Hunter is a hunter?”

“Way beneath,” Myron said.

“Har-har.” Hunter stumbled toward the house. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you, uh, urinating and out of here.”

Back in the car, Myron asked, “How was your urination?”

“Hilarious. They aren’t there. He’s alone. For now.”

Myron knew that had been Win’s play with the “urination” request. “So why was he holding the rifle?”

“Perhaps he was hunting. It’s his property. He has the right. Perhaps that’s his thing.”

“Hunting?”

“Yes. He sits out there on a lovely day, enjoys his view, imbibes his whiskey-then a deer strolls by and he blasts it.”

“Sounds like an awesome time.”

“Don’t judge,” Win said.

“You don’t hunt.”

“I also don’t judge. You eat meat. You wear leather. Even vegans kill animals, albeit very few of them, when they plow out fields. None of us have completely clean hands.”

Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve missed you, Win.”

“Yes. Yes, you have.”

“Have you been back in the States at all?”

“Who says I ever left?” Win pointed to the sound system. “I even saw this.”

Myron had his smartphone hooked up to the car’s sound system. They were listening to the soundtrack from Hamilton. Lin-Manuel Miranda was singing with raw, naked pain in his voice, “ You knock me out, I fall apart. ”

“Wait,” Myron said, “you saw Hamilton ?”

Win did not reply.

“But you hate musicals. I was always trying to get you to go.”

Win put his finger to his lips and pointed again. “Shh, here it comes.”

“What?”

“The last line. Listen… now.”

The song dealt with Hamilton’s grief after losing his son in a duel. Win put his hand to his ear as the company sang, “ They are going through the unimaginable. ”

“That’s Brooke,” Win said. “That’s Chick. Going through the unimaginable.”

Myron nodded. This song broke his heart every time. “We need to tell Brooke what Fat Gandhi said.”

“Yes.”

“We need to tell her now.”

“In person,” Win said.

Myron was back in the driver’s seat. He didn’t drive like Win, but he could hit the accelerator when needed. They crossed the Delaware River over the Dingmans Ferry Bridge, putting them back in New Jersey.

“Something else is bothering me,” Myron said.

“I’m listening.”

“Fat Gandhi said he didn’t know Patrick, that Patrick didn’t work for him.”

“That’s correct.”

“Patrick showed up on his turf, got into trouble with some of Fat Gandhi’s thugs, and ran away when you intervened.”

“Correct again.”

Myron shook his head. “Then this whole thing has to be a setup.”

“How so?”

“Someone emails you anonymously. He tells you where Patrick is and when he’ll be there. You go. Patrick is there, probably for the first time. Because if he had been there before, Fat Gandhi’s thugs would have roughed him up back then, right?”

Win considered that. “Makes sense.”

“So someone wanted you to find him. Someone sent Patrick-if it is Patrick-to that spot so you would”-Myron used his fingers to make quote marks-“‘rescue’ him.”

“Makes sense,” Win said again.

“Any thoughts on who?”

“No thoughts. But there is something else we need to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“According to what you told me, Mickey and Ema seem to feel that the boy might not be Patrick.”

Myron nodded. “That’s right.”

“When will we have the DNA results?”

“Joe Corless said he was working on it, priority one. Should be soon.”

“Suppose this boy isn’t Patrick,” Win said. “What’s the play then?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said. “Suppose this boy is Patrick. What’s the play then?”

On the soundtrack, Leslie Odom Jr.’s Aaron Burr is furious that Alexander Hamilton has endorsed Thomas Jefferson.

“A setup makes no sense,” Win said, “and yet it has to be a setup of some kind, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Myron said. “Or it doesn’t.”

“Deep.”

“In short,” Myron said, “we still don’t know what the hell is going on.”

Win smiled. “You’d think we’d be used to that by now.”

They were ten minutes away from Brooke’s when Win said, “Take a right.”

“Where?”

“Union Avenue.”

“Where are we going?”

“Bear with me. Park here.”

The name of the shop selling “Organic Coffee & Crêpes” was CU Latte. Myron frowned at the pun. Win loved it.

“What are we doing here?”

“A little surprise for you,” Win said. “Come on.”