Harlan Coben - Live Wire

Mickey stayed between his mother and Myron. “We’re fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re working illegally, I’m sure, under an alias. You get her from bars or she stumbles home and you put her to bed. You keep this place human. You put food in the fridge while she lies around and shoots up.”

“You can’t prove any of that.”

“Sure I can, but it doesn’t matter. Here’s what’s going to happen and if you don’t like it, too bad. Kitty, I’m putting you in a rehab center. It’s a nice place. I don’t know whether they can help you-whether anyone can-but it’s worth a try. Mickey, you’re going to come with me.”

“Like hell I am.”

“You are. You can live in Livingston with your grandparents, if you don’t want to be with me. Your mom will get cleaned up. We will get in touch with your father and let him know what’s going on here.”

Mickey kept his body shield in front of his wilting mother. “You can’t make us go with you.”

“Yeah, I can.”

“You think I’m afraid of you? If Grandpa hadn’t stepped in-”

“This time,” Myron said, “you won’t be jumping me in the dark.”

Mickey tried to grin. “I can still take you.”

“No, Mickey, you can’t. You’re strong, you’re brave, but you wouldn’t have a chance. It doesn’t matter anyway-you can do what I’m suggesting or I’ll call the cops. At the very least your mother is endangering the welfare of a child. She could end up in jail.”

Kitty shouted, “No!”

“I’m not giving you guys a choice anymore. Where’s Brad?”

Kitty moved out from behind her son. She tried to stand straight and for a moment, Myron saw the old athlete. Mickey said, “Mom?”

“He’s right,” Kitty said.

“No…”

“We need help. We need protection.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Mickey said.

She cupped her son’s face in her hands. “It’s going to be okay,” she told him. “He’s right. I can get the help I need. You’ll be safe.”

“Safe from what?” Myron asked yet again. “And really, enough is enough. I want to know where my brother is.”

“So do we,” Kitty said.

Mickey again said, “Mom?”

Myron took a step closer. “What are you talking about?”

“Brad disappeared three months ago,” Kitty said. “That’s why we’ve been on the run. None of us are safe.”

As they packed their few belongings, Myron called Esperanza and asked her to arrange a stay for Kitty at the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute. Then Myron called Dad.

“Is it okay if Mickey stays at the house with you for a while?”

“Of course,” Dad said. “What’s going on?”

“A lot.”

Dad listened without interrupting. Myron told him about Kitty’s drug problems, about her being on her own with Mickey, about Brad being missing. When he finished, Dad said, “Your brother wouldn’t just abandon his family like this.”

Just what Myron had thought. “I know.”

“It means he’s in trouble,” Dad said. “I know you two have had issues, but…”

He didn’t finish his thought. This was his way. When Myron was young, Dad somehow pushed Myron to succeed without ever pushing him too hard. He made it clear that he was proud of his son’s accomplishments while never making it seem like it was any kind of precondition to being proud of him. So yet again Dad didn’t ask-but he didn’t have to.

“I’ll find him,” Myron said.

During the car ride Myron asked for details.

Kitty sat up front next to him. In the back, Mickey ignored them. He stared out the window, white iPod earbuds in place-playing the part of a petulant teenager, which, Myron surmised, he was.

By the time they reached the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute, this was what he had learned: Eight months ago, per the stamp in the passport, Brad, Kitty, and Mickey Bolitar had moved to Los Angeles. Three months ago, Brad had left for an “emergency secret mission” (Kitty’s words) to Peru and told them not to say anything to anyone.

“What did Brad mean by that-not to say anything.”

Kitty claimed ignorance. “He just said not to worry about him and not to tell anyone. He also said be careful.”

“Of what?”

Kitty just shrugged.

“Any clue, Mickey?” The kid did not budge. Myron repeated the question, yelling so he could be heard. Mickey either couldn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. Turning back to Kitty, he said, “I thought you guys worked for a charity group.”

“We did.”

“So?”

Another shrug. Myron asked a few more questions, but there was little more to learn. Weeks passed, but there was no word from Brad. At some point, Kitty felt as though they were being watched. Someone would call and hang up on them. One night, someone jumped her in a mall parking lot, but she managed to run off. She decided then to move with Mickey and stay off the grid.

Myron asked, “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”

Kitty glared at him as though he’d just casually suggested bestiality. “You? You’re joking, right?”

Myron didn’t want to unearth their old grudge right now. “Or anyone,” he said. “Brad’s been missing three months. How long did you plan to wait?”

“I told you already. Brad said not to tell anyone. He said it’d be dangerous for all of us.”

Myron still wasn’t buying it all-something just didn’t make sense here-but when he tried to push it, Kitty just shut down and started to cry. Then, when she was sure Mickey wasn’t listening (Myron was sure he was), Kitty begged him for her stash back, “just one last hit, please,” using the logic that she was heading into rehab anyway-what harm could it do?

The rehab’s sign was small and read, THE CODDINGTON REHABILITATION INSTITUTE. Myron took the private road up past the security gate. From the outside the place looked like one of those vinyl-sided, faux-Victorian bed-and-breakfasts. Inside, at least in the reception area, it was an interesting mix of luxury hotel and prison. Soft classical music played on the overhead speaker. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. There were bars on the ornate arched windows.

The receptionist’s nameplate read, CHRISTINE SHIPPEE, though Myron knew that she was much more than a receptionist. Christine was, in fact, the hands-on founder of the Coddington Institute. She greeted them from behind what might have been bulletproof glass, though “greeted” might be too strong a term. Christine had a face like a yield sign. Her reading glasses hung from a chain. She looked them over, clearly finding them wanting, and sighed. She slid the forms to them through the kind of chute you see at a bank.

“Fill out the paperwork, then come back,” Christine said by way of introduction.

Myron moved over to the corner. He started writing her name, but Kitty stopped him. “Use the name Lisa Gallagher. It’s my alias. I don’t want them finding me.”

Again Myron asked who “them” referred to and again she claimed to have no idea. No reason to argue right now. He filled out the forms and brought them back to the receptionist. She took the forms, put on the reading glasses, and started checking for errors. Kitty’s body quake picked up steam. Mickey put his arms around his mother, trying to calm her. It wasn’t working. Kitty looked smaller now, frailer.

“Do you have a suitcase?” Christine asked her.

Mickey held it up for her.

“Leave it there. We’ll go through the contents before we deliver it to your room.” Christine turned her attention to Kitty. “Say good-bye now. Then stand by that door and I’ll buzz you in.”

“Wait,” Mickey said.

Christine Shippee turned her gaze toward him.