Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

Billy Lee was also holding what looked liked a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from Myron's face.

“He's holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from my face,” Myron said for the benefit of the cell phone.

Billy Lee giggled. That sound too was familiar.

“Bonnie Franklin,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Last night. You were the one who hit me with the cattle prod.”

Billy Lee spread his hands impossibly wide. “Bingo, baby!”

Myron shook his head. “You definitely look better with the makeup, Billy Lee.”

Billy Lee giggled again and retrained the shotgun on Myron. Then he held out his free hand. “Give me the phone.”

Myron hesitated but not for long. The sunken eyes, once Myron could see them, were wet and unfocused and tinged with a dull red. Billy Lee's body was one tremor. Myron checked out the short sleeves and saw the needle tracks. Billy Lee looked like the wildest and most unpredictable of animals: a cornered junkie. Myron handed him the phone. Billy Lee put it to his ear.

“Win?”

Win's voice was clear. “Yes, Billy Lee.”

“Go to hell.”

Billy Lee giggled again. Then he clicked off the phone, untethering them from the outside world, and Myron felt the dread rise in his chest.

Billy Lee stuck the phone in Myron's pocket and looked over at Pat. “Tie him to the chair.”

Pat said, “What?”

“Tie him to the chair. There's rope right behind it.”

“Tie him how? I look like a goddamn Boy Scout?”

“Just wrap it around him and tie a knot. I want to slow him down in case he gets dumb before I kill him.”

Pat moved toward Myron. Billy Lee kept an eye on Myron.

Myron said, “It's not really a good idea to upset Win.”

“Win doesn't scare me.”

Myron shook his head.

“What?”

“I knew you were strung out,” Myron said. “But I didn't realize how badly.”

Pat started winding the rope around Myron's chest. “Maybe you should call him back,” Pat said. If the San Andreas quaked like his voice, they'd be calling for an evacuation. “We don't need him searching for us too, you know what I'm saying?”

“Don't worry about it,” Billy Lee said.

“And Zorra's still there-”

“Don't worry about it!” Screaming this time. A shrill, awful scream. The shotgun bounced closer to Myron's face. Myron tensed his body, preparing to make a move before the rope was knotted. But Billy Lee jumped back suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that Myron was in the room.

Nobody spoke. Pat tightened the rope and tied it in a knot. Not well done, but it'd serve its stated purpose-i.e., slow him down so that Billy Lee would have plenty of time to blow Myron's head off.

“You trying to kill me, Myron?”

Strange question. “No,” Myron said.

Billy Lee's fist slammed into the lower part of Myron's belly. Myron doubled over, the air gone, his lungs spasming in the pure, naked need for oxygen. He felt tears push into his eyes.

“Don't lie to me, asshole.”

Myron fought for breath.

Billy Lee sniffed, wiped his face with his sleeve. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

Myron tried to respond, but it took too long. Billy Lee hit him hard with the butt of the shotgun, exactly on the Z spot Zorra had sliced into him the night before. The stitches split apart, and blood mushroomed onto Myron's shirt. His head began to swim. Billy Lee giggled some more. Then he raised the butt of the shotgun over his head and started it in an arc toward Myron's head.

“Billy Lee!” Pat shouted.

Myron saw it coming, but there was no escape. He managed to tilt the chair with his toes and roll back. The blow glanced the top of his head, scraping his scalp. The chair teetered over, and Myron's head banged against the wooden floor. His skull tingled.

Oh Christ …

He looked up. Billy Lee was raising the butt of the shotgun again. A straight blow would crush his skull. Myron tried to roll, but he was hopelessly tangled up. Billy Lee smiled down at him. He held the shotgun high above his head, letting the moment drag out, watching Myron struggle the way some people watch an injured ant before stomping it with their foot.

Billy Lee suddenly frowned. He lowered the weapon, studying it for a moment. “Hram,” he said. “Might break my gun that way.”

Myron felt Billy Lee grab his shoulders and lift him and the chair back up. The shotgun was at eye level now.

“Fuck it,” Billy Lee said. “Might as well just shoot your sorry ass, am I right?”

Myron barely heard the giggling now. When a gun is pointed so directly in your face, it has a tendency to block out everything else. The double barrel's opening grows, moves closer, surrounds you until everything you are and see and hear is consumed in its black mouth.

Pat tried again. “Billy Lee…”

Myron felt the sweat under his arms begin to gush. Calm. Keep the tone calm. Don't excite him. “Tell me what's going on, Billy Lee. I want to help.”

Billy Lee snickered, the shotgun still shaking in his hand. “You want to help me?”

“Yes.”

That made him laugh. “Bullshit, Myron. Total bullshit.”

Myron kept still.

“We were never even friends, were we, Myron? I mean, we were frat brothers, and we hung out and stuff. But we were never really friends.”

Myron tried to keep his eyes on Billy Lee's. “This is a heck of a time to go tiptoeing through the past, Billy Lee.”

“I'm trying to make a point here, asshole. You're peddling this crap about wanting to help me. Like we're friends. But that's a load of bullshit. We're not friends. You never really liked me.”

Never really liked me. Like they were third graders during recess. “I still helped pull your ass out of a few fires, Billy Lee.”

The smile. “Not my ass, Myron. Clu's. It was always about Clu, wasn't it? The drunk driving thing when we were living in Massachusetts. You didn't drive up to save my ass. You drove up because of Clu. And that brawl at that bar in the city. That was also because of Clu.”

Billy Lee suddenly tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound. “Why weren't we friends, Myron?”

“Because you didn't invite me to your birthday party at the roller rink?”

“Don't fuck with me, asshole.”

“I liked you just fine, Billy Lee. You were a fun guy.”

“But it got tired after a while, didn't it? My whole act, I mean. While I was a college star, it was pretty cool, right? But when I failed in the pros, I wasn't so cute and funny anymore. I was suddenly pathetic. That sound about right, Myron?”

“You say so.”

“So what about Clu?”

“What about him?”

“You were friends with him.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Clu partied the same way. Maybe even harder. He was always getting his ass in trouble. Why were you his friend?”

“This is stupid, Billy Lee.”

“Is it?”

“Put the gun down already.”

Billy Lee's smile was wide and knowing and somewhere just south of sane. “I'll tell you why you stayed friendly with Clu. Because he was a better baseball player than me. He was going to the bigs. And you knew that. That's the only difference between Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms. He got drunk and took drugs and screwed tons of women, but it was all so funny because he was a pro.”

“So what are you trying to say, Billy Lee?” Myron countered. “That pro athletes are treated differently from the rest of us? Hell of a revelation.”

But the revelation sat uneasily on Myron. Probably because Billy Lee's words, while wholly irrelevant, were at least in part true. Clu was charming and quirky simply because he was a pro athlete. But if the velocity of his fastball had dropped a few miles per hour, if the rotation of his arm had been just a little askew or if his finger position had not allowed for good ball movement on his pitches, Clu would have ended up like Billy Lee. Alternate worlds-totally different lives and fates-are right there, separated by a curtain no thicker than membrane. But with athletes, you can see your alternate life a little too clearly. You have the ability to throw the ball just a little faster than the next guy, you end up a god rather than the most pitiful of mortals. You get the girls, the fame, the big house, the money instead of the rats, the dull anonymity, the crummy apartment, the menial job. You get to go on TV and offer life insights. People want to be near you and hear you speak and touch the hem of your cloak. Just because you can hurl the rawhide with great velocity or put an orange ball in a metallic circle or swing a stick with a slightly more pure arc. You are special.