Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

Nuts when you think about it.

“Did you kill him, Billy Lee?” Myron said.

Billy Lee looked like he'd been slapped. “What?”

“You were jealous of Clu. He had everything. He left you behind.”

“He was my best friend!”

“A long time ago, Billy Lee.”

Myron again debated making a move. He could try to slip the ropes-they were not on very tightly-but it would take time and he was still too far away. He wondered how Win was reacting to being cut off from all this and shuddered. Not worth dwelling upon.

A funny, tranquil flat line crossed Billy Lee's face. He stopped shaking, looked straight at Myron without jerking or twitching. His voice was suddenly soft.

“Enough,” he said.

Silence.

“I have to kill you, Myron. It's self-defense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You killed Clu. And now you want to kill me.”

“That's crazy.”

“Maybe you had your secretary do it. And she got caught. Or maybe Win did it. That guy's always been your lapdog. Or maybe you did it yourself, Myron. The gun was found in your office, right? The blood in your car?”

“Why would I kill Clu?”

“You use people, Myron. You used him to start up your business. But after he failed his last drug test, Clu was finished. So you figured, why not cut your losses?”

“That makes no sense,” Myron said. “And even if it did, why would I want to kill you?”

“Because I can talk too.”

“Talk about what?”

“About how helpful you are.”

Tears started rolling down Billy Lee's face. His voice tailed off. And Myron knew he was in huge trouble.

The moment of calm was over. The barrel of the gun was shaking. Myron tested the ropes. Nope. Despite the heat, something icy flooded his veins. He was trapped. No chance of making a move.

Billy Lee tried to giggle again, but something inside him was too weary now. “Bye.”

Panic squeezed Myron's insides. Billy Lee was only seconds away from killing him. Period. There was no chance of talking him out of it. The combo of drugs and paranoia had scooped out all his ability to reason. Myron accessed his options and liked none of them.

“Win,” Myron said.

“I already told you. I ain't afraid of him.”

“I'm not talking to you.” Myron glanced over at Pat. The bartender was breathing hard, and his shoulders were drooping as though someone had packed them with wet sand. “Once he pulls that trigger,” Myron said to him, “I'm better off than you are.”

Pat started toward Billy Lee. “Let's just calm down a second, Billy Lee. Think this through, okay?”

“I'm going to kill him.”

“Billy Lee, this Win guy. I've heard stories-”

“You don't understand, Pat. You just don't get it.”

“Then tell me, man. I'm here to help.”

“After I kill him.”

Billy Lee stepped toward Myron. He put the barrel of the gun against Myron's temple. Myron went rigid.

“Don't!”

Pat was close enough now. Or at least that was what he thought. He made his move, diving for Billy Lee's legs. But beneath the diminished drug addict lurked some of the athlete's old reflexes. Enough of them anyway. Billy Lee spun and fired. The bullet hit Pat's chest. For the briefest moment Pat looked surprised. Then he went down.

Billy Lee screamed, “Pat!” He dropped onto his knees and crawled toward the still body.

Myron's heart was flapping like a caged condor. He did not wait. He struggled with the ropes. No go. He slid down in a frenzied slither. The rope was tighter than he thought, but he made some headway.

“Pat!” Billy Lee screamed again.

Myron's knees were on the floor now, his body contorted, his spine bow-bending in a way it was never supposed to. Billy Lee was wailing over a too-silent Pat. The rope got caught under Myron's chin, pushing his head back and temporarily strangling him. How long did he have? How long before Billy Lee regained his senses? Impossible to say. Myron tilted his chin even higher, and the rope began to pass over him. He was almost out.

Billy Lee startled and turned around.

Myron was still caught in the rope. The two men locked eyes. It was over. Billy Lee lifted the shotgun. Maybe eight feet separated them. Myron saw the barrel, saw Billy Lee's eyes, saw the distance.

No chance. Too late.

The gun fired.

The first bullet hit Billy Lee's hand. He screamed in pain and dropped the shotgun. The second bullet hit Billy Lee's knee. Another scream. Blood spurted. The third bullet came so fast Billy Lee didn't have time to hit the floor. His head flew back from the impact, his legs splaying in midair. Billy Lee dropped out of sight like something at a shooting gallery.

The room was still

Myron pulled the rope the rest of the way off and rolled into a corner.

“Win?” he shouted.

No answer.

“Win?”

Nothing.

Pat and Billy Lee did not so much as twitch. Myron stood, the only sound his own breath. Blood. Everywhere blood. They had to be dead. Myron pressed back into the corner. Someone was watching him. He knew that now. He crossed the room and looked out a window. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right.

Someone stood in the shadows. A silhouette. Fear engulfed Myron. The silhouette seemed to hover and then vanished into the darkness. Myron spun around and found the doorknob. He threw the door open and began to run.

He vomited three blocks away. He pulled up, leaned against a building, and puked his guts out. Several homeless men stopped and applauded. Myron gave a wave, acknowledging his fans. Welcome to New York.

Myron tried his cell phone, but it'd been crushed in the melee. He found a street sign and saw that he was only ten blocks south of the Biker Wannabee bar, in the meatpacking district near the West Side Highway. He jogged, holding his side, trying to stop the blood flow. He located a working pay phone, a feat that in this section of Manhattan normally involved a burning bush, and dialed Win's cellular.

Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”

“They're dead,” Myron said. “Both of them.”

“Explain.”

Myron did.

When he finished, Win said, “Til be there in three minutes.”

“I have to call the cops.”

“Unwise.”

“Why?”

“They will not believe your tale of woe,” Win said, “especially the part about a mystery savior.”

“Meaning they'll think you killed them?”

“Precisely.”

Win had a point.

“But we'd be able to clear it up,” Myron said.

“Yes perhaps, eventually. But it would take serious time.”

“Time we don't have.”

“Then you understand.”

Myron thought about it. “But witnesses saw me leave the bar with Pat.”

“So?”

“So the police will question people. They'll learn about that. They'll be able to place me at the scene.”

“No more.”

“What?”

“On the phone. No more discussion. I'll be there in three minutes.”

“What about Zorra? What did you do to him?”

But Win was already off the line. Myron hung up the phone. A new set of homeless guys eyed him like he was a dropped sandwich. Myron met their gaze and did not look away until they did. He was not in the mood to be afraid anymore tonight.

A car pulled up in the promised three minutes. A Chevy Nova. Win had a collection of them-all old, all very used, all untraceable. Disposable cars, he called them. Win liked to use them for certain night activities. Don't ask.

The front passenger door opened. Myron glanced inside and saw Win behind the wheel. Myron slid in next to him.

“The die is cast,” Win said.

“What?”

“The police are already at the scene. It was on the scanner.”