Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

Win of course would say thai Myron was limiting the analogy. He would point out that there were other options. You could simply leave the room. You could let your eyes get accustomed to the dark, and while you would never see everything clearly, that was okay. You could even flick the switch back off once you turned it on. In the case of Horace and Brenda Slaughter, Win would be right. In the case of Clu Haid, Myron was not so sure.

He had found the light switch. He had flicked it on. But the analogy did not hold-and not just because it was a dumb one from the start. Everything in the room was still murky, as though he were looking through a shower curtain. He could see lights and shadows. He could make out shapes. But to know exactly what had happened, he would have to push aside the curtain.

He could still back off, let the curtain rest or even flick the light back off. But that was the problem with darkness and Win's options. In the dark you cannot see the rot fester. The rot is free to continue to eat away, undisturbed, until it consumes everything, even the man huddled in the corner, trying like hell to stay away from that damned light switch.

So Myron got in his car. He drove back out to the farmhouse on Claremont Road. He knocked on the door, and again Barbara Cromwell told him to go away. “I know why Clu Haid came here,” he told her. He kept talking. And eventually she let him in.

When he left, Myron called Win again. They talked a long time. First about Clu Haid's murder. Then about Myron's dad. It helped. But not a lot. He called Terese and told her what he knew. She said that she'd tried to check some of the facts with her sources.

“So Win was right,” Terese said. “You are personally connected.”

“Yes.”

“I blame myself every day,” Terese said. “You get used to it.”

Again he wanted to ask more. Again he knew that it wasn't time.

Myron made two more calls on the cell phone. The first was to the law office of Hester Crimstein.

“Where are you?” Hester snapped.

“I assume you're in contact with Bonnie Haid,” he said.

Pause. Then: “Oh Christ, Myron, what did you do?”

“They aren't telling you everything, Hester. In fact, I bet Esperanza barely told you anything.”

“Where are you, dammit?”

“I'll be in your office in three hours. Have Bonnie there.”

His final call was to Sophie Mayor. When she answered, he said three words: “I found Lucy.”

Myron tried to drive like Win, but that was beyond his capabilities. He sped, but he still hit construction on Route 95. You always hit construction on Route 95. It was a Connecticut state law. He listened to the radio. He made phone calls. He felt frightened.

Hester Crimstein was a senior partner in a high-rise, higher-bill, mega New York law firm. The attractive receptionist had clearly been expecting him. She led him down a hallway lined with what looked like mahogany wallpaper and into a conference room. There was a rectangular table big enough to seat twenty, pens and legal pads in front of each chair, billable no doubt to some unsuspecting client at wildly inflated prices. Hester Crimstein sat next to Bonnie Haid, their backs to the window. They started to rise when he entered.

“Don't bother,” he said.

Both women stopped.

“What's this all about?” Hester asked.

Myron ignored her and looked at Bonnie. “You almost told me, didn't you, Bonnie? When I first came back. You said you wondered if we did Clu a disservice by helping him. You wondered if our sheltering him and protecting him had eventually led to his death. I said you were wrong. The only person to blame is the person who shot him. But I didn't know everything, did I?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hester said.

“I want to tell you a story,” he said.

“What?”

“Just listen, Hester. Y(ou might find out what you've gotten yourself involved in.”

Hester closed her mouth. Bonnie kept silent.

“Twelve years ago,” Myron said, “Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms were minor-league players for a team called the New England Bisons. They were both young and reckless in the way athletes tend to be. The world was their oyster, they thought they were the cat's pajamas, you know the fairy tale. I won't insult you by going into details.”

Both women slid back into their seats. Myron sat across from them and continued.

“One day Clu Haid drove drunk-well, he probably drove drunk more than once, but on this occasion he wrapped his car around a tree. Bonnie”-he gestured to her with his chin-“was injured in the accident. She suffered a bad concussion and spent several days in the hospital. Clu was unhurt. Billy Lee broke a finger. When∗ it happened, Clu panicked. A drunk driving charge could ruin a young athlete, even as little as twelve years ago. I had just signed him to several profitable endorsement deals. He was going to move up to the majors in a matter of months. So he did what a lot of athletes did. He found someone who'd get him out of trouble. His agent. Me. I drove up to the scene like a madman. I met with the arresting officer, a guy named Eddie Kobler, andthe town sheriff, Ron Lemmon.”

Hester Crimstein said, “I don't understand any of this.”

“Give me time, you will,” Myron said. “The officers and I came to an understanding. It happens all the time with big-time athletes. Matters like this are swept under the rug. Clu was a good kid, we all agreed. No reason to destroy his life over this little incident. It was a somewhat victimless crime-the only person hurt was Clu's own wife. So money changed hands, and an agreement was reached. Clu wasn't drunk. He swerved to avoid another car. That's what caused the accident. Billy Lee Palms and Bonnie would swear to it. Incident over and forgotten.”

Hester wore her annoyed-but-curious scowl. Bonnie's face was losing color fast.

“It's twelve years later now,” Myron said. “And the incident is almost like one of those mummy curses. The drunk driver, Clu, is murdered. His best friend and passenger, Billy Lee Palms, is shot to death-I won't call that murder because the shooter saved my life. The sheriff I bought off-he died of prostate cancer. Nothing too strange about that or perhaps God got to him before the mummy. And as for Eddie Kobler, the other officer, he was caught last year taking bribes in a big drug string. He was arrested and plea-bargained down. His wife left him. His kids won't talk to him. He lives alone in a bottle in Wyoming.”

“How do you know about this Kobler guy?” Hester Crimstein asked.

“A local cop named Hobert told me what happened. A reporter friend confirmed it.”

“I still don't see the relevance,” Hester said.

“That's because Esperanza kept you in the dark,” Myron said. “I was wondering how much she told you. Apparently not much. Probably just insisted that I be kept totally out of this, right?”

Hester gave him the courtroom eyes. “Are you saying Esperanza has something to do with all this?”

“No.”

“You're the one who committed a crime here, Myron. You bribed two police officers.”

“And there's the rub,” Myron said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Even that night something struck me as odd about the whole incident. The three of them in the car together. Why? Bonnie didn't much care for Billy Lee Palms. Sure, she'd go out with Clu and Clu would go out with Billy Lee and maybe they'd even double-date or something. But why were the three of them in that car so late at night?”

Hester Crimstein stayed the lawyer. “Are you saying one of them wasn't in the car?”

“No. I'm saying that there were four people in the car, not three.”