Harlan Coben - One False Move

«Arthur was very concerned about Brenda’s disappearance.»

«I bet.»

«He wants you to call him immediately.»

«Well, we don’t always get what we want,» Myron said. He glanced back at the two detectives. «Okay, I got to clear out of here.»

«You have a thought?»

«The detective from Livingston. A guy named Wick-ner. He almost cracked at the Little League field.»

«And you think perhaps he’ll crack this time?»

Myron nodded. «He’ll crack.»

«Would you like me to come along?»

«No, I’ll handle it. I need you to stay here. McLaughlin and Tiles can’t legally hold me, but they might try. Stall them for me.»

Win almost smiled. «No problem.»

«See also if you can find the guy who answered the phone at the practice. Whoever called Brenda might have identified themselves. Maybe one of her teammates or coaches saw something.»

«I’ll look into it.» Win handed Myron the ripped hundred and his car keys. He motioned toward his cell phone. «Keep the line open.»

Myron did not bother with good-byes. He suddenly bounded out of the room. He heard Tiles call after him. «Stop! Son of a-» Tiles started running after him. Win stepped in front of him, blocking his path. «What the f-» Tiles never finished the expletive. Myron continued to run. Win closed the door. Tiles would not get out.

Once out on the street, Myron tossed the bill to the waiting cop and hopped into the Jag. Eli Wickner’s lake house was listed in directory assistance. Myron dialed the number. Wickner answered on the first ring.

«Brenda Slaughter is missing,» Myron told him.

Silence.

«We need to talk, Eli.»

«Yes,» the retired detective said. «I think we do.»

The ride took an hour. Night had firmly set in by now, and the lake area seemed extra dark, the way lake areas often do. There were no streetlights. Myron slowed the car. Old Lake Drive was narrow and only partially paved. At the end of the road his headlights crossed a wooden sign shaped like a fish. The sign said the wickners. Wickners. Myron remembered Mrs. Wickner. She had overseen the food stand at the Little League field. Her semiblonde hair had been overtreated to the point where it resembled hay, her laugh a constant, deep throttle. Lung cancer had claimed her ten years ago. Eli Wickner had retired to this cabin alone.

Myron pulled into the driveway. His tires chewed the gravel. Lights came on, probably by motion detector. Myron stopped the car and stepped into the still night. The cabin was what was often called saltbox. Nice. And right on the water. There were boats in the dock. Myron listened for the sound of the lapping water, but there was none. The lake was incredibly calm, as if someone had put a glass top on it for night protection. Scattered lights shone off the glacial surface, still and without deviation. The moon dangled like a loose earring. Bats stood along a tree branch like the Queen’s Guards in miniature.

Myron hurried to the front door. Lamps were on inside, but Myron saw no movement. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Then he felt the shotgun barrel against the back of his skull.

«Don’t turn around,» Eli said.

Myron didn’t.

«You armed?»

«Yes.»

«Assume the position. And don’t make me shoot you, Myron. You’ve always been a good kid.»

«There’s no need for the gun, Eli.» It was a dumb thing to say, of course, but he had not said it for Wickner’s benefit. Win was listening in on the other end. Myron did some quick calculating. It had taken him an hour to get here. It would take Win maybe half that.

He needed to stall.

As Wickner patted him down, Myron smelled alcohol. Not a good sign. He debated making a move, but this was an experienced cop, and he was, per Wickner’s request, in the position. Hard to do much from there.

Wickner found Myron’s gun immediately. He emptied the bullets onto the ground and pocketed the gun.

«Open the door,» Wickner said.

Myron turned the knob. Wickner gave him a little nudge. Myron stepped inside. And his heart dropped to his knees. Fear constricted his throat, making it very hard to breathe. The room was decorated as one might expect a fishing cabin to be decorated: taxidermy catches above a fireplace, wood-paneled walls, a wet bar, cozy chairs, firewood piled high, a worn semishag carpet of beige. What wasn’t expected, of course, were the dark red boot prints slashing a path through the beige.

Blood. Fresh blood that filled the room with a smell like wet rust.

Myron turned to look at Eli Wickner. Wickner kept his distance. The shotgun was leveled at Myron’s chest. Easiest target. Wickner’s eyes were open a bit too wide and even more red-rimmed than at the Little League field. His skin was like parchment paper. Spider veins had nestled into his right cheek. There may have been spider veins on his left cheek too, but it was hard to tell with the spray of blood on it.

«You?»

Wickner remained silent.

«What’s going on, Eli?»

«Walk into the back room,» Wickner said.

«You don’t want to do this.»

«I know that, Myron. Now just turn around and start walking.»

Myron followed the bloody prints as though they’d been painted there for this reason – a macabre Freedom Trail or something. The wall was lined with Little League team photographs, the early ones dating back some thirty-odd years. In each picture Wickner stood proudly with his young charges, smiling into the powerful sun on a clear day. A sign held by two boys in the front row read friendly’s ice cream senators

Or BURRELLES PRESS CLIPPING TIGERS Or SEY-

mour’s luncheonette Indians. Always sponsors. The children squinted and shifted and smiled toothlessly. But they all basically looked the same. Over the past thirty years the kids had changed shockingly little. But Eli had aged, of course. Year by year the photographs on the wall checked off his life. The effect was more than a little eerie.

They headed into the back room. An office of some kind. There were more photos on the wall. Wickner receiving Livingston ’s Big L Award. The ribbon cutting when the backstop was named after him. Wickner in his police uniform with ex-Governor Brendan Byrne. Wickner winning the Raymond J. Clarke Policeman of the Year award. A smattering of plaques and trophies and mounted baseballs. A framed document entitled «What Coach Means to Me» given to him by one of his teams. And more blood.

Cold fear wrapped around Myron and drew tight.

In the corner, lying on his back, his arms extended as though readying himself for crucifixion, was Chief of Detectives Roy Pomeranz. His shirt looked like someone had squeezed out a bucket of syrup over it. His dead eyes were frozen open and sucked dry.

«You killed your own partner,» Myron said. Again for Win. In case he arrived too late. For posterity or to incriminate or some such nonsense.

«Not more than ten minutes ago,» Wickner said.

«Why?»

«Sit down, Myron. Right there, if you don’t mind.»

Myron sat in an oversize chair with wooden slats.

Keeping the gun at chest level, Wickner moved to the other side of a desk. He opened a drawer, dropped Myron’s gun in it, then tossed Myron a set of handcuffs. «Cuff yourself to the side arm. I don’t want to have to concentrate so hard on watching you.»

Myron looked at his surroundings. It was pretty much now or never. Once the cuffs were in place, there would not be another chance. He looked for a way. Nothing. Wickner was too far away, and a desk separated them. Myron spotted a letter opener on the desk. Oh, right, like maybe he would just reach out and throw it like some martial arts death star and hit the jugular. Bruce Lee would be so proud.