Harlan Coben: Don’t Let Go

Pull the guy over, arrest him, move on.

They both stumbled out the door and into the lot.

“This way,” Miller said. “I parked over here.”

The lot’s surface was made up of loose pebbles. Miller kicked them up as he led her to a gray Toyota Corolla. He hit the key fob. The car gave a muted double honk. When Miller headed toward the passenger door, Daisy was confused. Did he want her to drive? God, she hoped not. Was he more wasted than she thought? That seemed more likely. But she quickly realized it was neither of those things.

Dale Miller was opening the door for her. Like a real gentleman. That was how long it had been since Daisy had known a real gentleman. She hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

He held the door. Daisy slid into the car. Dale Miller waited until she was all the way in and properly situated before he carefully closed the door behind her.

She felt a pang of guilt.

Rex had pointed out many times that they weren’t doing anything illegal or even ethically dubious. For one thing, the plan didn’t always work. Some guys don’t hang out in bars. “If that’s the case,” Rex had told her, “then he’s in the clear. Our guy is already out drinking, right? You’re just giving him a little push, that’s all. But he doesn’t have to drink and drive. That’s his choice in the end. You’re not putting a gun to his head.”

Daisy put on her seat belt. Dale Miller did the same. He started the car and put it in reverse. The tires crunched the pebbles. When he was clear of the spot, Miller stopped the car and looked at Daisy for a long moment. She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t hold.

“What are you hiding, Daisy?” he asked.

She felt a chill but didn’t reply.

“Something happened to you. I can see it in your face.”

Not sure what else to do, Daisy tried to laugh it off. “I told you my life story in that bar, Dale.”

Miller waited another second, maybe two, though it felt to her like an hour. Finally, he looked forward and put the car in drive. He didn’t say another word as they made their way out of the parking lot.

“Take a left,” Daisy said, hearing the tension in her own voice. “And then it’s the second right.”

Dale Miller was silent then, making the turns deliberately, the way you do when you’ve had too much to drink but don’t want to get pulled over. The Toyota Corolla was clean and impersonal and smelled a little too strongly of deodorizer. When Miller took the second right, Daisy held her breath and waited for Rex’s blue lights and siren to come on.

This was always the scary part for Daisy, because she never knew how someone was going to react. One guy tried to make a run for it, though he realized the futility before he reached the next corner. Some guys started cursing. Some guys — too many of them — started sobbing. That was the worst. Grown men, coolly hitting on her moments earlier, some still with their hand sliding up her dress, suddenly starting to blubber like preschoolers.

They realized the severity in an instant. That realization crushed them.

Daisy didn’t know what to expect with Dale Miller.

Rex had the timing down to a science, and as though on cue, the spinning blue light came to life, followed immediately by the squad-car siren. Daisy pivoted and studied Dale Miller’s face to gauge his reaction. If Miller was distraught or surprised, neither emotion was showing on his face. He was composed, determined, even. He used his blinker to signal before carefully veering to a proper stop by the curb as Rex pulled up behind him.

The siren was off now, the blue light still circling.

Dale Miller put the car in park and turned to her. She wasn’t sure what expression to go with here. Surprise? Sympathy? A “What can you do?” sigh?

“Well, well,” Miller said. “It looks like the past has caught up with us, eh?”

His words, his tone, his expression unnerved her. She wanted to yell for Rex to hurry, but he was taking his time the way a cop does. Dale Miller kept his eyes on her, even after Rex did a knuckle knock on his window. Miller slowly turned away and slid open the window.

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

“License and registration, please.”

Dale Miller handed them over.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Mr. Miller?”

“Maybe one,” he said.

With that answer, at least, he was the same as every other mark. They always lied.

“Do you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?”

Miller turned back toward Daisy. Daisy tried not to cringe under his gaze. She stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

Rex said, “Sir? I asked you—”

“Of course, Officer.”

Dale Miller pulled the handle. When the interior car light came on, Daisy closed her eyes for a moment. Miller rolled out with a grunt. He left the door open, but Rex reached past him and slammed it closed. The window was still cracked, so Daisy could hear.

“Sir, I would like to run a series of field sobriety tests on you.”

“We could skip that,” Dale Miller said.

“Pardon me?”

“Why don’t we go right to the Breathalyzer, if that would be easier?”

That offer surprised Rex. He glanced past Miller for a moment and caught her eye. Daisy gave a small shrug.

“I assume you have a field Breathalyzer in your squad car?” Miller asked.

“I do, yes.”

“So let’s not waste your time or mine or the lovely lady’s.”

Rex hesitated. Then he said, “Okay, please wait here.”

“Sure.”

When Rex turned to go back to his squad car, Dale Miller pulled out a gun and shot Rex twice in the back of the head. Rex crumpled to the ground.

Then Dale Miller turned the gun toward Daisy.

They’re back, she thought.

After all these years, they found me.

I hide the baseball bat behind my leg, so Trey — at least, I assume it is Trey — won’t see.

The Maybe-Trey bebops toward me with the fake tan and the emo fringe do and the meaningless tribal tattoos lassoing bloated biceps. Ellie has described Trey as a “purebred twat waffle.” This guy fits the bill.

Still, I have to be sure.

Over the years, I have developed a really cool deductive technique to tell if I have the right guy. Watch and learn:

“Trey?”

The choadwank stops, gives me his best Cro-Magnon forehead furrow, and says, “Who wants to know?”

“Am I supposed to say, ‘I do’?”

“Huh?”

I sigh. See what kind of morons I have to deal with, Leo?

“You replied, ‘Who wants to know?’” I continue. “Like you’re being cagey. Like if I called out, ‘Mike?’ you wouldn’t have said, ‘You got the wrong guy, pal.’ By answering ‘Who wants to know?’ you’ve already told me you’re Trey.”

You should see the perplexed look on this guy’s face.

I take a step closer, keeping the bat out of sight.

Trey is all faux gangsta, but I feel the fear coming off him in hot waves now. Not surprising. I am a respectable-sized guy, not a five-foot woman he could slap around to feel big.

“What do you want?” Trey asks me.

Another step closer.

“To talk.”

“What about?”

I swing one-handed because that’s fastest. The bat lands whiplike on Trey’s knee. He screams, but he doesn’t fall. Now I grip the bat with both hands. Remember how Coach Jauss taught us to hit in Little League, Leo? Bat back, elbow up. That was his mantra. How old were we? Nine, ten? Doesn’t matter. I do just what Coach taught us. I pull the bat all the way back, elbow up, and step into my swing.

The meat of the wood lands flush on the same knee.

Trey goes down like I shot him. “Please...”