Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

“What?” I say.

“Well, not funny, but ironic. Like I said, Hank was really obsessed with the place. Even as a kid.”

He hesitates here. Augie and I say nothing.

“Anyway, Doris used to joke that maybe Hank was right — maybe some secret lab did do weird experiments at the base. Maybe one night, when Hank was a little kid, he walked up that path and the bad guys grabbed him and did something to his brain and that’s why he’s like he is now.”

The room is silent. Tom tries to laugh it off.

“Doris was only joking,” Tom says. “Gallows humor. Something like this happens to your kid, you grasp at any straw, you know?”

Principal Deborah Keren is pregnant.

I know it may not be good form to notice a pregnancy, but she is a tiny woman everywhere except the belly, and she’s dressed in orange, which is a curious choice unless she is intentionally embracing the pumpkin look. She steadies herself on the sides of the chair. It takes a bit of effort for her to rise. I tell her there is no need, but she is already past the halfway point, and it looks like it might take a crane and crew to stop her momentum and safely lower her back into the chair.

“I’m in the eighth month,” Keren says. “I tell you that because everyone is suddenly afraid if you ask, ‘Are you pregnant,’ they’ll be wrong and get in trouble or something.”

“Wait,” I say, “you’re pregnant?”

Keren gives a side smile. “No, I swallowed a bowling ball.”

“I was going to say beach ball.”

“You’re an amusing guy, Nap.”

“This your first kid?”

“It is.”

“That’s wonderful. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” She moves toward me. “You done charming me with small talk?”

“How did I do?”

“So charming that if I wasn’t already pregnant, I would be now. So what can I do for you, Nap?”

We don’t know each other super-well, but we both live in Westbridge and when you’re a local principal and a local cop, you bump into each other at the too-many town gatherings. She starts waddling down the corridor. I walk with her, trying not to subconsciously copy her. The corridors are an empty only a school corridor during classes can be. The place hasn’t changed much since we were here, Leo — hard tile floors, lockers lining both sides, the wall above them painted a Ticonderoga-pencil yellow. The biggest change, which isn’t a change, is perspective. They say that schools seem smaller as you age. That’s true. I think maybe it’s that perspective that keeps the old ghosts at bay.

“It’s about Hank Stroud,” I say to her.

“Interesting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the parents complain about him all the time.”

I nod.

“But I haven’t seen him in weeks. I think that viral video scared him off.”

“You know about the video?”

“I try to know what’s going on in my school” — she peeks through a small rectangular window into a classroom, moves to the next door, peeks in again — “but I mean, come on, half the country knows about that.”

“Have you ever seen Hank expose himself?”

“If I had, don’t you think I would have called you guys?”

“So that’s a no.”

“That’s a no.”

“Do you think he did it?” I ask.

“Exposed himself?”

“Yes.”

We keep walking. She checks out another classroom. Someone in the room must catch her eye, because she waves. “I’m of two minds on Hank.” A student turns the corner, sees us, stops in her tracks. Principal Keren says, “Where are you going, Cathy?”

Cathy looks everywhere but at us. “To see you.”

“Okay. Wait in my office. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Cathy does that scared-servant shuffle past us. I look at Keren, but it’s not my business. She’s already back on the move.

“You are of two minds on Hank,” I say to prompt us back on subject.

“Those are public grounds out there,” she says. “Open to the public. That’s the law. Hank’s got as much right to be on them as anyone. We have joggers run past there every day too. Kimmy Konisberg jogs by. You’ve noticed her, right?”

Kimmy Konisberg is, for lack of more adequate terminology, the town MILF. She has it, and boy does she flaunt it. “Who?”

“Right. So every morning, Kimmy jogs by in the tightest and yet least supportive Lycra imaginable. If I was a certain type of person, I would say she wants these adolescent boys to stare.”

“Would that type of person be truthful?”

“Touché. And this town is such a hypocritical protective bubble as it is. And I get that. I get that’s why people move out here to raise their families. To keep them safe. Heck” — she rests her hand on her belly — “I want my kids safe too. But it can become too sheltered. That’s not healthy. I grew up in Brooklyn. I’m not going to tell you how rough I had it. We walked past six Hanks every day. So maybe our kids can learn compassion. Hank is a human being, not something to be scorned. A few months back, the kids found out Hank went to school here. So one of the kids — do you know Cory Mistysyn?”

“I know the family. Good people.”

“Right, been in town a long time. Anyway, Cory dug up an old middle-school yearbook from Hank’s last year.” She stops and turns to me. “You and Hank were here at the same time, right?”

“Right.”

“So you know. The kids were shocked. Hank used to be just like them — in chorus, won the science fair, was even treasurer of the class. It got the kids thinking.”

“There but for the grace of God.”

“Exactly.” She takes two more steps. “God, I’m hungry all the time, and then when I eat, I feel sick. This eighth month just sucks. I’m hating all men right now, by the way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Then I say, “You said two minds.”

“Pardon?”

“With Hank. You said you’re of two minds. So what’s Mind Two?”

“Oh.” She starts up again, her belly leading the way. “Look, I hate the stigma attached to mental illness — that goes without saying — but I don’t like Hank hanging around here either. I don’t think he’s a danger, but I don’t know that he’s not, either. I worry I’ll be so politically correct about it that I’m not protecting my students. Do you know what I mean?”

I let her know that I do.

“So I don’t like Hank standing out there. But so what? I don’t like that Mike Inga’s mom always illegally drops him off in the no-drop-off zone. I don’t like that Lisa Vance’s dad clearly helps her with her art projects. I don’t like that Andrew McDade’s parents storm in whenever the report cards arrive to grade-grub for their kid. I don’t like a lot of things.” She stops and puts a hand on my arm. “But do you know what I don’t like most?”

I look at her.

“Online shaming. It’s the worst sort of vigilante justice. Hank is just the most recent example.

“Last year, someone tweets a picture of a kid with a caption saying, ‘This punk stole my iPhone but forgot all the pics he takes are on my cloud, please retweet to find him.’ The purported ‘punk’ was Evan Ober, a student here. You know him?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“No reason it should. Evan’s a good kid.”

“Did he steal the iPhone?”

“No, of course not. That’s my point. He started dating Carrie Mills. Carrie’s ex Danny Turner was furious about it.”

“So Turner posted that pic.”

“Yep, but I can’t prove it. That’s the shit-bird anonymity of online shaming. Did you see that girl who just walked past us?”

“The one you sent to your office?”