Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

They all took a step closer. Wilde stared straight ahead, at the leader, but using his peripheral vision, he could see Thor sidle a little closer, hunching down like he was some sort of invisible ninja. Wilde didn’t shift his eyes.

Gray Hair said, “We would be within our rights to meet your threat with physical force.”

So they were there now, all of them, standing on the same narrow precipice off which so many men over the entire course of human history had slipped and then plunged into bloody violence. Wilde still didn’t believe that they would go there, that they would risk a big incident which might make the news or social media and awaken whatever controversy had finally quieted down. But you never know. That was the thing with the precipice. It was slippery. The best-laid plans do indeed go awry.

Man may be evil or good, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that man rarely considered the consequences of his actions.

In short, man was often just plain stupid.

That was when it all changed.

At first, the change was noticed only by Wilde. For scant seconds, the knowledge was his and his alone. Two seconds, maybe three, no more. Then, he knew, this advantage — and the change would be, he hoped, an advantage — would be null and void.

Wilde felt what he had come to know as The Disturbance.

There were those who called it an omen or a harbinger or a premonition, something that gave his already heightened capabilities a supernatural undertone. But that wasn’t it. Not really. Over the millenniums, man has adapted both for better and worse. A recent example: Navigation GPS. Studies show that parts of our brain — the hippocampus (the region used for navigation) and the prefrontal cortex (associated with planning) are already changing, perhaps even atrophying, because we now rely on GPS navigation. That’s happened in a few years. But take the whole spectrum of mankind’s history, how we sat in caves and forests, sleeping figuratively with one eye open, no protection, our primitive survival instinct in overdrive, and then think of how that has softened and eroded over the years with the advent of homes and locked doors and civilization’s give and take. But Wilde didn’t have that. From the time he could remember, Wilde grew up with those primitive impulses awakened. He understood before he could articulate it that a predator could attack at any time. He learned to sense it, to be attuned to any sort of Disturbance.

You still see this in nature, of course, in animals with supersensitive hearing or smell or sight, who flee before the danger gets too close. Wilde had this ability too.

So he’d heard the sound. No one else had. Yet.

It was just a rustling. That was all. But someone was running toward them. More than one probably. Someone was in danger and sprinting fast. Someone else was giving chase.

Without so much as glancing away from Gray Hair, Wilde glided a little closer to Thor. He wanted to be as close to the armed man as possible.

A second later, no more, Wilde heard the scream: “Help!”

Matthew.

This was where Wilde had to fight off his instincts and let his training take over. Instinct told him to run toward his godson’s cry. That would be the natural reaction. But Wilde had braced for this moment. The scream, coming from behind Gray Hair and up the hill toward the house, made all heads turn. That, too, was natural and expected. If you hadn’t known that the scream was a possibility, you couldn’t help but react.

Thor looked in the direction of Matthew’s scream too.

And away from Wilde.

That was all the opening Wilde needed. The rest took a second, no more. Spinning with his left elbow at the ready, Wilde struck Thor in the side of his head. At the same time, before Thor could stumble back, Wilde’s right hand dove into the opening of the jacket. His fingers found the butt of the gun in the holster under Thor’s arm.

By the time Matthew yelled “Help!” for a second time, Thor was on the ground, and Wilde had the gun up and aimed, moving the muzzle between Gray Hair and the other two men.

Wilde said, “Breathe wrong and I’ll shoot you dead.”

From the ground, Thor groaned and lunged toward him. Wilde kicked him in the head. The slapping of feet on driveway drew closer. For a second, they all waited. Matthew turned the corner, sprinting seemingly for his life, two other boys not far behind him.

Matthew pulled up, a look of confusion crossing his face. The two other boys did the same.

“Go through the gate,” Wilde told Matthew. “Get in the car.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

One of the boys said, “We were just playing, is all. Tell him, Matthew. Tell him we were just playing.”

Keeping his hands in the air, Gray Hair slid in front of the boy speaking. “Stay behind me, Crash.”

“It’s just a game,” Crash said.

“A game,” Wilde repeated.

“Yeah, it’s called Midnight Skull.” He pointed to the smile-skull ring on his hand. “It’s like night tag. Tell him, Matthew.”

Matthew didn’t move. His eyes were glassy with near tears. In the distance, Wilde heard a car engine start. Reinforcements.

“Matthew, car now!”

Matthew snapped out of it and hurried toward the gate. Walking backward so as to keep the gun aimed at them, Wilde did the same. He kept his eyes on Gray Hair. He was the leader. The others wouldn’t make a move without him. Gray Hair nodded as if to say, It’s okay, get out of here, we won’t stop you .

Ten seconds later, Wilde sped away with Matthew in the seat next to him.

Hester was back in her limo when she saw the calls coming in.

She’d expected that. You can’t just drop a bomb like this one about a missing girl and not expect something to explode. It was, in fact, her hope — that someone would come forward or act or make a mistake or do something so that they’d know what really happened. Right now, when you added all the pros and cons, the options and possibilities, Hester figured that the girl had run off and was perhaps contemplating suicide. Not to be too cold and analytical, but if the awful task were already completed, well, there was nothing anyone could do. But if Naomi had taken pills, for example, or slit her wrists, or maybe she was just off someplace, standing on the edge of a high-rise or bridge, then this was the best chance to save her.

Then again — because you have to see every side — maybe Hester’s pushing would do the opposite. Maybe it would make the girl panic and act or, if she were being held, maybe it would make the kidnappers react with violence. Hester understood the risks. But she was not a woman who took stock in inaction.

The first call she took had a caller ID that read CHIEF WESTVILLE POLICE. That would be Oren, she thought.

“That was fast,” Hester said.

“Huh?”

“I mean, I’m flattered, Oren, but next time, wait a few days. It makes you look a little desperate.”

“Uh, I am a little desperate. What the hell was that report, Hester?”

“You saw it? Thanks for being a fan.”

“Do I sound like I’m in the mood?”

“Something isn’t right with Naomi’s disappearance,” Hester said.

“Then you should come to me.”

“I did, remember?”

“I do. So what changed?”

“Her father said Naomi was with the mother. The mother said she’s not with her. Her teacher—”

“Wait, you talked to her teacher.”

“Art teacher or guidance counselor or something, I don’t remember. Ava something.”

“When did you have time to talk to her?”

This part would not go so smoothly. “I didn’t. Wilde did.”

Silence.

“Oren?”

“Wilde? You got Wilde involved in this?”