Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

Eventually Sondra gave him a key card.

“They gave me two when I came in,” Sondra quickly explained. “One for the living room, one for the bedroom, you know what I mean?”

Wilde, still nursing his second blonde lager, assured her that he did.

“Anyway, I can’t sleep yet with the time change. I’m going to do some work in the living room, if you want to come up later and have a nightcap.”

Nightcap. Mixer. Co-ed. It was like he was living in 1963.

He thanked Sondra but promised nothing. She headed to the elevator. He stared at the key card so as not to stare at her. A drink, she’d said. In the living room — not the bedroom. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe it was nothing more than that.

Then a tall man with a ponytail asked, “Are you going to go up?”

The tall man grabbed the stool right next to him, despite the fact that there had to be twenty open ones.

“She’s very attractive,” the tall man said. “I like redheads, don’t you?”

Wilde said nothing.

The tall man stuck out his hand. “My name is Saul,” he said.

“Strauss,” Wilde added.

“You know who I am?”

Wilde didn’t reply.

“Well, I’m flattered.”

Wilde had seen Strauss on Hester’s show every once in a while. He was a good talking head — an endearing mix of that super-progressive college professor with the cred of being a bona fide war hero. Wilde was not a fan of pundits. They came on television to either confirm your narrative or piss you off, and either way, that wasn’t healthy for anyone.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Strauss said.

“But you know it.”

“Does anyone?” He gave Wilde an inquisitive look that must wow the college — to use Hester’s vernacular — co-eds. “They call you Wilde, right? You’re the infamous boy from the woods.”

Wilde pulled out the necessary bills from his wallet and dropped them on the bar. “It was nice meeting you,” he said, rising.

Strauss was unruffled. “So you’re going up to her room?”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t mean to pry.”

“Hey, Saul — can I call you Saul?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t we skip the rest of the foreplay and get to it?”

“Is that your plan when you go upstairs?” Strauss quickly raised a palm. “Sorry, that was going too far.”

Wilde started to walk away.

Strauss said, “I hear you had a run-in with the Maynard kid today.”

Wilde turned back to him.

“You asked me to skip the foreplay, right?” Strauss said.

“Heard from whom?”

“I have my sources.”

“And they are?”

“Anonymous.”

“Bye then.”

Strauss put his hand on Wilde’s forearm. His grip was surprisingly strong. “It could be important.”

Wilde hesitated, but then he sat back down. He was curious. Strauss was a partisan — who wasn’t nowadays? — but he’d also hit Wilde as something of a straight shooter. Instinctively, Wilde had thought that the best move was to simply blow the man off, but with a little more time to reason, he started to wonder what he had to lose by listening here.

Not a thing.

Wilde said, “I’m looking for a teenage girl who probably ran away.”

“Naomi Pine.”

Wilde shouldn’t have been surprised. “Your sources are good.”

“You’re not the only one here who is ex-military. What does Crash Maynard have to do with Naomi Pine?”

Strauss was all business now.

“Maybe nothing.”

“But?”

“She’s an outcast. He’s Mr. Popular. Yet there’s been some interaction.”

“Could you be more specific?” Strauss asked.

“Why don’t you ask your ‘source’?”

“Do you know anything about the Maynards’ relationship with Rusty Eggers?”

“I know that Maynard was his producer.”

“Dash Maynard created Eggers.”

“Okay.”

Strauss leaned in closer. “Do you realize how dangerous Eggers is?”

Wilde saw no reason to answer that one.

“Do you?” Strauss insisted.

“Let’s say I do.”

“And you’ve heard about the Maynard tapes?”

“I don’t see the connection,” Wilde said.

“There may not be one. Wilde, can I ask you a favor? Not a favor really. You’re a patriot. You want those tapes released, I’m sure.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you want the truth. I know you want justice.”

“And I don’t know that you bring either of those things.”

“Truth is an absolute. Or it used to be. The Maynard tapes should be released because the people should know the truth about Rusty Eggers. Who can argue with that? If the people see the truth — the full truth — and still want to hand the keys to the country to this nihilist, okay, that’s one thing.”

“Saul?”

“Yes.”

“Get to the point.”

“Just keep me informed — and I’ll keep you informed. It’s your best bet for finding that girl. You served admirably because you love this country. But Eggers is a threat like none this country has faced before. He’s hoodwinking this nation with his charisma, but his supposed ‘manifesto’ is really a call for anarchy. It’ll lead to food shortages, worldwide panic, constitutional crises, and even war.” Saul slid a little closer and lowered his voice. “Suppose the Maynard tapes show the real Rusty Eggers. Suppose they open people’s eyes to the grave dangers right in front of them. This is bigger than any mission we undertook overseas, Wilde. You have to believe me on that.”

He handed Wilde a card with his mobile phone and email. Then he slapped him on the back and walked past the reception desk toward the door.

Wilde pocketed Saul Strauss’s business card and stood.

He meandered toward the lobby bathroom, urinated for a fairly long time, then — to quote-paraphrase Springsteen — he checked his look in the mirror and wanted to change his clothes, his hair, his face. He splashed water on his cheeks and tidied himself up as best he could. He walked to the glass elevator and pressed the up button. Nicole the bartender caught his eye and gave a small nod. He didn’t know how to read it or if it meant anything at all, so he gave her a small nod back.

To get to the top floor you needed to slide a key card into the slot. He did that with the card Sondra had given him. He rode up, leaning against the glass, looking down as the lobby grew smaller and smaller. Faces swirled through his mind’s eye — Matthew, Naomi, Crash, Gavin, Saul, Hester, Ava, Laila. Laila.

Shit.

He got out and headed down the corridor. He stopped in front of the door with the brass sign reading PRESIDENTIAL SUITE in fancy script. He looked at his key card. He looked at the door. Sondra was beautiful. You could criticize this type of relationship or label it or consider it empty or whatever other judgment card you feel like pulling out, but it was all a matter of perspective. He and Sondra could link up and have something special. Just because it didn’t last did not make it less so. Cliché, sure, but everything dies. A beautiful rose lives but a short time. Certain termites can survive for sixty years.

A Bon Jovi song came to mind. Man, first Bruce now Jon. How New Jersey could he be?

“Want to make a memory?”

Wilde took one more look at the door, thought of Sondra and that long red hair fanned across his chest. Then he shook his head. Not tonight. He would head back down to the lobby and call her from the house phone. He didn’t want her waiting up for him.

That was when the door opened.

“How long have you been standing here?” Sondra asked.

“Minute or two.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Probably shouldn’t.”

“Talk?”