Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

Silence. A silence so deep, so pure, that it pushed against the windows of the car. A silence that smothered you, that didn’t let you take a breath. A silence that felt like a scream.

“Saul?”

“Yes?”

“Two hundred yards on your right. There’s a spot to pull over. I’ll get out there.”

Wilde needed the time in the forest.

It wouldn’t be long. He had to get back to the Maynards. But that rain-gray visit to Sing Sing and the night-black story of how Raymond’s spine snapped made Wilde feel that walls both literal and figurative were starting to close in on him. He didn’t know whether he suffered from some form of claustrophobia — he doubted it was severe enough to be labeled a disorder — but Wilde knew that he needed the woods. When he was away from these trees for too long, he felt as though he was suffocating, as though his lungs were ready to completely shut down.

“Imagine being in a place like this every day, screaming out the truth every way you know how, but no one ever hears you...”

Wilde closed his eyes and gulped down deep breaths.

By the time he reached Maynard Manor, he felt stronger, more himself. Hester’s Escalade was parked by the gate. Tim, her driver, opened the rear door, and Hester got out.

She pointed to him. “What the hell happened to you?”

“What?”

“You look like a kitten someone left in a dryer.”

So much for stronger, more himself.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Rola found Naomi’s mother. She’s agreed to see me.”

“When?”

“If I want to talk to her today, I have to leave now. She’s back in New York.”

“Go,” Wilde said, “I can handle here.”

“Tell me where you were first. So I know why you look like hell.”

He gave her the heavily abridged version of his trip with Saul Strauss to Sing Sing. Turned out the abridged was more than enough. Hester’s face darkened to a deep scarlet. Her fists tightened. With all the distraction of Crash and Naomi, Wilde had almost forgotten that Hester Crimstein was one of the most famed and dogged criminal defense attorneys in the country. Nothing upset her more than prosecutorial overreach.

“Those bastards,” Hester said.

“Who?”

“Cops, prosecutors, judges — take your pick. Railroading an innocent man like that. And now they know this Kindler guy was crooked and they still have this man locked up? Disgraceful. Do you have Saul’s number?”

“I do.”

“Tell him I’ll take Raymond’s case pro bono.”

“You don’t even know all the details.”

“See this?” Hester tapped with her finger.

“Your nose?”

“Exactly. The nose knows. This case stinks like the thirty-year-old garbage it is. Tell Strauss I’ll make some calls and kick some ass. Tell him.”

“One more thing,” Wilde said. “Do you know anyone at Sing Sing?”

“Like?”

“Like someone who can let me see the visitors log.”

She started back toward the car. “Text me the details, doll face. I’ll get on it.”

Tim already had the door open. Hester climbed back in. Tim gave Wilde a small nod, got in the car, and drove away.

Wilde trekked up the hill. Rola had the whole team here now — all women with hard eyes.

“The Maynards know I’m back?” he asked.

Rola nodded.

There was still a half hour until noon. No reason to go inside yet. If the Maynards needed him, they’d know where to look. He headed back toward the path in the woods, the one that led to where Matthew had first sneaked away with Naomi. He couldn’t say why he came here. Mostly, he supposed, because he craved peace and quiet and the outdoors. The outdoors more than anything else. He didn’t want to be inside that damned library any longer than he had to.

He checked his phone and was surprised to see a message from the genealogy website. The message came from “PB,” the person who’d been listed as his “closest” relative. He debated just deleting it or at least leaving it unopened for now. It was probably nothing. Genealogy was a big hobby for many, connecting in a “fun and social way,” as the website put it, maybe asking questions so that you can fill in empty branches on your family tree.

Wilde had no interest in doing that. Then again, rudeness and willful ignorance weren’t his style either. Neither was procrastination.

He hit the message link and read PB’s message:

Hi. Sorry about not giving my name, but there are reasons I don’t feel comfortable letting people know my real identity. My background has too many holes in it and a lot of turmoil. You are the closest relative I’ve found on this site, and I wonder whether you have holes and turmoil too. If you do, I may have some answers.

Wilde read the message twice, then a third time.

Holes and turmoil. He didn’t need that right now either.

Wilde put away the phone. Then he looked up, past the branches stretching to the deep blue of the sky. His thoughts turned to Raymond Stark. When, he wondered, had Raymond last been outside like this? When had he last been surrounded by green and blue instead of institutional gray? Wilde reached into his back pocket. He unfolded the photograph of the Capitol Hill interns Saul Strauss had given him. He searched the faces again, finding Rusty Eggers, then Dash, then Delia.

The hell with it.

He hurried back into the Maynards’ side yard. He took the steps two at a time and burst into the library. Dash Maynard was staring at the computer screen, as though it were some crystal ball that might tell him the future. Delia paced.

“We’re glad you’re back,” she said.

He crossed the room. “Do you recognize this photograph?”

Wilde held it up so both could see it. He wanted to see if they’d react. They did — recoiling like vampires near a cross.

Dash snapped, “Why do you have that?”

Wilde pointed to Christopher Anson. “Do you recognize him?”

“What the hell is this?”

“His name was Christopher Anson.”

“We know,” Delia said. “But what the hell, Wilde. We’re waiting for a word from our son’s kidnapper. Don’t you get that?”

Wilde saw no reason to reply.

“Why are you raising this now?”

“Because whoever has your son clearly wants a very damaging tape.”

“Which we gave them,” Dash said.

“Arnie Poplin said he overheard you and Rusty Eggers talking about a murder.”

“Arnie Poplin is a lunatic,” Dash said with a dismissive wave.

Delia added, “You can’t possibly think we had something to do with what happened to Christopher.”

“Maybe not you two,” Wilde said.

“Rusty?” Delia shook her head. “No.”

“You don’t get how unreliable Arnie Poplin is,” Dash said. “When we fired him from the show, he grew resentful. You mix his crazy with the drugs and the bitterness—”

“I don’t understand,” Delia interrupted. “Who gave you that photograph?”

“Raymond Stark.”

Silence.

Wilde waited. He wanted to see whether either of them would go so far as to pretend that they didn’t recognize the name. They didn’t.

After a while, Dash said, “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Is that what Raymond Stark is saying? Is that what he’s trying to pull now to get out of jail?”

Delia looked at her husband. “Could he be behind all this?”

“What?”

“Raymond Stark,” Dash said, turning back to Wilde. “Maybe some convict he met in prison is doing him a favor. They kidnap our son and claim it’s related to the killing of Christopher. They demand some tape that will prove his innocence.”

“Maybe,” Delia joined in, “Raymond Stark told someone the story and they are acting on their own.”