Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“See that Dairy Queen on the right?”

“Are we stopping for an Oreo Blizzard?” Rola asked.

“Your comic timing,” he said. “It often sucks.”

“Good thing I’m cute then.”

“Uh-huh. Head to the rear. The lot should back up directly behind that rest stop.”

Rola made the turn. No cars were parked behind the Dairy Queen. Wilde hit the button to lower the window. He looked up the hill and bingo — he spotted the back of the closed gas station.

“Stay here,” Wilde said, reaching for the door handle.

“No way.”

“Fine. Get an Oreo Blizzard.”

Rola frowned. “ My comic timing sucks?”

“If I don’t check in every ten minutes, call the police.”

“I’m going.”

“I need you to—”

“—call the police if you don’t check in every ten minutes,” Rola said. “I heard you. I’ll have Zelda do that via her phone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you going in unarmed.”

“Fine, give me your gun.”

“No offense, Wilde, but you’re trash with a gun,” she said. Which was true.

“This could be dangerous.”

“I love danger.”

“You have k—”

“Stop,” Rola said, holding up her hand for emphasis. “If you’re going to say I have kids or a family or any other sexist bullshit, I’ll shoot you myself.”

He said nothing.

“I’m going, Wilde. This is nonnegotiable, so let’s stop wasting time.”

Rola got out of the car. Wilde quickly followed and put a hand on her shoulder. She got it. Driving might not be his forte, but approaching quietly was. He should lead. She should follow.

They started up the hill, staying low. Rola took out the gun and kept it in her right hand, just in case. When they reached the top of the hill, they were maybe thirty, forty yards from the closed gas station. The back wall was cinder block and covered in graffiti, most of it a big bubble-letter tag spelling out the words SPOON and ABEONA.

Wilde crept closer, his gaze constantly on the move. No signs of life. No signs of a car. He risked a glance at the GPS locator on his phone’s screen. No question about it. The car was right near here.

He moved toward the back of the gas station. When they were in the clearing, he picked up speed, hoping no one would spot them. Rola kept pace. They reached the cinder block and pressed their backs against it.

Rola gave him a look that said, Now what?

He mouthed, Wait here . He slid toward the side. The grass was overgrown enough to lose a third grader. He could see tires strewn about it, a few crowbars, a variety of rusted engine parts. On the side of the concrete wall, someone had long ago painted the words TIRE SERVICE in red and blue. The letters were faded now, beaten and stripped by years of sun.

Wilde stayed low and moved to the front. The garage bays were closed. Wilde looked at the bottom of the doors. Wind had covered one up, sealing the bottom. The other garage door though had a solid crack opening.

Someone had not shut it all the way.

There were tire tracks in the dirt leading up to it.

Wilde had been confused when he’d first seen that the rest stop was closed. He’d figured that this had been a meeting place, a spot they could come and hash out their kidnapping plan without drawing attention. He figured that maybe he and Rola would park and wait and follow — and that the car would lead him to Crash.

This, of course, was better.

Wilde lay on his stomach and moved closer to the opening in the garage door. He peered in. Yep. Just as he expected.

The car.

He was here.

Wilde moved back to the side of the garage. He peeked around the corner, taking it all in, before he saw something that made him pull up. The old Dunkin’ Donuts hut. At first glance there was nothing remarkable about it. The windows were covered by plywood. A sign was hanging by one nail. It was run down and beat up and one day a wrecking ball would end its existence mercifully and effortlessly. There was only one odd thing.

The air-conditioning unit in the window toward the back.

It looked new.

Wilde’s heart started pounding. He headed back to Rola. She greeted him with a What gives? shrug. He signaled for her to follow him. They slid along the back wall. When the Dunkin’ Donuts came into view, Wilde pointed to the air conditioner. It took Rola a second to get it, but then she gave him a thumbs-up.

Wilde checked the locator app again. They still had ten minutes. As he put the phone back in his pocket, Rola again gave him a look as if to ask, What was that? He shook it off. No time.

They’d be out in the open. There was no way to avoid that. Rola had the gun out. Wilde gestured that he’d go first. If someone took a shot at him, Rola should be at the ready. She reluctantly agreed. Wilde made the sprint, and as he did, he heard a sound that made the blood in his veins hum. Over the sounds of the cars speeding by on the nearby highway, Wilde could make out the air conditioner.

It was on.

Someone was in that Dunkin’ Donuts back room.

When he was up against the wall of the hut, he looked over his shoulder toward Rola. He was tempted to signal for her to wait there, but suppose whoever was inside the Dunkin’ Donuts back room — assuming someone was inside and no one had just left the air-conditioning unit on — might be armed.

She had the gun.

He waved her forward. Rola kept the weapon at her side, pointed down. She was agile and quick, ever the athlete. When she reached him, they both ducked down. Neither moved for a moment, waiting to see whether they were heard or seen.

Nothing.

Wilde crawled toward the air conditioner. He gestured with his hand for her to stay down. She nodded. He lifted himself up. He could feel the exhaust air blowing out the back of the unit.

The window shade was drawn.

He couldn’t see in.

Now what?

Time was a-ticking. He came back down to her.

“Someone is in that back room,” he whispered, “but someone may also be in the gas station office. I need you to draw the gun and be ready. I’m going to open the window a crack and pull out the air conditioner. Quietly if I can. You be ready?”

Rola nodded. “Got it.”

He stood and inspected the window. The unit didn’t look screwed in or anything like that. All he had to do was slide the window up an inch and pull the air conditioner out, all in one swift move. Wilde rehearsed the action in his mind as he put his hands on the bottom of the window frame.

Rola stood with her back against the wall. The gun was ready.

Then Wilde mouthed the countdown to her.

One, two...

On three, Wilde pushed the window open and grabbed the air conditioner out. At the same time, Rola swung into action. She spun toward the opening, the gun up and ready.

When Rola saw who was inside, she pulled the gun to her side. Wilde dropped the air conditioner and looked too.

Crash Maynard was chained to a bed.

His hand was wrapped in heavy white gauze. Crash looked back toward them, stunned. Wilde moved fast. He put his index finger to his lips while slipping through the window. He hurried over to the teen and whispered, “Stay quiet, Crash. We’re here to help.”

Tears started rolling down Crash’s face. “I want to go home.”

He sounded like a little boy.

“You’re going home,” Wilde whispered. “I promise you. How many of them are there?”

Crash held up the gauze-encased hand. “Look what they did to me.”

“I know. We’re going to get you to a doctor. Focus, Crash. How many of them?”

“I don’t know. They don’t talk. They wear ski masks. Please. Please. I just want to get home. Please.”