Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“Down there,” Oren said, pointing to a spot far down the hill.

“You were one of the first officers on the scene.”

Oren couldn’t tell whether that was a question or a statement. “Yes.”

“The car was on fire.”

“Yes.”

“Wilde had already pulled David out.”

Oren just nodded this time.

“Wilde told me he was the one driving,” Hester said.

“He told us that too,” Oren said. “We didn’t charge him though. No alcohol in his system. The roads were wet.”

“Was Wilde driving?”

“That’s what our report said.”

Hester turned to him. “I’m not asking you what your report said.”

Oren’s eyes stayed on the ravine. “When the only survivor of a car accident tells you he was the driver, it’s hard to prove otherwise.”

“Wilde lied, didn’t he?”

Oren didn’t reply.

Hester stood so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “Wilde and David were best friends. You know that, right?”

Oren nodded. “I do.”

“That night, they went to Miller’s Tavern. In David’s car. My David didn’t drink much or go for bars much — that was more Wilde’s scene, I think — but he was having problems with Laila. Nothing serious. Nothing they wouldn’t get past. So the two best friends went out to blow off some steam or whatever men do. David drank too much. The hospital ran a toxicology report when he was rushed in — when they still thought my boy would survive. Wilde didn’t want to get David in trouble. So he said it was him. That he was driving.”

Oren still said nothing.

“Is that what happened, Oren?”

“Did you ask Wilde?”

“He insists he was driving.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t, no. Am I right?”

Oren looked down. She watched his eyes. They were so clear, so honest, so beautiful. “Oren?”

Then he said something that surprised her: “I don’t think you have it exactly right.”

For a moment she couldn’t find her voice. When she did: “What do you mean?”

“Wilde would never have let David drive drunk.”

“So...” Hester didn’t know what to say. “I’m not following.”

“We checked Miller’s Tavern. Wilde was a regular, as you said. David wasn’t, but that night, yeah, he got pretty drunk. Anyway, nothing we could prove, but one patron said Wilde left at least half an hour before David. On his own.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Wilde would only tell us he was the driver.”

“David was there alone?”

“Alone and drinking, yes. This is all just a theory, Hester. But at that time, Wilde was living in a tent not far from here.” He pointed to the left. “Maybe three hundred yards in that direction. Again I don’t have any proof. Wilde insisted that he drove, but yeah, I never believed it. I think Wilde was nearby. I think he heard the crash or saw the flames. I think he wanted to protect his friend. And I think he felt — feels — guilty about not staying at the bar that night.”

Hester felt a thud deep in her chest. “So you think David was alone in the car?”

When Oren nodded, Hester dropped to her knees. She dropped to her knees and cried.

Oren let her. He stood there, close enough that if she needed him, he was there. But he didn’t reach out to her. Thank God. Thank God this man, this good and decent man, knew to not hug her or offer words of false comfort.

He just let her cry.

It took some time. She couldn’t say how much. Five minutes, ten, maybe half an hour. Oren Carmichael just stood there, guarding her like a silent sentinel. At some point, she got back into his squad car. He started down Mountain Road. They drove in silence.

Finally: “Oren?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”

Oren didn’t reply.

“When you rushed out of the pizzeria to go to that car accident, I realized that we had no chance — because no matter what, whenever I see you, I will imagine you at the scene of that accident. Whenever I see you, I will see my dead son. You’ll always remind me of David, so we can’t be.”

He kept his eyes on the road.

“But then I started missing you so damn much. It was like there was a giant hole in my heart. I know how that sounds. I started thinking that even with that pain, I didn’t want to be without you — and I didn’t want to stop thinking about my David, not ever, because that would be the worst outrage. I’ll never stop thinking about him. Do you understand?”

Oren nodded. “I do.”

She reached out and put her hand on his.

“Are you willing to give us another chance, Oren?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

Wilde bought a round-trip ticket for the Delta shuttle flight from New York’s LaGuardia Airport to Boston’s Logan. He had no luggage. He didn’t plan on staying in Boston long — a few hours tops. Then he’d fly back home.

In fact, he planned to never leave the airport.

When the plane landed, Wilde walked over from Terminal A to E. He positioned himself near Gate E7, where he would eventually watch passengers board American Airlines Flight 374 to Costa Rica.

Two hours to go.

To pass the time, Wilde opened the DNA genealogy website and found the message from “PB.” He read it again, thought about it, then decided to write:

I’d like to know more, PB. Can we meet?

He was about to put away his phone when it rang. Wilde checked the caller ID and saw that it was Matthew. He picked up immediately.

“Everything okay?” Wilde said.

“You don’t have to answer the phone like that,” Matthew said. “You can just say, ‘Hello.’”

“Hello. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Wilde. Except I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Sorry. How are things at school?”

“Calming down. Crash is back already. He keeps showing off this scar on his finger and saying some bad guys cut it off. Mom says it was a fishing accident. Wilde?”

“Yeah?”

“Everyone thinks Naomi ran away. They think she’s somewhere on an island or doing something cool or exotic — which is ironic since they always thought she was such a loser.”

“I know.”

“Are you still looking for her?”

Wilde didn’t know how to answer that, so he kept it simple. “Yes.”

“Cool.” Then: “Where are you? I hear a lot of noise.”

“In Boston.”

“Why?”

“Visiting a friend.”

Matthew must have heard something in his tone. “Okay.”

“How’s Mom?” Wilde asked.

“Still with Darryl.”

Darryl. Designer Threads had a name now. Darryl.

“They’re getting serious, I think,” Matthew said.

Wilde closed his eyes for a moment. “You like him?”

“He’s okay,” Matthew said, which in Matthew-speak was a rave.

“Good. Be nice to him.”

“Ugh.”

“Your mom deserves this.”

“Fine, whatever.”

The flight to Costa Rica was ready to board now. The gate agent called for passengers needing special assistance, passengers traveling with children under the age of two, active-duty US military members.

“Anything else?” Wilde asked him.

“Nope, all good.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a new Grand Theft Auto , but Mom won’t buy it for me because it’s too violent.”

“Funny.”

“Bye, Wilde.”

“Talk soon.”

He hung up as the gate agent called for Group 1 to board. Wilde watched the passengers start to mingle near the boarding line.

Nothing.

The gate agent called for Groups 2, 3, and 4.

Still nothing.

For a moment Wilde wondered whether he had gotten it wrong or perhaps someone was again trying tactical deception with him. Perhaps they had booked more than one flight to throw him. Perhaps they’d never intended to fly today.