Харлан Кобен - Run Away

He called Yvonne and gave her the broad strokes. When he finished, Yvonne said, “I’ll head straight over to your place and get Anya.”

Simon’s voice sounded weird in his own ears. “Okay.”

“What do you want me to tell her?”

He felt a sob rise up his throat. He stuffed it back down. “Nothing specific, just stay with her.”

“Did you call Sam?” Yvonne asked.

“No. He’s got a biology test. He doesn’t need to know.”

“Simon?”

“What?”

“You’re not thinking straight. Their mother has been shot. She’s in surgery.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’ll pick up Anya,” she said, “Robert will get Sam. They should be at the hospital.”

Yvonne left off the “me too,” maybe because the kids were more important or maybe because Yvonne and Ingrid were not very close. They were civil to each other, unfailingly polite with no obvious rancor, but Simon was the bridge between the two sisters.

Yvonne spoke again. “Okay, Simon?”

Two cops appeared, doing the room-scan thing. They spotted Simon and swaggered toward him.

“Okay,” he said, and hung up.

At the scene, Simon had given the cops a description of the shooter, but now they wanted more details. He started to tell the cops everything, but it was slow going without full context, without going into Aaron and the other murder and all that. He was also distracted, staring at the door, waiting for a doctor to appear, a god really, to tell him whether his world was over or not.

Fagbenle burst into the waiting room. The two cops moved toward him. The three of them huddled in the corner. Simon took the break to once again head over to the desk and ask about his wife — and once again the receptionist politely told him that she had no new information, that the doctor would come out as soon as there was an update.

When Simon turned back around, Fagbenle was right there. “I don’t understand. Why were you two in the Bronx?”

“We were trying to find our daughter.”

“By visiting a drug den?”

“Our daughter is a drug addict.”

“Did you find her?”

“No, Detective. In case you didn’t hear, my wife was shot.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

Simon closed his eyes, waved him off.

“I hear you also visited the murder scene.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s where we started.”

“Started what?”

“Looking for our daughter.”

“How did you get from that apartment to the drug house next door?”

Simon knew better than to go there. “What does that matter?”

“Why don’t you want to tell me, Simon?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“Gotta be honest,” Fagbenle said. “This all doesn’t look good.”

“Gotta be honest,” Simon said. “I don’t care how it looks.”

Simon moved back toward his yellow plastic molded chair.

“Occam’s razor,” Fagbenle said. “You know it?”

“I’m not in the mood, Detective.”

“It states—”

“I know what it states—”

“—that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

“And what’s the simplest explanation, Detective?”

“You killed Aaron Corval,” he said. Just like that. No emotion, no rancor, no surprise. “Or your wife did. I wouldn’t blame either of you. The man was a monster. He was slowly poisoning your daughter, killing her right in front of your eyes.”

Simon frowned. “Is this the part where I break down and confess?”

“Nah, you just listen. I’m talking about the old moral quandary.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Question: Would you kill someone? Answer: No, of course not. Question: Would you kill someone to save your child? Answer...?”

Fagbenle raised both palms and shrugged.

Simon sat back down. Fagbenle pulled up a nearby chair and sat close to him. He kept his voice low.

“You could have sneaked out of your apartment building when Anya was asleep. Or Ingrid could have run over to the Bronx during her work break.”

“You don’t believe that.”

He made a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture with his head. “I heard when your wife was shot, you jumped on top of her. Used your body as a shield.”

“What’s your point?”

“You were willing to die to save someone you love,” Fagbenle said, moving in a little closer. “How much of a stretch is it to believe you’d kill?”

There was movement all around them — people in and out — but Simon and Fagbenle saw none of that.

“I have an idea, Detective.”

“I’m all ears.”

“My wife was shot by a man named Luther.” Simon gave him the same description he’d already given twice now. “Why don’t you guys find and arrest him?”

“We already did.”

“Wait, you caught him?”

“It wasn’t really hard. We just followed the blood trail. We found him unconscious about two blocks away.”

“The big guy, Rocco, he took him out of the basement. He was carrying him.”

“Rocco Canard. Yeah, we know him. Gang affiliated. Luther Ritz — that’s his last name, by the way — worked for Rocco. So did Aaron. Rocco probably tried to hide him. When he saw the blood trail, Rocco dumped him in an alley. At least that’s our theory. We will need you to identify the guy to make sure he’s your shooter.”

“Okay,” Simon said. “How bad was he hit?”

“He’ll live.”

“Did he say anything on the way in?”

“Yeah,” Fagbenle said, flashing the smile, “he said you and Ingrid shot him.”

“That’s a lie.”

“That much we know. But I still don’t understand what happened. Why did he shoot?”

“I don’t know. We were just talking to Rocco and—”

“You and your wife?”

“Yes.”

“So you two, what, just waltzed into this drug den and started chatting up a gang leader?”

“Like you said, Detective: what we do to help a loved one.”

Fagbenle seemed to like that answer. “Go on.”

Simon told him what happened, leaving out only one key aspect.

“And then Luther just started firing at you?”

“Yes.”

“No warning?”

“None.”

“There you go.” Another flash of teeth. “Occam’s razor again.”

“How so?” Simon asked.

“Rocco is a drug dealer. Luther and Aaron both worked for him. That’s a world loaded with violence. Aaron ends up dead, Luther shoots at you guys — speaking of which, who shot Luther?”

A man plopped down in the molded yellow seat across from them. He was holding a bandage on his head. Blood oozed through the gauze.

“Simon?”

“What?”

“Your wife is hit with a bullet. You dive to cover her. Luther is going to finish you off. So who stopped him?”

“I didn’t see anyone,” he said.

Fagbenle heard something in his tone. “I didn’t ask if you saw anyone. I asked who saved you from Luther.”

But just then Anya came sprinting into the room. Simon stood as his daughter wrapped her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. He closed his eyes and held her close, willing the tears to stay back. Anya buried her face in his chest.

“Mom...” she muffle-cried.

He almost said, “It’s going to be okay” or “She’ll be fine,” but he saw no reason to tell more lies. His eyes opened. Yvonne crossed the room and kissed his cheek as he still held Anya.

“Robert is on his way to get Sam,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Then a man in hospital scrubs came into the room. “Simon Greene?”

Anya slowly released her grip and freed her father.

“Right here.”

“Follow me, please. The doctor will see you now.”

You often hear that a physician’s bedside manner is more or less irrelevant. The theory seems to suggest that you just want someone who coldly, mechanically, robotically does the job, who doesn’t get distracted by emotion, who lives by that old saw that you’d rather have a surgeon who cuts straight and cares less.