Харлан Кобен - Run Away

“Wiley tell you?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “He didn’t say a word. Why did you come today?”

“To pay my respects.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, it is. But I am sorry for your loss.”

She didn’t react to or acknowledge that. “So why are you here?”

“My daughter is missing.”

The barmaid opened the can and plopped it in front of him.

Enid finally turned her head toward him. “Since when?”

“Since Aaron’s murder.”

“That’s can’t be a coincidence.”

“I agree.”

“Your daughter probably killed him and ran.”

Just like that. No emotion in her voice.

“Would it matter,” Simon said, “if I said I don’t think that’s the case?”

Enid made a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. “You gamble at all?”

“No.”

“Yeah, but you’re some big stockbroker or something, right?”

“I do financial advising.”

“Yeah, whatever. You still play the odds, right? Try to figure out what’s safe and what’s risky, all that?”

Simon nodded.

“So you know what the two most likely possibilities are, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

“One, your daughter killed Aaron and is on the run.”

“And two?”

“Whoever killed Aaron took or killed her too.” Enid Corval took a sip of her drink. “Come to think of it, Possibility Two is much more likely.”

“What makes you say that?” Simon asked.

“Junkies aren’t great at not leaving clues or eluding the police.”

“So you don’t think she killed him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Simon said, trying to stay methodical here, detached. “Why would someone take Paige?”

“No clue. Hate to say this, but odds are, she’s dead.” She took another sip. “I’m still not sure why you’re here.”

“I’m hoping you know something.”

“I haven’t seen Aaron in months.”

“Do you recognize this guy?”

Simon handed her his phone. Elena Ramirez had texted him a photograph of her client’s missing son, Henry Thorpe.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Henry Thorpe. He’s from Chicago.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know him. Why?”

“He may be connected into this.”

“Into this how?”

“I don’t have a clue. It’s why I’m here. He’s missing.”

“Like Paige?”

“I guess.”

“Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

A scowling biker with a shaved head pulled out the stool between them so he could lean on the bar. Simon noticed the black iron-cross tattoo and maybe a half swastika sticking out from under his shirt sleeve. The biker noticed him noticing and stared him hard in the eye. Simon stared back and felt the red start to rise.

“What are you looking at?” Biker Boy said.

Simon did not blink or move.

“I asked you—”

Enid said, “He’s with me.”

“Hey, Enid, I didn’t mean—”

“And you’re interrupting a private conversation.”

“I, I mean, how was I supposed to know?”

Biker Boy sounded scared.

“I was just getting some beers, Enid.”

“That’s fine. Gladys will bring them over to you. You wait over by the pool table.”

And with that, Biker Boy was gone.

“Enid,” Simon said.

“Yeah?”

“What is this place?”

“Private club.”

“Yours?”

“You here to ask about your daughter or about me?”

“I’m just trying to figure this all out.”

“What out?”

“Do you mind telling me about Aaron?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Everything.”

“Can’t much see the purpose.”

“There are threads here,” he said, the words sounding weird coming from his mouth even to him. “Connections. I don’t know what they are, but I feel like I’m missing something. So I’m asking questions and plowing ahead and hoping.”

She frowned. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“My wife was shot yesterday,” Simon said.

Enid looked a question at him.

“She’s alive but... We were looking for Paige. Where they lived. Where Aaron was killed.”

He told her the story, taking chugs of the Pabst as he went along. Simon couldn’t remember the last time he drank a cold beer this early in the day, but today, in this place, it felt right. Simon glanced around the room as he spoke. Biker Boy wasn’t the only one with white supremacist tattoos. A number of guys had swastikas, and yeah he was outnumbered and he had bigger fish to fry at the moment, but this was America now, his country, this crap just out in the open and accepted, and he could feel his blood boil despite it all.

“You saw where Aaron grew up,” Enid said when he finished.

“On that farm.”

“It’s not really a farm. It’s a tourist spot, but yeah. Nice, right?”

“Seems so.”

“Seems so,” she repeated with a nod. “When Aaron was little, he lived in the actual inn. Back then, they only rented out six rooms. The family lived in the rest. Then they grew. Started renting out all ten rooms. Five, six years ago, we built those additions, so now it’s up to twenty-four rooms. We got a pretty good restaurant too. Wiley always calls it a ‘bistro.’ Thinks it sounds fancier. And the gift shop does a nice business. Sells souvenirs and candles, junk like that. I’m getting off topic, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.”

“You want to know about Aaron.”

Simon didn’t reply.

“Well, Aaron, even as a kid, he was always a little dark, if you know what I mean.”

One of the tattoo guys met her eye by a back door. Enid nodded and the guy slipped out.

“I don’t see how any of this could possibly help you,” she said.

“They.”

“What?”

“You said, ‘They only rented out six rooms.’ They.”

“So?”

“I’d think you’d say ‘we’ instead of ‘they.’”

“No ‘we’ yet,” she said. “Wiley and I weren’t married back then.”

“Back when?”

“When Wiley lived in the original inn.”

“But you said Aaron lived there.”

“Yeah. With Wiley. I’m his stepmom. I wasn’t on the scene until he was nine. Truth be told, I’m not the maternal type. Surprised, right? Aaron and me, we were never close.”

“And his real mom? Where is she?”

Enid glanced at the back door. The tattoo man came back in, making sure that Enid spotted him. Her glass was empty. Gladys with the Hay Hair filled it without being told.

“Mrs. Corval?” Simon said.

“Call me Enid.”

“Enid, what happened to Aaron’s real mother?”

“It has nothing to do with any of this.”

“It might.”

“How?” Enid turned now, placing one arm on the bar, and faced him full-on. “I mean, I told Aaron from Day One in here: You don’t try it. Not ever. Not a taste. He saw every day what that crap does to you. Still he ended up murdered in a junkie-infested shithole. So tell me, Mr. Greene. How could his birth mom have anything to do with Aaron ending up like that? And while you’re at it: How could his birth mom have anything to do with your daughter vanishing into the wind?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said.

“I’d probably be more the one to blame, don’t you think?”

Simon said nothing.

“His dad and I get married. When he’s a teen he wants to start hanging out here. That’s the problem with growing up in a quiet place. People think it’s magical or some shit. Beauty bores. It traps. Someone like Aaron, he’s got that edge in him. Just the way he is. Like me, even though we aren’t blood.”

He wanted to ask what this place was, but that would be the wrong way to go. He shifted gears and asked, “Was Aaron’s birth mother at the service today?”