The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (219 page)

Greg put his fingers to his mouth. Stan concentrated on the road. Myron stared out the window. He thought about the father of three young children, age forty-one; the female college student, age twenty; and the young newlyweds, ages twenty-eight and twenty-seven. He thought about Jeremy’s scream over the phone. He thought about Emily waiting at the house, her mind sowing the seeds, sick and blackening.

They got off Route 78 and took 287 north. They exited onto winding streets with no straightaways. Bernardsville was about old money and rustic wealth, a town of converted mills and stone houses and waterwheels. There were fields of long brown grass swaying in death, everything a little too old and too neatly overgrown.

“It’s on this road,” Stan said.

Myron looked out. His mouth was dry. He felt a tingle deep in his belly. The car traveled down another corkscrew of a street, the loose gravel crunching under the tires. There were deeply wooded lots commingling with your standard suburban front lawns. Plenty of center-hall colonials and those mid-seventies ranches that aged like milk left out on the counter. A yellow sign warned about children at play, but Myron saw none.

They pulled into a cake-dried driveway with weeds poking up through the cracks. Myron lowered his window. There was plenty of burnt-out grass, but the sweet summer smell of lillies still loomed and even cloyed. Crickets droned. Wildflowers blossomed. Not a hint of menace.

Up ahead Myron spotted what looked like a farmhouse. Black shutters stood out against the white clapboards. There were lights coming from inside, giving the house a glow that was big and soft and oddly welcoming. The front porch was the type that craved a swinging settee and a pitcher of lemonade.

When the car reached the front of the house, Stan shifted into park and turned off the ignition. The crickets eased up. Myron almost waited for someone to note that it was “Quiet” and for someone else to add, “Yeah, too quiet.”

Stan turned to them. “I think I should go in first,” he said.

Neither man argued. Greg stared out the window at the house, probably conjuring up unspeakable horrors. Myron’s left leg started jackhammering. It often did when he was tense. Stan reached for the door handle.

That was when the first bullet smashed through the front passenger-side window.

The glass exploded, and Myron saw Greg’s head fly back at a rate it was never supposed to achieve. A thick gob of crimson smacked Myron in the cheek.

“Greg!”

No time. Instincts took over. Myron grabbed Greg, pushed him down, trying to keep his own head down too. Blood. Lots of it. From Greg. He was bleeding, bleeding heavily, but Myron couldn’t tell from where. Another bullet rang out. Another window shattered, raining shards of glass down on Myron’s head. He kept his hand on top of Greg, tried to cover him, protect him. Greg’s own hand fumbled absently on his chest and face, calmly searching for the bullet hole. Blood kept flowing. From the neck. Greg’s neck. Or collarbone. Whatever. He couldn’t see through the blood. Myron tried to stop the flow with his bare hand, pushing the sticky liquid away, finding the wound with his finger, applying pressure with his palm. But the blood slipped through the cracks between his fingers. Greg looked up at him with big eyes.

Stan Gibbs put his hands over his head and ducked into a quasi-emergency-landing position. “Stop!” he yelled, almost childlike. “Dad!”

Another bullet. More glass shards. Myron reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun. Greg grabbed his hand and pulled it down. Myron looked at him.

“Can’t kill him,” Greg said to Myron. There was blood in his mouth now. “If he dies … Jeremy’s only hope.”

Myron nodded, but he didn’t put the gun away. He looked over at Stan. In the distance, they heard a helicopter. Then sirens. The feds were on their way. No surprise. There was no way they weren’t going to follow. By air, at the very least.

Greg’s breathing was short spurts. His eyes were going hazy-gray.

“We got to do something here, Stan,” Myron said.

“Just stay down,” Stan said. Then he opened the car door and shouted, “Dad!”

No reply.

Stan got out of the car. He raised his hands and
stood. “Please,” he shouted. “They’ll be here soon. They’ll kill you.”

Nothing. The air was so motionless that Myron thought he could still hear the echoes from the gun blasts.

“Dad?”

Myron lifted his head a little and risked a glance. A man stepped out from behind the side of the house. Edwin Gibbs wore full army fatigues with combat boots. He had an ammunition belt hanging off his shoulder. His rifle was pointed toward the ground. Myron could see it was Nathan Mostoni, though he looked twenty years younger. His head was high, chin up. His back was straight.

Greg made a gurgling sound. Myron ripped off his shirt and pushed it against the wound. But Greg’s eyes were closing. “Stay with me,” Myron urged. “Come on, Greg. Stay here.”

Greg did not reply. His eyes fluttered and closed. Myron felt his heart slam into his throat. “Greg?”

He felt for a pulse. It was there. Myron was no doctor, but it didn’t feel strong. Oh damn. Oh come on.

Outside the car, Stan moved closer to his father. “Please,” Stan said. “Put down the rifle, Dad.”

The fed cars poured into the driveway. Brakes squealed. Feds jumped out of their vehicles, took position using the open doors as shields, aimed their weapons. Edwin Gibbs looked confused, panicked, Frankenstein’s monster suddenly surrounded by angry villagers. Stan hurried toward him.

The air seemed to thicken, molasses-like. It was hard to move, hard to breathe. Myron could almost feel the officers tense up, fingers itchy, tips touching the cold metal of the trigger. He let go of Greg for a moment and shouted, “You can’t shoot him!”

A fed had a megaphone. “Put down the rifle! Now!”

“Don’t shoot!” Myron shouted.

For a moment nothing happened. Time did that
in-and-out motion where everything rushes and freezes all at one time. Another fed car skidded up the driveway. A news van followed, screeching when it hit the brakes. Stan kept walking toward his father.

“You are surrounded,” the megaphone said. “Drop the rifle and put your hands behind your head. Drop to your knees.”

Edwin Gibbs looked left, looked right. Then he smiled. Myron felt the dread rise up in his chest. Gibbs lifted his rifle.

Myron rolled out of the car. “No!”

Stan Gibbs broke into a sprint. His father spotted him, his face calm. He aimed the rifle at his approaching son. Stan kept running. Time did stop this time, waiting for the blast of gunfire. But it didn’t come. Stan had gained on him too fast. Edwin Gibbs closed his eyes and let his son tackle him. The two men fell to the ground. Stan stayed on top of his father, blanketing him, leaving no space open.

“Don’t shoot him,” Stan yelled. His voice sounded hurt, again so childlike. “Please don’t shoot him.”

Edwin Gibbs lay on his back. He let go of the rifle. It dropped into the grass. Stan pushed it away, still on top of his father, still shielding him from harm. They stayed there until the officers took over. They gently removed Stan and then rolled Edwin Gibbs onto his stomach, cuffing his hands behind his back. The news camera caught it all.

Myron turned back to the car. Greg’s eyes were still closed. He wasn’t moving. Two of the officers ran toward the car, calling into their radios for an ambulance. Nothing Myron could do for Greg now. He looked back at the farmhouse, his heart still lodged in his throat. He ran toward the house and grabbed the knob. The door was locked. He used his shoulder. The door came down. Myron stepped into the foyer.

“Jeremy?” he called out.

But there was no reply.

They didn’t find Jeremy Downing. Myron checked every room, every closet, the basement, the garage. Nothing. The feds streamed in with him. They started knocking down walls. They used a heat sensor to check for underground caves or hidden places. Nothing. In the garage, they found a white van. In the back of it, they found one of Jeremy’s red sneakers.

But that was it.

News vans, lots of them, gathered at the end of the driveway. What with the kidnapped boy, his famous father shot and in critical condition, a potential serial killer in custody, the connection to Stan Gibbs and the famed plagiarism charges—the story was getting the full, round-the-clock, give-it-a-banner-and-theme-music, death-of-Diana coverage. Stiffly coiffed correspondents flashed their best grim-news teeth and led with phrases like “the vigil continues” or “the search is reaching its
x
th hour” or “behind me lurks the lair” or “we’ll be here until.”

A recent photograph of Jeremy, the one Emily had on the Web, ran continuously on all the stations. Brokaw, Jennings, and Rather interrupted their programming. Viewers called in tips, but so far none amounted to anything.

And the hours passed.

Emily drove to the scene. It played on all the usual outlets, her head lowered, hurrying toward a waiting car like an arrested felon, the flashbulbs creating a grotesque strobe effect. Cameramen elbowed each other out of the way to capture a glimpse of the stricken mother collapsing in the back of the car. They even got a shot of her through the passenger seat crying. Great TV.

Nightfall brought out searchlights. Volunteers and law officials scoured the nearby grounds for signs of recent graves or digging. Nothing. They brought in dogs. Nothing. They spoke to neighbors, some of whom “never trusted that family” but most gave the standard “seemed like nice folk, real quiet neighbors” spiel.

Edwin Gibbs had been taken into custody. They tried to question him at the Bernardsville Police Station, but he wasn’t talking. Clara Steinberg became his attorney. She stayed with him. So did Stan. They pleaded with Edwin, Myron guessed, but so far, he hadn’t talked.

Back at the farmhouse, the wind picked up. Myron’s bad knee ached, each step giving him a fresh jolt of pain. The pain was unpredictable, arriving whenever it damn well pleased, staying on like the most unwelcome houseguest. There was no side benefit to the knee pain, no weather forecasting or anything like that. Some days it just ached. Nothing he could do about it. He approached Emily and put his arm around her.

“He’s still out there,” Emily said to the dark.

Myron said nothing.

“He’s all alone. And it’s night. And he’s probably scared.”

“We’ll find him, Em.”

“Myron?”

“Hmm.”

“Is this more payback for that night?”

Another search party returned, their shoulders slumped in resignation, if not defeat. Odd thing, these search parties. You wanted to find something, yet you didn’t want to find something.

“No,” Myron said. “I think you were right. I think our mistake was the best thing that could have happened. And maybe there’s a price to pay to have something so good.”

She closed her eyes, but she did not cry. Myron stayed next to her. The wind howled, scattering the surrounding voices like dead leaves, whipping branches, and whispering in your ear like the most frightening lover.

Myron and Win looked through the one-way glass at Clara Steinberg’s back and the faces of Stan and Edwin Gibbs. Kimberly Green stood with them. So did Eric Ford. Emily had gone to the hospital to sit vigil while Greg was in surgery. No one seemed to know if he’d make it.

“Why aren’t you listening in?” Myron asked.

“Can’t,” Ford replied. “Attorney-client.”

“How long they been at it?”

“On and off since we took him into custody.”

Myron checked the clock behind his head. Nearly three in the morning. Evidence collection teams had leveled the house, but still no clue where Jeremy was. Fatigue lined everyone’s face, except maybe Win’s. Fatigue never registered on his face. Win must internalize it. Or maybe it had something to do with having little to no conscience.

“We don’t have time for this,” Myron said.

“I know,” Eric Ford said. “It’s been a long night for all of us.”

“Do something.”

“Like what?” Ford snapped. “What exactly would you like me to do?”

Win picked up that one. “Perhaps you could speak to Ms. Steinberg in private.”

That hooked Ford’s attention. “What?”

“Take her into another room,” Win said, “and leave me alone with your suspect.”

Eric Ford looked at him. “You shouldn’t even be here. He”—a gesture toward Myron—“represents the Downing family, as much as I don’t like it. But you got no reason to be here.”

“Make a reason,” Win said.

Eric Ford waved his hand as if this wasn’t worth his time.

Win kept the voice at a low, soothing level. “You don’t have to be a part of it,” he said. “Simply talk to his attorney. Leave Gibbs alone in the room. That’s all. Nothing unethical about that.”

Ford shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

“We need answers,” Win said.

“And you want to beat them out of him.”

“Beating leaves marks,” Win said. “I never leave marks.”

“That’s not how it works, pal. Ever heard of the U.S. Constitution?”

“It’s a document,” Win said, “not a trump card. You have a choice. The obscure rights of that subhuman”—Win gestured through the glass—“or a young boy’s right to live.”

Ford leaned his forehead against the glass.

“If the boy dies while we’re standing here,” Win said, “how will you feel then?”

Ford shut his eyes. In the holding room, Clara Steinberg rose from her chair. She turned, and for the first time, Myron saw her face. He knew that she had represented bad people before—very, very bad people—but whatever horrors she was now hearing had washed
away her skin tone and etched in something that would probably never leave. She approached the one-way mirror and knocked. Ford hit the sound switch.

“We need to talk,” she said. “Let me out.”

Eric Ford met Clara and Stan by the door. “Let’s head down this way,” he said.

“No,” Clara said.

“Pardon me?”

“We’ll talk in here,” she said, “where I can watch my client. Wouldn’t want an accident, now, would we?”

There were no chairs so they all stood by the one-way window—Kimberly Green, Eric Ford, Clara Steinberg, Stan Gibbs, Myron, and Win. Stan kept his head down and plucked at his lower lip with his fingers. Myron tried to meet his eyes. Stan never gave him the chance.