Three Harlan Coben Novels (15 page)

Win hung up. There was no need to reply. He understood perfectly.

M
yron had his cell phone in hand, preparing to call Ali for a much-needed hello, when he noticed a car parked in front of his house. Myron pocketed the cell and pulled into his driveway.

A husky man sat on the curb in front of Myron’s yard. He stood when Myron approached. “Myron Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

Myron nodded. “Why don’t we go inside?”

“You know who I am?”

“I know who you are.”

It was Dominick Rochester. Myron recognized him from the news reports on TV. He had a ferocious face with pores big enough to get your foot caught in. The smell of cheap musk came off him in squiggly line waves. Myron held his breath. He wondered how Rochester had learned about Myron’s connection to the case, but no matter. This would work well, Myron figured. He had wanted to talk to Rochester anyway.

Myron was not sure when the feeling came upon him. It could have been when the other car made the turn. It could have been something in Dominick Rochester’s walk. Myron could see right away that Rochester was the real deal—a bad guy you did not want to mess with, as opposed to that poser, Big Jake Wolf.

But again it was a bit like basketball. There were moments when Myron was so in the game, where he would be rising on his jump shot, his fingers finding the exact grooves on the ball, his hand cocked in front of his forehead, his eyes locked on the rim, only the rim, when time would slow down, as if he could stop in midair and readjust and see the rest of the court.

Something was wrong here.

Myron stopped at the door, keys in hand. He turned and looked back at Rochester. Rochester had those black eyes, the kind that view everything with an equal lack of emotion—a human being, a dog, a file cabinet, a mountain range. They never changed no matter what they saw, no matter what horror or delight played out in front of them.

“Why don’t we talk out here?” Myron said.

Rochester shrugged. “If you want.”

The car, a Buick Skylark, slowed.

Myron felt his cell phone vibrate. He looked down at it. Win’s
SWEET CHEEKS
was displayed. He put the phone to his ear.

Win said, “There are two very bad hombres—”

That was when Myron was jarred by the blow.

Rochester had thrown a punch.

The fist skimmed across the top of Myron’s head. The instincts were rusty, but Myron still had his peripheral vision. He’d seen Rochester launch the fist at the last second. He ducked in time to take away the brunt. The blow ended up glancing across the top of Myron’s skull. There was pain, but Rochester’s knuckles probably felt worse.

The phone fell to the ground.

Myron was down on one knee. He grabbed Rochester’s extended arm by the wrist. He curled the fingers of his free hand. Most people hit with fists. That was necessary at times, but in reality you should avoid doing it. You hit something hard with a fist, you’ll break your hand.

The palm strike, especially to vulnerable areas, was usually more effective. With a punch, you need to flick or jab. You can’t power straight through, because the small bones in the hand can’t handle the stress. But if the palm strike is delivered correctly, fingers curled and protected, the wrist tilted back, the blow landing on the meaty bottom of the palm, you put the pressure on the radius, the ulna, the humerus—in short, the larger arm bones.

That was what Myron did. The obvious place to aim right now was the groin, but Myron figured that Rochester had been in plenty of scrapes before. He’d be looking for that.

And he was. Rochester raised a knee for protection.

Myron went for the diaphragm instead. When the shot landed just below the sternum, the air burst out of the big man. Myron pulled on Rochester’s arm and threw him in what looked like an awkward judo throw. Truth was, in real fights, all throws look pretty awkward.

The zone. He was in it now. Everything slowed down.

Rochester was still in the air when Myron saw the car stop. Two men came out. Rochester landed like a sack of rocks. Myron stood. The two men were moving toward him now.

They were both smiling.

Rochester rolled through the throw. He’d be up in no time. Then there would be three of them. The two men in the car did not approach slowly. They did not look wary or worried. They charged toward Myron with the abandon of children playing a game.

Two very bad hombres . . .

Another second passed.

The man who’d been on the passenger side wore his hair in a ponytail and looked liked that hip, middle-school art teacher who always smelled like a bong. Myron ran through his options. He did this in tenths of a second. That was how it worked. When you’re in danger, time either slows down or the mind races. Hard to say which.

Myron thought about Rochester lying on the ground, about the two men charging, about Win’s warning, about what Rochester might be after here, about why he might attack unprovoked, about what Cingle had said about Rochester being a nutjob.

The answer was obvious: Dominick Rochester thought that Myron had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance.

Rochester probably knew that Myron had been questioned by the police, and that nothing had come of it. A guy like Rochester wouldn’t accept that. So he’d do his best, his damned best, to see if he could shake something loose.

The two men were maybe three steps away now.

Another point: They were willing to attack him right here, on the street, where anyone could see. That suggested a certain level of desperation and recklessness and, yes, confidence—a level Myron wanted no part of.

So Myron made his choice: He ran.

The two men had the advantage. They were already accelerating. Myron was starting from a standing position.

This was where pure athleticism would help.

Myron’s knee injury had not really affected his speed much. It was more a question of lateral movement. So Myron faked a step to the right, just to get them to lean. They did. Then he broke left toward his driveway. One of the men—the other one, not the hippy art teacher—lost his footing but only for a split second. He was back up. So was Dominick Rochester.

But it was the hippy art teacher who was causing the most trouble. The man was fast. He was almost close enough to make a diving tackle.

Myron debated taking him on.

But no. Win had called in a warning. If it had reached that level, this was probably indeed a very bad hombre. He wouldn’t go down with one blow. And even if he did, the delay would give the other two the chance to catch up. There was no way to eliminate the art teacher and keep moving.

Myron tried to accelerate. He wanted to gain enough distance to get Win on the cell phone and tell him—

The cell phone. Damn, he didn’t have it. He’d dropped it when Rochester hit him.

They kept chasing him. Here they were, on a quiet suburban street, four adults running all-out. Was anybody watching? What would they think?

Myron had another advantage: He knew the neighborhood.

He didn’t look over his shoulder, but he could hear the art teacher panting behind him. You don’t become a professional athlete—and brief as his career was, he did play professional ball—without having a million things go right internally and externally. Myron had grown up in Livingston. His high school class had six hundred people in it. There had been zillions of great athletes going through the doors. None had made the pros. Two or three had played minor league baseball. One, maybe two, had been drafted for one sport or another. That was it. Every kid dreams about it, but the truth is, none make it. None. You think your kid is different. He’s not. He won’t make it to the NBA or NFL or MLB. Won’t happen.

The odds are that long.

The point here, as Myron began to increase his lead, was that, yes, he had worked hard, shot baskets by himself for four to five hours a day, had been frighteningly competitive, had the right mind frame, had and did all those things, but none of that would have helped him reach the level he’d gotten to if he hadn’t been blessed with extraordinary physical gifts.

One of those gifts was speed.

The panting was falling behind him.

Someone, maybe Rochester, shouted: “Shoot him in the leg!”

Myron kept accelerating. He had a destination in mind. His knowledge of the neighborhood would help now. He hit the hill up Coddington Terrace. As he reached the top, he prepared. He knew that if he got there enough ahead of them, there’d be a blind spot on the curve back down.

When he reached that down-curve, he didn’t look back. There was a somewhat hidden path between two houses on the left. Myron had used it to go to Burnet Hill Elementary School. All the kids did. It was the strangest thing—a paved walking path between two houses—but he knew it was still there.

The very bad hombres would not.

The paved walk was public enough, but Myron had another idea. The Horowitzes used to live in the house on the left. Myron had built a fort in the woods there with one of them a lifetime ago. Mrs. Horowitz had been furious about it. He veered into that area now. There used to be a crawling path under the bush, one that led from the Horowitzes’ backyard on Coddington Terrace to the Seidens’ on Ridge Road.

Myron pushed the first bush to the side. It was still there. He got down on his hands and knees and scrambled through the opening. Brown branches whipped his face. It didn’t hurt so much as bring him back to a more innocent time.

As he emerged on the other side, in the old Seidens’ backyard, he wondered if the Seiden family still lived here. The answer came to him fast.

Mrs. Seiden was in the backyard. She wore a kerchief and gardening gloves.

“Myron?” There was no hesitation or even much surprise in her voice. “Myron Bolitar, is that you?”

He had gone to school with her son, Doug, although he had not crawled through this path or even been in this backyard since he was maybe ten years old. But that didn’t matter in towns like this. If you were friends in elementary school, there was always some kind of link.

Mrs. Seiden blew the strands of hair out of her face. She started toward him. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to involve anyone else. She opened her mouth to say something, but Myron silenced her with a finger to his lips.

She saw the look on his face and stopped. He gestured for her to get in the house. She gave a slight nod and moved toward it. She opened the back door.

Someone shouted, “Where the hell did he go?”

Myron waited for Mrs. Seiden to disappear from view. But she didn’t go inside.

Their eyes met. Now it was Mrs. Seiden’s turn to gesture. She motioned for him to come inside too. He shook his head. Too dangerous.

Mrs. Seiden stood there, her back rigid.

She would not move.

A sound came from the brush. Myron snapped his head toward it. It stopped. Could have been a squirrel. No way they could have found him already. But Win had called them “very bad” meaning, of course, very good at what they did. Win was never one for overstatement. If he said these guys were very bad . . .

Myron listened. No sound now. That scared him more than noise.

He did not want to put Mrs. Seiden in further danger. He shook his head one more time. She just stood there, holding the door open.

There was no sense in arguing. There are few creatures more stubborn than Livingston mothers.

Keeping low, he sprinted across the yard and through the open door, dragging her in with him.

She closed the door.

“Stay down.”

“The phone,” Mrs. Seiden said, “is over there.”

It was a kitchen wall unit. He dialed Win.

“I’m eight miles away from your house,” Win said.

“I’m not there,” Myron said. “I’m on Ridge Road.” He looked back at Mrs. Seiden for more information.

“Seventy-eight,” she said. “And it’s Ridge Drive, not Road.”

Myron repeated what she’d said. He told Win there were three of them, including Dominick Rochester.

“Are you armed?” Win asked.

“No.”

Win didn’t lecture him, but Myron knew that he wanted to. “The other two are good and sadistic,” Win said. “Stay hidden until I get there.”

“We’re not moving,” Myron said.

And that was when the back door burst open.

Myron turned in time to see Hippy Art Teacher fly through it.

“Run!” Myron shouted at Mrs. Seiden. But he didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. Art Teacher was still off balance. Myron leapt toward him.

But Art Teacher was fast.

He sidestepped Myron’s lunge. Myron saw that he was going to miss. He stuck out his left arm, clothesline style, hoping to get under Art’s chin. The blow touched down on the back of Art’s head, cushioned by the ponytail. Art staggered. He turned and hit Myron a short shot to the rib cage.

The man was very fast.

Everything slowed down again. In the distance, Myron could hear footsteps. Mrs. Seiden making a run for it. Art Teacher smiled at Myron, breathing hard. The speed of that punch told Myron that he probably shouldn’t stand and trade blows. Myron had the size advantage. And that meant taking him to the floor.

Art Teacher revved up to throw another punch. Myron crowded in. It was tougher to hit someone hard, especially someone bigger, when you crowded in. Myron grabbed Art Teacher’s shirt by the shoulders. He twisted to take him down, raising a forearm at the same time.

Myron hoped to put the forearm against the man’s nose. Myron weighed two hundred fifteen pounds. That kind of size, you land full force with your forearm resting on someone’s nose, the nose is going to snap like a dried-out bird’s nest.

But again Art Teacher was good. He saw what Myron intended to do. He tucked down just a little. The forearm was now resting on the rose-tinted glasses. Art Teacher closed his eyes and pulled them both down harder. He also raised a knee up to Myron’s midsection. Myron had to curve in his belly to protect himself. That took a good part of the power away from his forearm blow.

When they landed, the wire-framed glasses bent, but there was no serious power behind the shot. Art Teacher had the momentum now. He shifted his weight. His knee hadn’t landed with much force either because of the way Myron had rounded his back. But the knee was still there. And the momentum.