by Harlan Coben
Myron smiled. “They cross the foul line. Just for a second. Just to do good. Then they scramble back into fair territory. But when you do that too often, you start smearing the line.”
“Perhaps the line is supposed to be smeared,” Win said.
“Perhaps.”
“On balance, you and I do good.”
“That balance might be better if we didn’t stray across the line so much—even if that meant letting a few more injustices remain injustices.”
Win shrugged. “Your call.”
Myron sat back. “You know what’s bothering me the most about this conversation?”
“What’s that?”
“That I don’t think it’ll change anything. That I think you’re probably right.”
“But you’re not sure,” Win said.
“No, I’m not sure.”
“And you still don’t like it.”
“I definitely don’t like it,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
CHAPTER 40
Big Cyndi was totally in orange. An orange sweatshirt. Orange parachute pants like something stolen from MC Hammer’s 1989 closet. Dyed orange hair. Orange fingernail polish. Orange—don’t ask how—skin. She looked like a mutant teenage carrot.
“Orange is Esperanza’s favorite color,” she told Myron.
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
Myron shook his head. “Blue is.” For a moment, he pictured a giant Smurf.
Big Cyndi mulled that one over. “Orange is her second favorite color?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Satisfied, Big Cyndi smiled and strung up a sign across the reception area that read WELCOME BACK, ESPERANZA!
Myron moved into his inner office. He made some calls, managed to do a little work, kept listening for the elevator.
Finally, the elevator dinged at 10:00 A.M. The doors slid open. Myron stayed put. He heard Big Cyndi’s squeal of delight; the floors below them almost evacuated at the sound. He felt the vibrations of Big Cyndi leaping to her feet. Myron stood now and still waited. He heard cries and sighs and reassurances.
Two minutes later Esperanza entered Myron’s office. She didn’t knock. As always.
Their hug was a little awkward. Myron backed off, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Welcome back.”
Esperanza tried a smile. “Thanks.”
Silence.
“You knew about my personal involvement the whole time, didn’t you?”
Esperanza said nothing.
“That’s the part I could never resolve,” Myron said.
“Myron, don’t—”
“You’re my best friend,” he continued. “You know I’d do anything for you. So I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why you wouldn’t talk to me. It made no sense. At first I thought you were angry at me for disappearing. But that isn’t like you. Then I thought you had an affair with Clu and you didn’t want me to know. But that was wrong. Then I thought it was because you had an affair with Bonnie—”
“Showing very poor judgment,” Esperanza added.
“Yes. But I’m hardly in a position to lecture you. And you wouldn’t be afraid to tell me about it. Especially with the stakes so high. So I kept wondering, What could be so bad that you wouldn’t talk to me? Win thought that the only explanation was that you did indeed kill Clu.”
“That Win,” Esperanza said. “Always the sunny side.”
“But even that wouldn’t do it. I’d still stick by you. You knew that. There is only one reason you wouldn’t tell me the truth—”
Esperanza sighed. “I need a shower.”
“You were protecting me.”
She looked at him. “Don’t get all mushy on me, okay? I hate when you do that.”
“Bonnie told you about the car accident. About my bribing the cops.”
“Pillow talk,” Esperanza said with a shrug.
“And once you were arrested, you made her swear to keep her mouth shut. Not for your sake or hers. But for mine. You knew that if the bribes ever became public, I’d be ruined. I’d committed a serious felony. I’d be disbarred or worse. And you knew that if I ever found out, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from telling the DA because it would’ve been enough to get you off.”
Esperanza put her hands on her hips. “Is there a point to this, Myron?”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Nothing to thank me for. You were too weak coming off Brenda. I was afraid you’d do something stupid. You have that habit.”
He hugged her again. She hugged him back. Nothing felt awkward this time. When they broke the embrace, he stepped back. “Thank you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You are my best friend.”
“And I did it for my sake too, Myron. For the business. My business.”
“I know.”
“So do we still have any clients left?” she asked.
“A few.”
“Maybe we better get on the horn then.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I love you, Esperanza.”
“Shut up before I puke my guts out.”
“And you love me.”
“If you start singing ‘Barney,’ I’ll kill you. I’ve already done prison time. I’m not afraid to do more.”
Big Cyndi stuck her head in. She was smiling. With the orange skin, she looked like the most frightening jack-o’-lantern imaginable. “Marty Towey on line two.”
“I’ll take it,” Esperanza said.
“And I have Enos Cabral on line three.”
“Mine,” said Myron.
At the end of a wonderfully long workday Win came into the office. “I spoke to Esperanza,” he said. “We’re all doing pizza and old CBS Sunday at my place.”
“I can’t.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “All in the Family, M*A*S*H, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, Carol Burnett?”
“Sorry.”
“The Sammy Davis episode of All in the Family?”
“Not tonight, Win.”
Win looked concerned. “I know you want to punish yourself,” he said, “but this is taking self-flagellation too far.”
Myron smiled. “It’s not that.”
“Don’t tell me you want to be alone. You never want to be alone.”
“Sorry, I got other plans,” Myron said.
Win arched the eyebrow, turned, left without another word.
Myron picked up the phone. He dialed the familiar number. “I’m on my way,” he said.
“Good,” Mom said. “I already called Fong’s. I got two orders of shrimp with lobster sauce.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“I really don’t like their shrimp in lobster sauce anymore.”
“What? You’ve always loved it. It’s your favorite.”
“Not since I was fourteen.”
“So how come you never told me?”
“I have. Several times.”
“And what, you expect me to remember every little thing? So what are you trying to tell me, Myron, your taste buds are too mature for Fong’s shrimp with lobster sauce now? Who do you think you are, the Galloping Gourmet or something?”
Myron heard his father yell in the background. “Stop bothering the boy.”
“Who’s bothering him? Myron, am I bothering you?”
“And tell him to hurry,” Dad shouted. “The game’s almost on.”
“Big deal, Al. He doesn’t care.”
Myron said, “Tell Dad I’m on my way.”
“Drive slowly, Myron. There’s no rush. The game will wait.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Wear a seat belt.”
“Sure thing.”
“And your father has a surprise for you.”
“Ellen!” It was Dad again.
“What’s the big deal, Al?”
“I wanted to tell him—”
“Oh stop being silly, Al. Myron?”
; “Yeah, Mom?”
“Your father bought tickets to a Mets game. For Sunday. Just the two of you.”
Myron swallowed, said nothing.
“They’re playing the Tunas,” Mom said.
“The Marlins!” Dad shouted.
“Tunas, marlins—what’s the difference? You going to be a marine biologist now, Al? Is that what you’re going to do with your leisure time, study fish?”
Myron smiled.
“Myron, you there?”
“I’m on my way, Mom.”
He hung up. He slapped his thighs and stood. He said good night to Esperanza and Big Cyndi. He stepped into the elevator and managed a smile. Friends and lovers were great, he thought, but sometimes a boy just wanted his mom and dad.
For Aunt Evelyn in Revere,
with lots and lots of love
And in memory of Larry Gerson
1962–1998
Close your eyes and you can still see the smile
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Harlan Coben
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, N.Y.
Dell® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99–89788
eISBN: 978-0-307-48358-4
v3.0_r1
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Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Darkest Fear
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
“What is your darkest fear?” the voice whispers. Close your eyes now and picture it. Can you see it? Do you have it yet? The very worst agony you can imagine?”
After a long pause, I say, “Yes.”
“Good. Now imagine something worse, something far, far worse …”
—“The Mind of Terror” by Stan Gibbs,
column in the New York Herald,
January 16
1
An hour before his world exploded like a ripe tomato under a stiletto heel, Myron bit into a fresh pastry that tasted suspiciously like a urinal cake.
“Well?” Mom prompted.
Myron battled his throat, won a costly victory, swallowed. “Not bad.”
Mom shook her head, disappointed.
“What?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Mom said. “You’d think I’d have raised a better liar.”
“You did the best you could,” Myron said.
She shrugged and waved a hand at the, uh, pastry. “It’s my first time baking, bubbe. It’s okay to tell me the truth.”
“It’s like biting into a urinal cake,” Myron said.
“A what?”
“In men’s public bathrooms. In the urinals. They put them there for the smell or something.”
“And you eat them?”
“No—”
“Is that why your father takes so long in there? He’s having a little Tastykake? And here I thought his prostate was acting up.”
“I’m joking, Mom.”
She smiled through blue eyes tinged with a red that Visine could never hope to get out, the red you can only get through slow, steady tears. Normally Mom was heavily into histrionics. Slow, steady tears were not her style. “So am I, Mr. Smarty Pants. You think you’re the only one in this family with a sense of humor?”
Myron said nothing. He looked down at the, uh, pastry, fearing or perhaps hoping it might crawl away. In the thirty-plus years his mother had lived in this house, she had never baked—not from a recipe, not from scratch, not even from one of those Pillsbury morning croissant thingies that came in small mailing tubes. She could barely boil water without strict instructions and pretty much never cooked, though she could whip up a mean Celeste frozen pizza in the microwave, her agile fingers dancing across the numerical keypad in the vein of Nureyev at Lincoln Center. No, in the Bolitar household, the kitchen was more a gathering place—a Family Room Lite, if you will—than anything related to even the basest of the culinary arts. The round table held magazines and catalogs and congealing white boxes of Chinese takeout. The stovetop saw less action than a Merchant-Ivory production. The oven was a prop, strictly for show, like a politician’s Bible.
Something was definitely amiss.
They were sitting in the living room with the dated pseudo-leather white modular couch and aqua-tinged rug whose shagginess reminded Myron of a toilet-seat cover. Grown-up Greg Brady. Myron kept stealing glances out the picture window at the For Sale sign in the front yard as though it were a spaceship that had just landed and something sinister was about to step out.
“Where’s Dad?”
Mom gave a weary wave toward the door. “He’s in the basement.”
“In my room?”
“Your old room, yes. You moved out, remember?”
He did—at the tender age of thirty-four no less. Childcare experts would salivate and tsk-tsk over that one—the prodigal son choosing to remain in his split-level cocoon long after the deemed appropriate deadline for the butterfly to break free. But Myron might argue the opposite. He might bring up the fact that for generations and in most cultures, offspring lived in the familial home until a ripe old age, that adopting such a philosophy could indeed be a societal boom, helping people stay rooted to something tangible in this era of the disintegrating nuclear family. Or, if that rationale didn’t float your boat, Myron could try another. He had a million.
But the truth of the matter was far simpler: He liked hanging out in the burbs with Mom and Dad—even if confessing such a sentiment was about as hip as an Air Supply eight track.
“So what’s going on?” he asked.
“Your father doesn’t know you’re here yet,” she said. “He thinks you’re not coming for another hour.”
Myron nodded, puzzled. “What’s he doing in the basement?”
“He bought a computer. Your father plays with it down there.”
“Dad?”
“My point exactly. The man can’t change a lightbulb without a manual—all of a sudden he’s Bill Gates. Always on the nest.”
“The Net,” Myron corrected.
“The what?”
“It’s called the Net, Mom.”
“I
thought it was nest. The bird’s nest or something.”
“No, it’s Net.”
“Are you sure? I know there’s a bird in there somewhere.”
“The Web maybe,” Myron tried. “Like with a spider.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Anyway your father is on there all the time, weaving the Web or whatever. He chats with people, Myron. That’s what he tells me. He chats with complete strangers. Like he used to do with the CB radio, remember?”
Myron remembered. Circa 1976. Jewish Dads in the suburbs checking for “smokeys” on the way to the delicatessen. Mighty convoy of Cadillac Sevilles. Ten-four, good buddy.
“And that’s not all,” she went on. “He’s typing his memoirs. A man who can’t scribble down a grocery list without consulting Strunk and White suddenly thinks he’s an ex-president.”
They were selling the house. Myron still could not believe it. His eyes wandered about the overly familiar surroundings, his gaze getting snagged on the photographs running up the stairwell. He saw his family mature via fashion—the skirts and sideburns lengthening and shortening, the quasi-hippie fringes and suede and tie-dyes, the leisure suits and bell-bottoms, the frilly tuxedos that would be too tacky for a Vegas casino—the years flying by frame by frame like one of those depressing life insurance commercials. He spotted the poses from his basketball days—a sixth-grade suburban-league foul shot, an eighth-grade drive to the hoop, a high school slam dunk—the row ending with Sports Illustrated cover shots, two from his days at Duke and one with his leg in a cast and a large-fonted IS HE FINISHED? emblazoned across his knee-cast image (the answer in the mind’s eye being an equally large-fonted YES!).