by Harlan Coben
21
First thing in the morning, Myron called Terese. Still no answer. He frowned at the phone. “Am I getting the big kiss-off?” he asked Win.
“Doubtful,” Win said. He was reading the newspaper and wearing silk pajamas with a matching bathrobe and slippers. Give him a pipe and he could have been something Noël Coward created on an off day.
“What makes you say that?”
“Our Ms. Collins appears to be rather direct,” Win said. “If you were being tossed into the dung heap, you’d know the smell.”
“And then there’s the part about my being irresistible to women,” Myron said.
Win turned the page.
“So what’s she up to?”
Win tapped his chin with his index finger. “What’s the term you relationship people use? Oh, yes. Space. Perhaps she needs some space.”
“ ‘Needing space’ is usually a code phrase for the big kiss-off.”
“Yes, well, whatever.” Win crossed his legs. “You want me to look into it?”
“Into what?”
“What Ms. Collins might be up to.”
“No.”
“Fine,” Win said. “Let’s move on, shall we? Tell me about your encounter with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Myron recapped the interrogation.
“So we don’t know what they wanted,” Win said.
“Correct.”
“Not a clue?”
“Nothing. Except that they were scared.”
“Curious.”
Myron nodded.
Win took a sip of tea, pinky up. Oh, the horrors that pinky had witnessed, partaken in, even. They sat in Win’s formal dining room and used a silver tea set. Victorian mahogany table with lion-paw feet, silver tea set, silver milk pitcher, boxes of Cap’n Crunch and some new cereal called Oreo, which is exactly what you would imagine. “Theorizing at this juncture is a waste of time. I’ll make some calls, see what I can find out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m still not sure I see a connection between Stan Gibbs and our blood donor.”
“It’s a long shot,” Myron agreed.
“More than that. A newspaper columnist makes up a story about a serial kidnapper and now—what?—we think the fictional character is the donor?”
“Stan Gibbs claims the story is real.”
“Does he now?”
“Yes.”
Win rubbed his chin. “Pray tell, why does he not defend himself?”
“No clue.”
“Presumably because he is guilty,” Win said. “Man is, above all, selfish. He’s into self-preservation. It’s instinctive. He does not martyr himself. He cares about one thing above all else: saving his hide.”
“Assuming I agree with your sunny view of human nature, wouldn’t you agree that man would lie to save himself?”
“Of course,” Win said.
“So armed with this pretty decent defense—the idea that the serial kidnapper copycatted the novel—why wouldn’t Stan use it to defend himself, even if he was guilty of plagiarism?”
Win nodded. “I like the way you’re thinking.”
“Cynically, yes.”
The intercom buzzed. Win pressed the button, and the doorman announced Esperanza. A minute later, she swept into the room, grabbed a chair, and poured herself a bowl of Oreo cereal.
“Why do they always say it’s ‘part of this complete breakfast’?” Esperanza asked. “Every single time, every single cereal. What’s all that about?”
Nobody replied.
Esperanza took a spoonful, looked at Win, head-gestured toward Myron. “I hate it when he’s right,” she said to Win.
“A bad omen,” Win agreed.
Myron said, “I was right?”
She turned her gaze to Myron. “I did that school check on Dennis Lex. I tracked down any and all educational institutions any of his siblings or parents had gone to. Nothing. College, high school, middle school—even grammar school. No trace of Dennis Lex.”
“But?” Myron said.
“Preschool.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“You found his preschool?”
“I’m more than just a great piece of ass,” Esperanza said.
Win said, “Not to me, my dear.”
“You’re sweet, Win.”
Win bowed his head slightly.
“Miss Peggy Joyce,” Esperanza said. “She still teaches and runs the Shady Wells Montessori School for Children in East Hampton.”
“And she remembers Dennis Lex?” Myron said. “From thirty years ago?”
“Apparently.” Esperanza shoved in another spoonful and tossed Myron a sheet of paper. “This is her address. She’s expecting you this morning. Drive safely now, ya hear?”
22
The car phone rang. “The old man is a lying sack of shit.” It was Greg Downing.
“What?”
“The geezer is lying.”
“You mean Nathan Mostoni?”
“Jesus Christ, what other old man have I been watching?”
Myron switched ears. “What makes you think he’s lying, Greg?”
“Lots of things.”
“Like?”
“Like starting with Mostoni never hearing from the bone marrow center. Does that sound logical to you?”
He thought of Karen Singh and her dedication and the stakes. “No,” Myron said, “but it’s like we said before—he might be confused.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Nathan Mostoni goes out plenty on his own, for one thing. Sometimes he acts loony, but other times, he seems just fine. He shops himself. He talks to people. He dresses like a normal person.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Myron said.
“No? An hour ago he went out, right? So I got close to the house, right up against the back window, and I dialed that number, the one you got for the donor.”
“And?”
“And I hear a phone inside the house ringing.”
That made Myron pause.
“So what do you think we should do?” Greg asked.
“I’m not sure. Have you seen anybody else at the house?”
“Nobody. Mostoni goes out but nobody’s been here. And I tell you something else. He looks younger now. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s weird. You making any headway on your end?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s some answer, Myron.”
“The only one I got.”
“So what do you think we should do about Mostoni?”
“I’ll have Esperanza do a background check. In the meantime, stay on him.”
“Time’s a-ticking away here, Myron.”
“I know that. I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected the call and flipped on the radio. Chaka Khan was singing “Ain’t Nobody Love You Better.” If you can listen to that one without moving your feet, you got some serious rhythm issues. He took the Long Island Expressway east, which was shockingly clear today. Usually the road was more or less a parking lot that swayed forward every couple of minutes.
People always tell you that the Hamptons, the swanky Long Island summer spot where Manhattanites get away from it all by being with other Manhattanites, is best in the off season. You always hear that about vacation spots. People, mostly vacationers themselves, whine through the high-season months, waiting to reach this apex of a theoretically swarmless nirvana. But—and this was the part Myron never understood—no one is ever in the Hamptons in the off months. No one. Downtown is dead to the point of craving tumbleweeds. Shop owners sigh and discount nothing. The restaurants are less crowded, sure, but they’re also closed. And hey, let’s be honest here, the weather and beaches and even the people-watching are big draws here. Who goes to a Long Island beach in the winter?
The school was in a residential neighborhood with older, more modest homes—a place where the true L
ong Island regulars, none of whom hang out with Alec and Kim at Nick and Toni’s, resided. Myron parked in a church lot and followed the signs down the steps into the rectory’s basement. A young woman, a hall monitor of sorts, greeted Myron at the landing. He gave her his name and said he was here to see Ms. Joyce. The young woman nodded and told him to follow her.
The corridor was silent. Strange when one considered that this was a preschool. Preschool. Another new term. In Myron’s day, they had called them nursery schools. Myron wondered when the name had changed and what group had considered the term nursery school somehow discriminatory. Professional RNs? Breastfeeding mothers? Bottle-fed infants maybe?
Still silent. Perhaps it was vacation or naptime. Myron was about to ask the young hall monitor when she opened a door. He looked in. Wrong-a-mundo. The room was chock full of small children, probably twenty give or take, and they were all working independently and in total silence. The older teacher smiled at Myron. She whispered to the little boy she was working with—he was doing something with blocks and letters—and stood.
“Hello,” she said to Myron, speaking softly.
“Hi,” Myron whispered back.
She leaned toward the young monitor. “Miss Simmons, will you help Mrs. McLaughlin?”
“Of course.”
Peggy Joyce wore an open yellow sweater over a buttoned-at-the-neck blouse. The collar was frilly. She had half-moon glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “We can chat in my office.”
“Okay.” He followed her. The place was silent as, well, a place without children. Myron asked, “Do you give those kids Valium?”
She smiled. “Just a little Montessori.”
“A little what?”
“You don’t have children, do you?”
The question caused a pang, but he answered in the negative.
“It’s a teaching philosophy created by Dr. Maria Montessori, Italy’s first female physician.”
“It seems to work.”
“I suppose.”
“Do the children act like this at home?”
“Good Lord, no. Truth be told, it doesn’t translate into the real world. But few things do.”
They moved into the office, which consisted of a wooden desk, three chairs, one file cabinet.
“How long have you taught here?” Myron asked.
“I’m in my forty-third year.”
“Wow.”
“Yes.”
“I guess you’ve seen lots of changes?”
“In kids? Almost none. Children don’t change, Mr. Bolitar. A five-year-old is still a five-year-old.”
“Still innocent.”
She cocked her head. “ ‘Innocent’ isn’t the word I would use. Children are total id. They are perhaps the most naturally vicious creatures on God’s green earth.”
“Strange outlook for a preschool teacher.”
“Just an honest one.”
“So what word would you use?”
She thought about it. “If pressed, I’d say ‘unformed.’ Or maybe ‘undeveloped.’ Like a picture you’ve already taken but haven’t processed yet.”
Myron nodded, though he had no idea what she meant. There was something about Peggy Joyce that was a little, well, scary.
“Do you remember that book All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
“It’s true, but not in the way you think. School removes children from their warm parental cocoon. School teaches them to bully or be bullied. School teaches them how to be cruel to one another. School teaches them that Mommy and Daddy lied to them when they told them that they were special and unique.”
Myron said nothing.
“You don’t agree?”
“I don’t teach preschool.”
“That’s sidestepping, Mr. Bolitar.”
Myron shrugged. “They learn socialization. That’s a hard lesson. And like every hard lesson, you have to get it wrong before you can get it right.”
“They learn boundaries, in other words?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. And perhaps true. But you remember when I was giving the film-processing example earlier?”
“Yes.”
“School only processes the picture. It doesn’t snap it.”
“Okay,” Myron said, not wanting to follow her train of thought.
“What I mean is, everything is pretty much decided by the time these children leave here and enter kindergarten. I can tell who will be successful and who will fail, who will end up happy and who will end up in prison, and ninety percent of the time I’m right. Maybe Hollywood and video games have an influence, I don’t know. But I can usually tell which kid will be watching too many violent movies or playing too many violent games.”
“You can tell all this by the time they’re five years old?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“And you feel that’s it? That they don’t have the ability to change?”
“The ability? Oh, probably. But they’re already on a path, and while they may still be able to change it, the majority do not. Staying on the path is easier.”
“So let me ask you the eternal question: Is it nature or nurture?”
She smiled. “I get asked that all the time.”
“And?”
“I answer nurture. Know why?”
Myron shook his head.
“Believing in nurture is like believing in God. You might be wrong, but you might as well cover your bases.” She folded her hands and leaned forward. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Bolitar?”
“Do you remember a student named Dennis Lex?”
“I remember all my students. Does that surprise you?”
Myron didn’t want her going off on another tangent. “Did you teach the other Lex children?”
“I taught them all. Their father made a lot of changes after his book became a bestseller. But he kept them here.”
“So what can you tell me about Dennis Lex?”
She sat back and regarded him as though seeing him for the first time. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m wondering when you’re going to tell me what this is all about. I’m talking to you, Mr. Bolitar—and breaching confidences, I suspect—because I think you’re here for a very specific reason.”
“What reason is that, Ms. Joyce?”
Her eyes had a steely glint. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Bolitar.”
She was right. “I’m trying to find Dennis Lex.”
Peggy Joyce kept still.
“I know this sounds weird,” he went on. “But as far as I can tell, he fell off the earth after preschool.”
She stared straight ahead, though Myron had no idea at what. There were no photographs on the walls, no diplomas, no drawings by little hands. Just cold wall. “Not after,” she said finally. “During.”
There was a knock on the door. Peggy Joyce said, “Come in.” The young hall monitor, Miss Simmons, entered with a little boy. His head was down and he’d been crying. “James needs a little time,” Miss Simmons said.
Peggy Joyce nodded. “Let him lie on the mat.”
James eyed Myron and left with Miss Simmons.
Myron turned to Peggy Joyce. “What happened to Dennis Lex?”
“It’s a question I’ve been waiting for someone to ask for more than thirty years,” she said.
“What’s the answer?”
“First, tell me why you’re looking for him.”
“I’m trying to find a bone marrow donor. I think it might be Dennis Lex.” He gave her as few details as he could. When he finished, she put a bony hand to her face.
“I don’t think I can help you,” she said. “It was so long ago.”
“Please, Ms. Joyce. A child will die if I don’t find him. You’re my only lead.”
“You spoke to his family?”
“Only his sister Susan.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“You could start by telling me what Dennis was like.”
She sighed and neatly arranged her hands on her thighs. “He was like the other Lex children—very bright, thoughtful, contemplative, perhaps a bit too much so for so young a child. With most students, I try to get them to grow up a bit. With the Lex children, that was never an issue.”
Myron nodded, trying to encourage.
“Dennis was the youngest. You probably know that. He was here the same time as his brother Bronwyn. Susan was older.” She stopped, looked lost.
“What happened to him?”
“One day he and Bronwyn didn’t come to school. I got a call from their father saying that he was taking them on an unplanned vacation.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t say. He wasn’t being very specific.”
“Okay, go on.”
“That’s pretty much it, Mr. Bolitar. Two weeks later, Bronwyn came back to school. I never saw Dennis again.”
“You called his father?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that Dennis wouldn’t be coming back.”
“Did you ask him why?”
“Of course. But … did you ever meet Raymond Lex?”
“No.”
“You didn’t question a man like that. He mentioned something about home schooling. When I pressed, he made it clear it was none of my concern. Over the years, I’ve tried to keep track of the family, even when they moved out of the area. But like you, I never heard anything about Dennis.”
“What did you think happened?”
She looked at him. “I assumed he was dead.”
Her words, though not all that surprising, worked like a vacuum, sucking the room dry, forcing out the air.
“Why?” Myron asked.
“I figured that he was ill, and that was why he was pulled out of school.”
“Why would Mr. Lex try to hide something like that?”
“I don’t know. After his novel became a bestseller, he became private to the point of paranoia. Are you sure this donor you’re looking for is Dennis Lex?”
“Not sure, no.”
Peggy Joyce snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait, I have something you may find interesting.” She stood and opened a file drawer. She sifted through it, pulled something out, studied it for a moment. Her elbow smacked the drawer closed. “This was taken two months before Dennis left us.”