by Harlan Coben
I pulled my knees in to my chest. As I did, I felt something small and jagged against my leg. A small shard of glass, I figured, or maybe a rough pebble. I looked down at the ground, and with mounting dread, I saw that it was neither.
It was a tooth.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked across and saw a hint of a smile on Otto's model face. He opened the box, revealing a set of rusted tools. I saw a set of pliers, a hacksaw, a box cutter--and then I stopped looking.
Bob: "Where is she?"
"I already told you. I don't know."
"That answer," Bob said. I could see the back of his head shaking. "It's very disappointing."
Otto remained impassive. He kept the gun aimed at me, but his gaze kept sneaking a loving look at his tools. The dead eyes would light up when they landed on the pliers, the hacksaw, the box cutter.
Bob again: "Jake?"
"What?"
"Otto is going to cuff you now. You won't do anything stupid. He has a gun, and hey, we can always drive back to campus and use your students for target practice. You understand me?"
I swallowed again, my mind whirling. "I don't know anything."
Bob gave an overdramatic sigh. "I didn't ask you if you knew anything, Jake. Well, I mean, yes, I asked you that before, but right now, I'm asking if you understand what I said--about the handcuffs and the student target practice. Did you understand all that, Jake?"
"Yes."
"Okay, so stay still." Bob used his blinker and slid into the left lane. We were still on the highway. "Go ahead, Otto."
I didn't have much time. I knew that. Seconds maybe. Once the handcuff was in place--once I was fastened to the van wall--I was finished. I looked down at the tooth.
A good reminder of what was about to come.
Otto came at me from near the back door. He still held the gun. I could rush him, I guess, but he'd be expecting that. I considered trying to open the side door and roll out, take my chances with this van moving more than sixty miles per hour on a highway. But the door locks were down. I'd never get one open in time.
Otto finally spoke: "Grab the bar next to the cuff with your left hand. Use all your fingers to hold on."
I got why. I'd have one hand occupied. Only one to watch. Not that it would matter. It would take him a mere second to snap the cuff into place, and then, well, game over. I gripped the bar--and an idea came to me.
It was a long shot, maybe even an impossibility, but once the cuff snapped down and I was locked into place and Otto went to work on me with his little toolbox . . .
I had no choice.
Otto was prepared for me to rush at him. What he wasn't prepared for was my going in the other direction.
I tried to relax. Timing was everything here. I was tall. Without that, I didn't have a chance. I was also counting on the fact that Otto wouldn't want to shoot me, that they truly did want me--as Bob had implied with his threat about shooting students instead of me--alive.
I would have a second. Less. Tenths of a second maybe.
Otto reached toward the cuff. When his fingers found it, I made my move.
Using the hand gripping the bar for leverage, I swung my legs up--but not to kick Otto. That would be pointless and expected. Instead, I pushed off, making my long body horizontal. I wasn't exactly flying across the van like some veteran martial artist, but with my height and all those damn core exercises I'd been doing, I was able to snap my leg around like a whip.
I aimed the heel of my shoe for the side of Bob's head.
Otto reacted fast. At the exact moment my heel hit pay dirt, Otto tackled me in midair, dropping me hard to the ground. He grabbed me around the neck and started to squeeze.
But he was too late.
My kick had landed on Bob's skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob's hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me--and the gun--into a rolling heap.
It was on.
Otto still had his arm around my neck, but without the gun, it was just man against man. He was a good, experienced fighter. I was a good, experienced fighter. He was probably six feet tall and 180 pounds. I'm nearly six-six and weigh 230.
Advantage: Me.
I smashed him hard against the back of the van. His grip on my neck loosened. I smashed him again. He let go. My eyes searched the van floor for the gun.
I couldn't see it.
The van was still veering right, then left, as Bob tried to regain control.
I stumbled forward, landing on my knees. I heard a skittering noise, and there, in the corner in front of me, I saw the gun. I crawled toward it, but Otto grabbed me by the leg and pulled me back. We had a brief tug-of-war, me trying to get closer to the gun, him pulling me back. I tried to stomp on his face, but I missed.
Then Otto lowered his head and bit hard into my leg.
I let out a howl of pain.
He held on to the meaty part of my calf by the teeth. Panicked, I kicked out harder. He held on. The pain was making my vision grow cloudy again. The van mercifully swerved again. Otto flew to the right. I rolled to the left. He landed near the tool chest. His fingers disappeared inside of it.
Where the hell was that gun?
I couldn't find it.
From the front, Bob said, "Give up now and we won't hurt more students."
But I wasn't listening to that crap. I looked left and right. No sign of the gun.
Otto pulled his hand back into view. He had the box cutter now. He hit the button with his thumb. The blade popped out.
Suddenly my size advantage was irrelevant.
He started toward me, leading with the sharp edge. I was cornered and trapped. No sign of the gun. No real chance of jumping him without getting sliced up good. That left me with only one option.
When in doubt, go with what has already worked.
I turned and punched Bob in the back of the head.
Once again the van swerved, sending both Otto and me airborne. When I landed, I saw an opening. I lowered my head and dived at him. Otto still had the box cutter. He lashed out at me, but I grabbed his wrist. Once again I tried to use my weight advantage.
Up front, Bob was having a tougher time controlling the car.
Otto and I started rolling. I kept one hand on his wrist. I wrapped my legs around his body. I jammed my free forearm into the crook of Otto's neck, trying to get at his windpipe. He lowered his chin to block. Still I had my forearm against his neck. If I could just worm my arm in a little deeper . . .
That was when it happened.
Bob slammed on the brakes. The van stopped short. The momentum lifted Otto and me into the air and sent us crashing hard against the floor. The thing was, my forearm stayed pinned against his throat throughout. Think about it. My weight plus the velocity of the car and the sudden stop--it all turned my forearm into a pile driver.
I heard a horrible crinkling sound, like dozens of damp twigs snapping. Otto's windpipe gave way like wet papier-mache. My arm hit something hard--I could actually feel the floor of the van through the skin and cartilage of his neck. Otto's entire body went slack. I looked down at the pretty-boy face. The eyes were open, and now they did not just appear lifeless--they genuinely were.
I almost hoped for a blink. There was none.
Otto was dead.
I rolled off him.
"Otto?"
It was Bob. From the driver's seat, I saw him reach into his pocket. I wondered whether he was reaching for a gun, but I was not in the mood to hang around and find out. I grabbed the lock on the back door of the van and pulled it up. I pulled the handle and took one last look back as the back door opened.
Yep, Bob had a gun, and it was aimed right at me.
I ducked as the bullet landed above my head. So much for not wanting me dead. I rolled out of the back of the van and landed hard on my right shoulder. I saw headlights heading toward me. My eyes widened. A car was headed directly for me.
I ducked and ro
lled yet again. Tires screeched. The car passed so close to me I felt the dirt kick up into my face. Horns began to honk. Someone cursed.
Bob's van began to move. The feeling of relief flooded my veins. I clawed my way to the relative safety of the left shoulder. With all the cars flying by, I figured Bob would drive away.
He didn't.
The van was now on the same shoulder, maybe twenty yards from where I lay sprawled.
With the gun still in his hand, Bob jumped out of the driver's-side door. I was spent. I didn't think I could move, but here's the thing: When someone has a gun, stuff like pain and exhaustion become, at best, secondary.
Again I had only one option.
I leapt straight into the bush off the side of the road. I didn't look first. I didn't test it out. I just leapt. In the darkness I hadn't seen the incline. I tumbled down through the brush, letting gravity take me farther away from the road. I expected to reach the bottom soon, but it seemed to take a long time.
I tumbled long and hard. My head smacked against a rock. My legs hit a tree. My ribs hit . . . I don't even know what. I kept rolling. I tumbled through the thicket, tumbled and tumbled until my eyes began to close and the world turned black and still.
Chapter 15
When I saw the headlights, I let out a gasp and tried yet again to roll away. The headlights followed me.
"Sir?"
I lay flat on my back, staring straight up in the air. That was curious. How could a car be approaching me head-on if I was facing the sky? I raised my arm to block the light. A thunderbolt of pain ripped down my shoulder socket.
"Sir, are you okay?"
I shielded my eyes and squinted. The two headlights merged into one flashlight. The person pointing it moved the beam away from my eyes. I blinked up and saw a cop standing over me. I sat up slowly, my entire body crying out in protest.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"You don't know where you are?"
I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was pitch-dark. I was lying in shrubbery of some kind. For a moment I flashed back to my freshman year of college, that time I ended up in a bush after a night of too much inexperienced drinking.
"What's your name, sir?" the cop asked.
"Jake Fisher."
"Mr. Fisher, have you been drinking tonight?"
"I was attacked," I said.
"Attacked?"
"Two men with guns."
"Mr. Fisher?"
"Yes?"
The cop had that condescending-patient-cop tone. "Have you been drinking tonight?"
"I was. Much earlier."
"Mr. Fisher, I'm State Trooper John Ong. You appear to have some injuries. Would you like us to take you to a hospital?"
I was trying hard to focus. Every brain wave seemed to travel through some kind of shower-door distortion. "I'm not sure."
"We will call for an ambulance," he said.
"I don't think that's necessary." I looked around. "Where am I?"
"Mr. Fisher, may I see some identification, please?"
"Sure." I reached into my back pocket, but then I remembered that I had tossed my wallet and phone into the front passenger seat next to Bob. "They stole it."
"Who?"
"The two men who attacked me."
"The guys with the guns?"
"Yes."
"So it was a robbery?"
"No."
The images flashed across my eyes--my forearm against Otto's neck, the box cutter in his hand, the tool chest, the handcuff, that naked, horrible, paralyzing fear, the sudden stop, the squelching sound as his windpipe collapsed like a twig. I closed my eyes and tried to make them go away.
Then, almost more to myself than State Trooper Ong, "I killed one of them."
"Excuse me?"
There were tears in my eyes now. I did not know what to do. I had killed a man, but it had been both an accident and in self-defense. I needed to explain that. I couldn't just keep that to myself. I knew better. Many of the students who majored in political science were also pre-law. Most of my fellow professors had even gotten their JDs and passed the bar. I knew a lot about the Constitution and rights and how our legal system worked. In short, you need to be careful about what you say. You cannot "unring" that bell. I wanted to talk. I needed to talk. But I couldn't just blurt out admissions of murder.
I heard sirens and saw the ambulance pull up.
State Trooper John Ong shone the light back in my eyes. That couldn't have been an accident. "Mr. Fisher?"
"I'd like to call my attorney," I said.
*
I don't have an attorney.
I am a single college professor with no criminal record and very few resources. What would I need an attorney for?
"Okay, I have good news and bad news," Benedict said.
I had instead called Benedict. Benedict wasn't a member of the bar, but he had gotten a law degree at Stanford. I sat on one of those gurneys covered with what seemed to be butcher paper. I was in the ER of a small hospital. The doctor on duty--who looked almost as exhausted as I felt--had told me that I had probably suffered a concussion. My head ached like it. I also had various contusions, cuts, and maybe a sprain. He didn't know what to make of the teeth marks. With the adrenaline spikes ebbing away, the pain was gaining ground and confidence. He promised to prescribe some Percocet for me.
"I'm listening," I said.
"The good news is, the cops think you've gone completely nuts and don't believe a word of what you say."
"And the bad news?"
"I tend to agree with them, though I add the strong possibility of an alcohol-induced hallucination."
"I was attacked."
"Yes, I get that," Benedict said. "Two men, guns, a van, something about power tools."
"Tools. No one said anything about power."
"Right, whatever. You also drank a lot and then you got some strange."
I pulled up my calf to reveal the bite mark. "How do you explain that?"
"Wendy must have been wild."
"Windy," I corrected him. This was pointless. "So what now?"
"I don't like to brag," Benedict said, "but I have some top-drawer legal advice for you, if you'd like to hear it."
"I do."
"Stop confessing to killing another human being."
"Wow," I said, "and you didn't want to brag."
"It's also in a lot of the law books," Benedict said. "Look, the license plate number you gave? It doesn't exist. There is no body or signs of violence or a crime--only a minor misdemeanor because you, admittedly drunk, trespassed into a man's backyard by falling down a hill. The cops are willing to let you go with just a ticket. Let's just get home and then we can figure it out, okay?"
It was hard to argue with that logic. It would be wise for me to get out of this place, to get back on campus, to rest and regroup and recover, to consider everything that had happened in the sober light of familiar day. Plus, I had taught Constitution 101 one semester. The Fifth Amendment protects you against self-incrimination. Maybe I should use that right now.
Benedict drove. My head spun. The doc had given me a shot that had lifted me up and dropped me in the middle of Loopy Land. I tried to focus, but putting aside the drinking and drugs, the threat to life was hard to shake. I had literally had to fight for survival. What was going on here? What could Natalie have to do with all this?
As we pulled into the staff parking lot, I saw a campus police car near my front door. Benedict looked a question at me. I shrugged and stepped out of the car. The head rush as I stood nearly floored me. I made my way to a standing position and started gingerly up the path. Evelyn Stemmer was the head of campus security. She was a petite woman with a ready smile. The ready smile wasn't there right now.
"We've been trying to reach you, Professor Fisher," she said.
"My cell phone was stolen."
"I see. Do you mind coming with me?"
"Where?"
"President's house. President Tripp
needs to speak with you."
Benedict stepped between us. "What's this about, Evelyn?"
She looked at him as though he'd just plopped out of a rhino's rectum. "I'd rather let President Tripp do the talking. Me, I'm just an errand girl."
I was too out of it to protest. What would be the point anyway? Benedict wanted to come with us, but I really didn't think it would behoove my position to have my best friend visit my boss with me. The front seat of the campus police car had some kind of computer in it. I had to sit in the back like a real-life perp.
The president lived in a twenty-two-room, 9,600-square-foot stone residence, done up in a style that the experts called "restrained Gothic Revival." I was not sure what that meant, but it was a pretty impressive structure. I also didn't see the need for the squad car--the villa sat on a hilltop overlooking the athletic fields, maybe four hundred yards from the staff parking lot. Fully renovated two years ago, the home could now play host to not only the president's young family but, more importantly, to a full potpourri of fund-raising events.
I was escorted into an office that looked exactly like a college president's office, just sleeker and more polished. Come to think of it, so did the new president. Jack Tripp was sleek and polished and corporate with floppy hair and capped teeth. He tried to fit in by dressing in tweed, but the tweed was far too tailored and costly to be bona fide professorial. His patches were too evenly cut. The students derisively referred to him as a "poser." Again I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but it seemed apropos.
I have learned that human beings are all about incentives, so I cut the president some slack. His job, though couched in haughty terms of academia and higher learning, was all about raising money. Period. That was, and perhaps should be, his main concern. The best presidents, I had learned, were often the ones who understood this and thus came in with the least lofty agenda. By that definition, President Tripp was doing a pretty good job.
"Sit, Jacob," Tripp said, looking past me to Officer Stemmer. "Evelyn, close the door on your way out, would you?"
I did as Tripp asked. Evelyn Stemmer did too.
Tripp sat at the ornate desk in front of me. It was a big desk. Too big and corporate and self-important. When I am feeling unkind, I often note that a man's desk, like his car, often seems to involve, uh, compensation. Tripp folded his hands on a desktop large enough to land a helicopter and said, "You look like hell, Jacob."