Three Harlan Coben Novels (28 page)

Randy turned back to Myron. His eyes were suddenly clear. “Go ahead. What else do you want to know?”

“Your father called Aimee a slut.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Aimee started seeing somebody else?”

Randy nodded.

“Was it Drew Van Dyne?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Nah, not really. With all due respect, none of this does. Look, high school is over. I’m going to Dartmouth. Aimee is going to Duke. My mom, she told me something. She said that high school isn’t important. The people who are happiest in high school end up being the most miserable adults. I’m lucky. I know that. And I know it won’t last unless I take the next step. I thought . . . we talked about it. I thought Aimee understood that too. How important the next step was. And in the end, we both got what we wanted. We got accepted to our first choices.”

“She’s in danger, Randy.”

“I can’t help you.”

“And she’s pregnant.”

He closed his eyes.

“Randy?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“You said you did something to try to win her back, but it backfired. What did you do, Randy?”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t say. But Myron thought that maybe he had an idea. Myron gave him his card. “If you think of anything . . .”

“Yeah.”

Randy turned away then. He headed back to the party. The music still played. The parents kept laughing. And Aimee was still in trouble.

W
hen Myron got back to his car, Claire was there. “It’s Erik,” she said.

“What about him?”

“He ran out of the house. With his father’s old gun.”

“Did you call his cell?”

“No answer,” Claire said.

“Any idea where he went?”

“A few years ago I represented a company called KnowWhere,” Claire said. “You heard of it?”

“No.”

“They’re like OnStar or LoJack. They put a GPS in your car for emergencies, that kind of thing. Anyway, we got one installed in both cars. I just called the owner at home and begged him to get me the location.”

“And?”

“Erik is parked in front of Harry Davis’s house.”

“Jesus.”

Myron jumped into his car. Claire slipped into the passenger seat. He wanted to argue, but there was no time.

“Call Harry Davis’s home,” he said.

“I tried,” Claire said. “There was no answer.”

Erik’s car was indeed parked directly in front of the Davis residence. If he’d wanted to hide his approach, he hadn’t done a very good job.

Myron stopped the car. He took out his own gun.

Claire said, “What the hell is that for?”

“Just stay here.”

“I asked you—”

“Not now, Claire. Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.”

His voice left no room for argument and, for once, Claire just obeyed. He started up the path, keeping a low crouch. The front door was slightly ajar. Myron didn’t like that. He ducked low and listened.

There were noises, but he couldn’t make out what they were.

Using the barrel of the gun, he pushed the door open. There was no one in the foyer. The sounds were coming from the left. Myron crawled in. He turned the corner and there, lying on the floor, was a woman he assumed was Mrs. Davis.

She was gagged. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her eyes were wide with fear. Myron put a finger to his lips. She looked to her right, then back at Myron, then back to her right again.

He heard more noises.

There were other people in the room. On her right.

Myron debated his next move. He considered backing out and calling the police. They could surround the house, he guessed, start talking Erik down. But that might be too late.

He heard a slap. Someone cried out. Mrs. Davis squeezed her eyes shut.

There was no choice. Not really. Myron had the gun at the ready. He was about to leap, preparing to turn and aim in the direction where Mrs. Davis had been looking. He bent his legs. And then he stopped.

Jumping in with a gun. Would that be the prudent move here?

Erik was armed. He might, of course, react by surrendering. He might also react by firing in a panic.

Fifty-fifty.

Myron tried something else.

“Erik?”

Silence.

Myron said, “Erik, it’s me. Myron.”

“Come on in, Myron.”

The voice was calm. There was almost a lilt in it. Myron moved into the center of the room. Erik stood with a gun in his hand. He had on a dress shirt with no tie. There were splatters of blood across the chest.

Erik smiled when he saw Myron. “Mr. Davis is ready to talk now.”

“Put the gun down, Erik.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I said—”

“What? Are you going to shoot me?”

“Nobody is shooting anybody. Just put the gun down.”

Erik shook his head. The smile remained. “Come all the way in. Please.”

Myron stepped into the room, his gun still up. Now he could see Harry Davis in a chair. His back was to Myron. Nylon cuffs were around his wrists. Davis’s head lolled on the neck, chin down.

Myron came around the front and took a look.

“Oh, man.”

Davis had been beaten. There was blood on his face. A tooth was out and on the floor. Myron turned to Erik. Erik’s posture was different. He wasn’t as ramrod as usual. He didn’t look nervous or agitated. In fact, Myron had never seen him look more relaxed in his life.

“He needs a doctor,” Myron said.

“He’s fine.”

Myron looked at Erik’s eyes. They were placid pools.

“This isn’t the way, Erik.”

“Sure it is.”

“Listen to me—”

“I don’t think so. You’re good at this stuff, Myron, no question. But you have to follow rules. A certain code. When your child is in danger, those niceties go out the window.”

Myron thought about Dominick Rochester, how he had said something so very similar in the Seidens’ house. You couldn’t start off with two guys more different than Erik Biel and Dominick Rochester. Desperation and fear had rendered them near identical.

Harry Davis raised his bloodied face. “I don’t know where Aimee is, I swear.”

Before Myron could do much of anything, Erik aimed his gun at the ground and fired. The sound was loud in the small room. Harry Davis screamed. A groan came from behind Mrs. Davis’s gag.

Myron’s own eyes widened as he looked down at Davis’s shoe.

There was a hole in it.

It was near the edge of the big toe. Blood began to run. Myron raised his gun and pointed it at Erik’s head. “Put it down now!”

“No.”

He said it simply. Erik looked at Harry Davis. The man was in pain, but his head was up now, his eyes more focused. “Did you sleep with my daughter?”

“Never!”

“He’s telling the truth, Erik.”

Erik turned to Myron. “How do you know?”

“It was another teacher. A guy named Drew Van Dyne. He works at the music store where she hung out.”

Erik looked confused. “But when you dropped Aimee off, she came here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

They both looked at Harry Davis. There was blood on his shoe now. It oozed out slowly. Myron wondered if the neighbors had heard the gunfire, if they’d call the police. Myron doubted it. People out here assume the sound is a car backfiring or fireworks, something explainable and safe.

“It’s not what you think,” Harry Davis said.

“What’s not?”

And then Harry Davis’s eyes darted toward his wife. Myron understood. He pulled Erik to the side. “You cracked him,” Myron said. “He’s ready to talk.”

“So?”

“So he’s not going to talk in front of his wife. And if he did something to Aimee, he’s not going to talk in front of you.”

Erik still had the small smile on his face. “You want to take over.”

“It’s not about taking over,” Myron said. “It’s about getting the information.”

Erik surprised Myron then. He nodded. “You’re right.”

Myron just looked at him as if waiting for the punch line.

“You think this is about me,” Erik said. “But it’s not. It’s about my
daughter. It’s about what I’d do to save her. I’d kill that man in a second. I’d kill his wife. Hell, Myron, I’d kill you too. But none of that will do any good. You’re right. I cracked him. But if we want him to talk freely, his wife and I should leave the room.”

Erik walked over to Mrs. Davis. She cowered.

Harry Davis shouted, “Leave her alone!”

Erik ignored him. He reached down and helped Mrs. Davis to her feet. Then Erik looked back at Harry. “Your wife and I will wait in the other room.”

They moved into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Myron wanted to untie Davis, but those nylon cuffs were tough to do by hand. He grabbed a blanket and stemmed the blood flow from the foot.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” Davis said.

His voice was far away. Strangely enough, he too looked more relaxed. Myron had seen that before. Confession is indeed good for the soul. The man was carrying a heavy load of secrets. It was going to feel good, at least temporarily, to unburden himself.

“I’ve been teaching high school for twenty-two years,” Davis began without being prompted. “I love it. I know the pay isn’t great. I know it’s not prestigious. But I adore the students. I love to teach. I love to help them on their way. I love when they come back and visit me.”

Davis stopped.

“Why did Aimee come here the other night?” Myron asked.

He didn’t seem to hear. “Think about it, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-plus years. With high-schoolers. I don’t say high school kids. Because many of them aren’t kids. They’re sixteen, seventeen, and even eighteen. Old enough to serve in the military and vote. And unless you’re blind, you know that those are women, not girls. You ever check out the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue? You ever look on the runway at top fashion shows? Those models are the same age as the beautiful, fresh-faced ones that I’m with five days a week, ten months a year. Women, Mr. Bolitar. Not girls. This isn’t about some sick attraction or pedophilia.”

Myron said, “I hope you’re not trying to justify sexual affairs with students.”

Davis shook his head. “I just want to put what I’m about to say in context.”

“I don’t need context, Harry.”

He almost laughed at that. “You understand what I’m saying more than you want to admit, I think. The thing is, I am a normal man—by that I mean, a normal heterosexual male with normal urges and desires. I’m surrounded year after year with mind-bogglingly beautiful women wearing tight clothes and low-cut jeans and plunging necklines and bare midriffs. Every day, Mr. Bolitar. They smile at me. They flirt with me. And we teachers are supposed to be strong and resist it every day.”

“Let me guess,” Myron said. “You stopped resisting?”

“I’m not trying to make you sympathize. What I’m telling you is, the position we’re in is unnatural. If you see a sexy seventeen-year-old walking down the street, you look. You desire. You might even fantasize.”

“But,” Myron said, “you don’t act.”

“But why don’t you? Because it’s wrong—or because you don’t really have a chance? Now imagine seeing hundreds of girls like that every day, for years on end. From the earliest times, man has striven to be powerful and wealthy. Why? Most anthropologists will tell you that we do it to attract more and better females. That’s nature. Not looking, not desiring, not being attracted—that would make you a freak, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry. You know it’s wrong.”

“I do,” he said. “And for twenty years I fought back those impulses. I stuck with the looking, the imagining, the fantasizing.”

“And then?”

“Two years ago I had a wonderful, gifted, beautiful student. No, it wasn’t Aimee. I won’t tell you her name. There’s no reason for you to know. She sat in the front of the class, this amazing bounty. She stared at me like I was a deity. She kept the top two buttons of her blouse undone. . . .”

Davis closed his eyes.

“You gave in to your natural urgings,” Myron said.

“I don’t know many men who could have resisted.”

“And this has what to do with Aimee Biel?”

“Nothing. I mean, not directly. This young woman and I started an affair. I won’t go into details.”

“Thank you.”

“But eventually we got found out. It was, as you might imagine, a disaster. Her parents went crazy. They told my wife. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Not really. But Donna has family money. We paid them off. They wanted to keep it quiet too. They were worried about their daughter’s reputation. So we all agreed to not say anything. She went on to college. And I went back to teaching. I’d learned my lesson.”

“So?”

“So I put it behind me. I know you want to make me out a monster. But I’m not. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I know you think I’m just trying to rationalize, but there’s more to it. I’m a good teacher. You pointed out how impressive winning Teacher of the Year was—and that I’d won it more than any other teacher in that school’s history. That’s because I care about the kids. It’s not a contradiction—having these urges and caring about my students. And you know how perceptive teens are. They can spot a phony a mile away. They vote for me, they come to me when they have a problem, because they know I truly care.”

Myron wanted to vomit, and yet the arguments, he knew, were not without some perverse merit. “So you went back to teaching,” he said, trying to get him back on track. “You put it behind you and . . . ?”

“And then I made a second mistake,” he said. He smiled again. There was blood on his teeth. “No, it’s not what you think. I didn’t have another affair.”

“What then?”

“I caught a student selling pot. And I turned him in to both the principal and the police.”

“Randy Wolf,” Myron said.

Davis nodded.

“What happened?”

“His father. Do you know the man?”

“We’ve met.”

“He did some digging. There were a few scant rumors about my liaison with the student. He hired a private eye. He also got another
teacher, a man named Drew Van Dyne, to help him. Van Dyne, you see, was Randy’s drug supplier.”

“So if Randy was prosecuted,” Myron said, “Van Dyne had a lot to lose too.”

“Yes.”

“So let me guess. Jake Wolf found out about your affair.”

Davis nodded.

“And he blackmailed you into keeping quiet.”

“Oh, he did more than that.”

Myron looked down at the man’s foot. The blood had let up. Myron should get him to a hospital, he knew that, but he didn’t want to lose this momentum either. The odd thing was, Davis did not seem in pain. He wanted to talk. He had probably been thinking about these crazy justifications for years, rattling alone in his brain, and now finally he was being given the chance to express them.

“Jake Wolf had me now,” Davis went on. “Once you start down the blackmail road, you never really get off it. Yes, he offered to pay me. And yes, I took the money.”

Myron thought about what Wheat Manson had told him on the phone. “You were not just a teacher. You were a guidance counselor.”

“Yes.”

“You had access to student transcripts. I’ve seen how far parents in this town will go to get their kids into the right college.”

“You have no idea,” Davis said.

“Yeah, I do. It wasn’t that different when I was a kid. So Jake Wolf had you change his son’s grades.”

“Something like that. I just switched the academic part of his transcript. Randy wanted to go to Dartmouth. Dartmouth wanted Randy because of his football. But they needed him to be in the top ten percent. There are four hundred kids in his class. Randy was ranked fifty-third—not bad, but not top ten percent. There is another student, a bright kid named Ray Clarke. He’s ranked fifth in the class. Clarke got into Georgetown early decision. So I knew he wouldn’t be applying anywhere else. . . .”