DARKEST FEAR (30 page)

“He ends the seed sowing for them,” Myron said, “but not the families.”

“Right.”

“Because for his victims, the terror would be real. He wanted it all in the mind.” Myron shook his head. “What did Jeremy tell you about his ordeal?”

“You didn’t talk to him about it?”

Myron shifted in his chair. “No.”

“Edwin Gibbs wore the same disguise he used at work—the blond wig and beard and glasses. He blindfolded Jeremy as soon as he had him in the van and drove straight to that cabin. Edwin told him to scream into the phone—even made him practice first to make sure he had it right. After the call, Edwin chained him up and left him alone. You know the rest.”

Myron nodded. He did.

“What about the plagiarism charge and the novel?”

She shrugged. “It was like you and Stan said. Edwin
read it, probably right after his wife was dying of cancer. It influenced him.”

Myron stared at her for a moment.

“What?” she said.

“You guys figured that part out when you first got the novel,” Myron said. “That Stan hadn’t plagiarized. That the book influenced the killer.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Come on. You knew that the kidnappings had taken place. You just wanted to put pressure on Stan so he’d talk. And maybe you wanted to embarrass him a little.”

“That’s not true,” Kimberly Green said. “I’m not saying some of our agents didn’t take it personally, but we believed that he was the Sow the Seeds kidnapper. I already told you some of the reasons why. Now we know that a lot of the same evidence pointed to his father.”

“What same evidence?”

She shook her head. “It’s not important anymore. We knew Stan was more here than just a reporter. And we were right. We even thought he was getting stuff wrong on purpose—that he was using the book rather than what he’d really done just to throw us off.”

Her words didn’t resonate the way the truth does, but Myron didn’t argue the point. He scanned his Client Wall and tried to bring his focus around to Lamar Richardson’s visit. “So the case is closed.”

She smiled. “Like legs in a nunnery.”

“You make that one up?”

“Yup.”

“Good thing you carry a gun,” Myron said. “So are you going to get a big promotion?”

She rose. “I think I get to be a super-secret-special agent now.”

Myron smiled. They shook hands. Kimberly left then. Myron sat alone for a while. He rubbed his
eyes and thought about what she’d said and what she hadn’t said and realized that something was still very wrong.

Lamar Richardson, shortstop extraordinaire, showed up on time and by himself. Positively shocking. The meeting went well. Myron gave his standard spiel, but the standard spiel was pretty good. Damn good, actually. All businesspeople need a spiel. Spiel is good. Esperanza spoke up too. She had started developing her own spiel. Well honed. The perfect complement to Myron’s. Quite the partnership, this was becoming.

Win stopped by briefly as planned. If recruitment was a baseball game, Win was the big closer. People knew his name. They checked out his reputation—er, his business reputation, that is. When prospective clients learned that Windsor Horne Lockwood III himself would handle their finances, that Win and Myron further insisted that clients meet with Win at least five times a year, they started smiling. Score one for the small agency.

Lamar Richardson played it close to the vest. He nodded a lot. He asked questions but not too many. Two hours after arriving, he shook their hands and said he’d be in touch. Myron and Esperanza walked him to the elevator and bade him good-bye.

Esperanza turned to Myron. “Well?”

“Got him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m all-seeing,” Myron said. “All-knowing.”

They moved back into Myron’s office and sat down. “If Lamar chooses us over IMG and TruPro”—she stopped, smiled—“we’re baaaaack.”

“Pretty much.”

“And that means Big Cyndi will come back.”

“That’s supposed to be a good thing, right?”

“You’re starting to love her, you know.”

“Yeah, don’t rub it in.”

Esperanza studied his face. She did that a lot. Myron didn’t much believe in reading faces. Esperanza did. Especially his. “What happened in that law office?” she asked. “With Chase Layton?”

“I boxed his ears once and punched him seven times.”

Her eyes stayed on his face.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘But you saved Jeremy’s life,’ ” Myron added.

“No, that’s Win’s line.” She adjusted herself and faced him full. She wore an aquamarine business suit, cut low with no blouse, and it was a wonder Lamar had been able to concentrate on anything. Myron was used to her, but the effect was still there, still dazzling. He just saw the dazzle from a different angle.

“Speaking of Jeremy,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You still blocking?”

Myron thought about it, remembered the embrace in that cabin, stopped. “More than ever,” he said.

“So what now?”

“The blood test came back. I’m the father.”

Something popped onto her face—regret maybe—but it didn’t stay long. “You should tell him the truth.”

“Right now I just want to save his life.”

She kept studying the face. “Maybe soon,” she said.

“Maybe soon what?”

“You’ll stop blocking,” Esperanza said.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“We’ll chat then. In the meantime …”

“Don’t be stupid,” he finished for her.

The health club was located in a chi-chi hotel in mid-town. The walls were fully mirrored. The ceiling and the trim and the front desk were whole-milk white.
Same with the clothes worn by the personal trainers. The weights and exercise machines were sleek and chrome and so beautiful you didn’t want to touch them. Everything about the place gleamed; you were almost tempted to work out in sunglasses.

Myron found him on a bench press, struggling without a spotter. Myron waited, watching him wage war on gravity and the barbell. Chase Layton’s face was pure red, his teeth gritted, veins in his forehead doing their pop-up video. It took some time, but the attorney achieved victory. He dropped the weight onto the stand. His arms fell to his sides like he’d missed a brain synapse.

“You shouldn’t hold your breath,” Myron said.

Chase looked over at him. He didn’t seem surprised or upset. He sat up, breathing heavily. He wiped his face with a towel.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” Myron said.

Chase put the towel down and looked at him.

“I just wanted to say that if you want to press charges, Win and I won’t get in your way.”

Chase did not reply.

“And I’m very sorry for what I did,” Myron said.

“I watched the news,” Chase said. “You did it to save that boy’s life.”

“Doesn’t excuse it.”

“Maybe not.” He stood and added a plate to both sides of the bar. “Frankly, Mr. Bolitar, I’m not sure what to think.”

“If you want to press charges—”

“I don’t.”

Myron was not sure what to say, so he settled for “Thank you.”

Chase Layton nodded and sat back on the bench. Then he looked at Myron. “Do you want to know what the worst part of it is?”

No, Myron thought. “If you want to tell me.”

“The shame,” Chase said.

Myron started to open his mouth, but Chase waved him quiet.

“It’s not the beating or the pain. It’s the feeling of total helplessness. We were primitive. We were man to man. And there was nothing I could do but take it. You made me feel like”—he looked up, found the words, looked straight at Myron—“like I wasn’t a real man.”

The words made Myron cringe.

“I went to these great schools and joined all the right clubs and made a fortune in my chosen profession. I fathered three kids and raised them and loved them the best I could. Then one day you punch me—and I realize that I’m not a real man.”

“You’re wrong,” Myron said.

“You’re going to say that violence is no measure of a man. On some level you’re right. But on some level, the base level that makes us men, we both know you’re wrong. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’d just be a further insult.”

Myron swallowed down the clichés. Chase took deep breaths and reached for the bar.

“Need a spotter?” Myron said.

Chase Layton gripped it and jerked it off the stand. “I don’t need anybody,” he said.

Thursday came. Karen Singh introduced him to a fertility expert named Dr. Barbara Dittrick. Dr. Dittrick handed Myron a small cup and told him to masturbate into it. There were more surreal and embarrassing experiences in life, Myron guessed, but being led to a small room to masturbate into a cup while everyone waited for you in the next room had to be right up there with the best of them.

“Step in here, please,” Dr. Dittrick said.

Myron frowned at the cup. “I usually insist on flowers and a movie.”

“Well, at least you got the movie,” she said, pointing at the television. “The TV has X-rated videos.” She left the room and closed the door behind her.

Myron checked the titles.
On Golden Blonde. Father Knows Breast
(starring Robert Hung).
Field of Wet Dreams
(“If you watch it, they will come”). He frowned and passed. So to speak. He stared at the swivel leather chair, one of those lean-back kind, where probably hundreds of other men had sat and … He covered it with paper towels and did his bit, though it took some time. His imagination was spinning in the wrong direction, generating an aura about as erotic as mole hair on an old man’s buttock. When he was, uh, finished, he opened the door and handed the cup to Dr. Dittrick and tried to smile. He felt like the world’s biggest doofus. She wore rubber gloves, even though the, uh, specimen was in a cup. Like it might scald her. She brought it to a lab where they “washed” (their expression, not his) the semen. The semen was declared “serviceable but slow.” Like it was falling behind in algebra.

“Funny,” Emily said. “I usually found Myron to be serviceable but quick.”

“Ha-ha,” Myron said.

A few hours later Emily was in a hospital bed. Barbara Dittrick smiled while inserting what looked suspiciously like a turkey baster into her and pressed the plunger. Myron took her hand. Emily smiled.

“Romantic,” she said.

Myron made a face.

“What?”

“Serviceable?” he said.

She laughed. “But quick.”

Dr. Dittrick finished her part. Emily stayed prone for another hour. Myron sat with her. They were doing this to save Jeremy’s life. That was all. He didn’t let the future enter the equation. He didn’t consider the
long-term effects or what this might one day mean. Irresponsible, sure. But first things first.

They had to save Jeremy. The hell with the rest.

Terese Collins called him from Atlanta that afternoon. “Can I come up and visit?” she asked.

“The station will give you more time off?”

“Actually, my producer encouraged me.”

“Oh?”

“You, my studly friend, are part of a huge story,” Terese said.

“You used the words ‘studly’ and ‘huge’ in the same sentence.”

“That turn you on?”

“Well, it might a lesser man.”

“And you are that lesser man.”

“I thank you,” he said.

“You’re also the only one in this story who won’t talk to the press.”

“So you just want me for my mind,” Myron said. “I feel so used.”

“Dream on, hot buns. I want your bod. It’s my producer who wants your brain.”

“Your producer cute?”

“No.”

“Terese?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to talk about what happened.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t want to hear it.”

There was a brief silence.

“Yeah,” Myron said. “I’d like it very much if you came up.”

Ten days later, Karen Singh called him at home. “The pregnancy didn’t take.”

Myron closed his eyes.

“We can try again next month,” she said.

“Thanks for calling, Karen.”

“Sure.”

There was empty space. “Anything else?” Myron asked.

“There’s been a lot of marrow drives,” she said.

“I know.”

“One donor looks like a match for an AML patient in Maryland. A young mother. She would have probably died if it weren’t for these drives.”

“Good news,” Myron said.

“But no matches for Jeremy.”

“Yeah.”

“Myron?”

“What?”

“I don’t think we have much time here.”

Terese returned to Atlanta later that day. Win invited Esperanza to his place for a night of mindless television. The three of them sat in their customary spots. Fritos and Indian takeout were on the night’s menu. Myron had the remote. He paused when he saw a familiar image on CNN. A basketball superstar simply known as “TC,” one of the NBA’s most controversial players and a teammate of Greg’s, was on
Larry King Live.
His hair was razor-carved to spell out
Jeremy
, and both gold earrings had Jeremy’s name on them. He wore a ripped T-shirt that simply read
HELP OR JEREMY DIES.
Myron smiled. TC was something else, but he’d get the people out in droves.

More flipping. Stan Gibbs was on some talking-head show on MSNBC. Nothing new. The only thing the press loves as much as tearing somebody down is a story of redemption. Bruce Taylor had gotten the exclusive, as promised, and he’d set the tone. The public was mixed on what Stan had done, but for the most part, they sympathized with him. In the end, Stan had risked
his own life to catch a killer, saved Jeremy Downing from certain death, and been wrongly accused by a too-eager-to-convict media. The fact that Stan had been confused about turning in his own father played for him, especially since the media was anxious to wipe away the awful mar of plagiarism they’d so quickly tattooed on him. Stan got his column back. Rumor had it his show was coming back too but in a better time slot. Myron wasn’t sure what to think. Stan was no hero to him. But so few people were.

Stan, too, was pounding the bone-marrow-drive drum. “This boy needs our help,” he said directly into the camera. “Please come down. We’ll be here all night.”

A blond talking head asked Stan about his own part in this drama, about tackling his father, about racing to the cabin. Stan played the modesty card. Wise. The man knew the media.