The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (224 page)

Greg nodded again. Then he looked down and said, “I heard about you finding the donor. I don’t know how you did it—”

“It’s not important.”

He looked up. “Thank you.”

Myron was not sure what to say to that. So he kept quiet. And that was when Greg shocked him.

“You know, don’t you?”

Myron’s heart stopped.

“That was why you helped,” Greg said. His voice was pure flat-line. “Emily told you the truth.”

The muscles around Myron’s throat tightened. There was a whooshing sound in his head.

“Did you take a blood test?” Greg asked.

Myron managed a nod this time. Greg closed his eyes. Myron swallowed and said, “How long …?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Greg said. “I guess right away.”

He
knows.
The words fell on Myron, smacking down like raindrops, beading and rolling off, impenetrable.
He’s always known.…

“For a while I fooled myself into believing it wasn’t so,” Greg said. “It’s amazing what the mind can do sometimes. But when Jeremy was six, he had his appendix out. I saw his blood type on a chart. It pretty much confirmed what I’d known all along.”

Myron didn’t know what to say. The realization pushed down on him, swept away the months of blocking like so many children’s toys. The mind can indeed do amazing things. He looked at Greg and it was like seeing something in the proper light for the first time
and it changed everything. He thought about fathers again. He thought about real sacrifice. He thought about heroes.

“Jeremy’s a good boy,” Greg said.

“I know,” Myron said.

“You remember my father? Screaming on the sidelines like a lunatic?”

“Yes.”

“I ended up looking just like him. Spitting image of my old man. He was my blood. And he was the cruelest son of a bitch I ever knew,” Greg said. Then he added, “Blood never meant much to me.”

A strange echo filled the room. The background noises faded away and there was just the two of them, staring at one another from across the most bizarre chasm.

Greg moved back to the bed. “I’m tired, Myron.”

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He laid back and shut his eyes a little too tightly. “Maybe later. But right now I’m really tired.”

At the end of the day, Esperanza stepped into Myron’s office, sat down, and said, “I don’t know much about family values or what makes a happy family. I don’t know the best way to raise a kid or what you have to do to make him happy and well adjusted, whatever the hell ‘well adjusted’ means. I don’t know if it’s best to be an only child or have lots of siblings or be raised by two parents or a single parent or a gay couple or a lesbian couple or an overweight albino. But I know one thing.”

Myron looked up at her and waited.

“No child could ever be harmed by having you in his life.”

Esperanza stood and went home.

Stan Gibbs was playing in the yard with his boys when Myron and Win pulled into the driveway. His wife—at least, Myron guessed it was his wife—sat in a lawn chair and watched. A little boy rode Stan like a horsey. They other boy lay on the ground giggling.

Win frowned. “How very Norman Rockwell.”

Myron and Win stepped out of the car. Stan the horsey looked up. The smile stayed on when he saw them, but you could see it starting to lose its grip at the edges. Stan hoisted his son off his back and said something to him Myron couldn’t hear. The boy gave an “Aaaw, Dad.” Stan jumped to his feet and ruffled the boy’s hair. Win frowned again. As Stan jogged toward them, his smile faded away like the end of a song.

“What are you doing here?”

Win said, “Back together with the wife, are we?”

“We’re giving it a go.”

“Touching,” Win said.

Stan turned toward Myron. “What’s going on here?”

“Tell the kids to go inside, Stan.”

“What?”

Another car pulled in the driveway. Rick Peck was driving. Kimberly Green was in the passenger seat. Stan’s face lost color. He snapped a look at Myron.

“We had a deal,” he said.

“Remember how I told you that you had two choices when the novel was discovered?”

“I’m not in the mood—”

“I said you could run or you could tell the truth. Remember?”

Stan’s façade tottered, and for the first time, Myron saw the rage.

“I left out a third choice. A choice you yourself pointed out to me the first time we met. You could have said that the Sow the Seeds kidnapper was a copycat.
That he had read the book. It might have helped you out. Taken some of the heat off.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Because it would have led to your father?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t know your father had written the book. Isn’t that right, Stan? You said you never knew about the book. I remember that from the first time we talked. I’ve been watching you say the same thing on TV. You claim you didn’t even know your father wrote it.”

“All true,” Stan said, and the façade slipped back into place. “But—I don’t know—maybe subconsciously I suspected something somehow. I can’t explain it.”

“Good,” Myron said.

“Damn good,” Win added.

“The problem was,” Myron said, “you had to say you hadn’t read it. Because if you had, well, Stan, you’d be a plagiarizer. All this work, all your big plans to regain your reputation—it would be for nothing. You’d be ruined.”

“We discussed this already.”

“No, Stan, we didn’t. At least not this part of it.” Myron held up the evidence bag with the sheet of paper inside.

Stan set his jaw.

“Know what this is, Stan?”

He said nothing.

“I found it in Melina Garston’s apartment. It says ‘With love, Dad.’ ”

Stan swallowed. “So?”

“Something about it bothered me from the beginning. First off, the word ‘Dad.’ ”

“I don’t understand—”

“Sure you do, Stan. Melina’s sister-in-law called George Garston ‘Papa.’ When I spoke to him, he referred to himself as ‘Papa.’ So why would he sign a note like this ‘Dad’?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The second thing that bothered me: Who writes a note like this—on the top inside of a folded card? People use the bottom half, right? But see, Stan, this wasn’t a card. It was a sheet of a paper folded in half. That’s the key. Then there are those tears along the left edge. See them, Stan? Like someone had ripped it out of something.”

Win handed Myron the novel that had been sent to Kimberly Green. Myron opened it and laid the piece of paper inside it.

“Something like a book.”

It was a perfect match.

“Your father wrote this inscription,” Myron said. “To you. Years ago. You’d known about the book all along.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“Come on, Stan. A handwriting analyst will have no trouble with this. The Lexes weren’t the ones who found the book. Melina Garston did. You asked her to lie for you in court. She did. But then she started growing suspicious. So she dug around your house and found this book. She’s the one who mailed it to Kimberly Green.”

“You have no proof—”

“She sent it in anonymously because she still cared about you. She even tore out the inscription so no one, most especially you, would ever know where the book had come from. You had plenty of enemies. Like Susan Lex. And the feds. She probably hoped you’d think they did it. At least for a little while. But you knew right away it was Melina. She didn’t count on that. Or your reaction.”

Stan’s hands tightened into fists. They started shaking.

“The victims’ families wouldn’t speak to you, Stan. And you needed that for your article. You ended up following the book more than reality. The feds thought it was to fool them. But that wasn’t it. Maybe your father
told you he was the killer, but nothing else. Maybe the real story wasn’t as interesting, so you needed to embellish. Maybe you weren’t that good of a writer and you really felt you needed those family quotes. I don’t know. But you plagiarized. And the only one who could tie you to that book was Melina Garston. So you killed her.”

“You’ll never prove it,” Stan said.

“The feds will dig hard now. The Lexes will help. Win and I will help. We’ll find enough. If nothing else, the jury—and the world—will hear all you did in this. They’ll hate you enough to convict.”

“You son of a bitch.” Stan cocked his fist and aimed it at Myron. With an almost casual movement, Win swept his leg. Stan fell down in a heap. Win pointed and laughed. Stan’s sons watched it all.

Kimberly Green and Rick Peck got out of the car. Myron signaled them to wait, but Kimberly Green shook her head. They cuffed Stan hard and dragged him away. His sons still watched. Myron thought about Melina Garston and his silent vow. Then he and Win headed back to the car.

“You always intended to turn him in,” Win said.

“Yes. But first I had to make sure he went along with donating the bone marrow.”

“And once you knew Jeremy was okay—”

“Then I told Green, yes.”

Win started the car. “The evidence is still marginal. A good attorney will be able to poke holes.”

“Not my problem,” Myron said.

“You’d be willing to let him walk?”

“Yes,” Myron said. “But Melina’s father has juice. And he won’t.”

“I thought you advised him against taking the law into his own hands.”

Myron shrugged. “No one ever listens to me.”

“That’s true,” Win said.

Win drove.

“I just wonder,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Who was the serial killer here? Did his father really do it? Or was it all Stan?”

“Doubt we’ll ever know,” Win said.

“Probably not.”

“It shan’t matter,” Win said. “They’ll get him for Melina Garston.”

“I guess,” Myron said. Then he frowned and repeated, “ ‘Shan’t’?”

Win shrugged. “So is it finally over, my friend?”

Myron’s leg did that nervous jig again. He stopped it and said, “Jeremy.”

“Ah,” Win said. “Are you going to tell him?”

Myron looked out the window and saw nothing. “Win’s credo about selfishness would say yes.”

“And Myron’s credo?”

“I don’t know that it’s much different,” Myron said.

Jeremy was playing basketball at the Y. Myron stepped into the bleachers, the rickety kind that shake with each step, and sat. Jeremy was still pale. He was thinner than the last time Myron had seen him, but there’d been a growth spurt over the last few months. Myron realized how fast changes take place for the young and felt a deep, hard thud in his chest.

For a while, he just watched the flow of the scrimmage and tried to judge his son’s play objectively. Jeremy had the tools, Myron could see that right away, but there was plenty of rust on them. That wouldn’t be a problem though. Again with the young. Rust doesn’t stay long on the young.

As Myron watched the practice, his eyes widened. He felt his insides shrivel. He thought again about what he was about to do, and a swelling tide rose inside of him, overwhelming him, pulling him under.

Jeremy smiled when he spotted Myron. The smile cleaved Myron’s heart in two even pieces. He felt lost, adrift. He thought about what Win had said, about what a real father was, and he thought about what Esperanza had said. He thought about Greg and Emily. He wondered if he should have spoken to his own father about this, if he should have told him that this wasn’t a hypothetical, that the bomb had indeed landed, that he needed his help.

Jeremy continued to play, but Myron could see that the boy was distracted by his presence. Jeremy kept sneaking quick glances toward the stands. He played a little harder, picked up the pace a bit. Myron had been there, done that. The desire to impress. It had driven Myron, maybe as much as wanting to win. Shallow, but there you have it.

The coach had his players run a few more drills and then he lined them up on the baseline. They finished up with the aptly named “suicides,” which was basically a series of gut-heaving sprints broken up by bending and touching different lines on the floor. Myron might be nostalgic for many things connected to basketball. Suicides were not one of them.

Ten minutes later, with most of the kids still trying to catch their breath, the coach gathered his troops, gave out schedules for the rest of the week, and dispersed the boys with a big handclap. Most of them headed toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders. Some went into the locker room. Jeremy walked over to Myron slowly.

“Hi,” Jeremy said.

“Hi.”

Sweat dripped off Jeremy’s hair, his face coated and flushed from exertion. “I’m going to shower,” he said. “You want to wait?”

“Sure,” Myron said.

“Cool, I’ll be right back.”

The gymnasium emptied out. Myron stood and picked up an errant basketball. His fingers found the grooves right away. He took a few shots, watching the bottom of the net dance as the ball swished through. He smiled and sat back down, still holding the ball. A janitor came in and swept the floor Zamboni-style. His keys jangled. Someone flipped off the overhead lights. Jeremy came back not long after that. His hair was still wet. He, too, had a backpack over his shoulder.

As Win would say, “Showtime.”

Myron gripped the ball a little tighter. “Sit down, Jeremy. We need to talk.”

The boy’s face was serene and almost too beautiful. He slid the backpack off his shoulder and sat down. Myron had rehearsed this part. He had looked at it from all sides, all the pluses and minuses. He had made up his mind and changed it and made it up again. He had, as Win put it, properly tortured himself.

But in the end, he knew there was one universal truth: Lies fester. You try to put them away. You jam them in a box and bury them in the ground. But eventually they eat their way out of coffins. They dig their way out of graves. They may sleep for years. But they always wake up. When they do, they’re rested, stronger, more insidious.

Lies kill.

“This is going to be hard to understand—” He stopped. Suddenly his rehearsed speech sounded so damn canned, filled with “It’s nobody’s fault” and “Adults make mistakes too” and “It doesn’t mean your parents love you any less.” It was patronizing and stupid and—