Page 13 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"Lots of places."

Myron let him go. Lots of places. Terrific.

He reached a fork and stopped. Some kids went left, others right.

"Patrick! Rhys!"

Silence. And then a voice that sounded American: "Help!"

To the right.

Myron hurried after the voice, trying to move faster, trying so hard to keep a pace and yet not whack his head on the ceiling. The stench was starting to make him gag. He kept moving. He wondered how long these tunnels had been here--centuries maybe--the whole place feeling suddenly like something out of Dickens, when he saw two boys up ahead.

And a fat man in a yellow zoot suit.

Fat Gandhi turned toward him. He took out a knife.

"No!" Myron shouted.

There were still more teenagers in front of them. Myron sprinted as hard as he could toward the boys, lowering his head, pumping his legs.

Fat Gandhi raised the knife.

Myron kept moving. But he could see he was too far away.

The knife came down. Myron heard a scream.

A boy collapsed to the ground.

"No!"

Myron dove toward the fallen body. The zoot suit started to run away. Myron didn't care. More teens were starting to push on through. Myron crawled on top of the stabbed boy.

Where was the other boy?

There. Myron reached out and grabbed his ankle. He held on. Other teens scrambled over him. Myron kept his grip on the ankle. He stayed on top of the stabbed boy, using his own body as a shield. He found the stab wound and tried to stem the flow with his forearm.

Someone's foot landed on Myron's wrist. His grip on the other boy's ankle was starting to loosen.

"Hang on," he shouted.

But the ankle was being pulled away.

Myron gritted his teeth. How much longer could he keep this up?

Myron held on, even as the boy tried to pull away, even as a kick landed hard on his face, even as the second kick landed. And then, on the next kick, his grip slipped.

The boy was swept away in the river of other teenagers.

Gone.

"No!"

Myron kept low, making his body a protective shell for the injured boy. He pressed his forearm down hard on the wound.

You aren't dying. You hear me? We didn't come all this way for you . . .

When the current of teenagers passed over him, Myron quickly ripped off his shirt and applied pressure to the wound. He finally looked down at the boy.

And recognized his face.

"Hang in there, Patrick," Myron said. "I'm taking you home."

Chapter 9

Three days passed.

The police asked Myron a lot of questions. He gave a lot of half answers and also, as a bar-licensed attorney, he called upon attorney-client privilege, known in the United Kingdom as legal professional privilege, so as not to name Win. Yes, he had flown over at the request of a client on the Lock-Horne jet. No, he couldn't say a word about having spoken to or seeing his client. Yes, he delivered money in the hopes of securing the release of Patrick Moore and Rhys Baldwin. No, he had no idea what happened to the wall. No, Myron said, he had no idea who stabbed a twenty-six-year-old man with a long rap sheet of trouble named Scott Taylor in the throat, killing him. No, he didn't know anything about three men killed near King's Cross station days before. He was, after all, in New York City at that time.

No sign of Fat Gandhi. No sign of Rhys.

There was only so long the cops could hold him. They had no evidence of any serious wrongdoing. Someone (Win) had sent a young lawyer named Mark Wells to represent Myron. Wells helped.

So they reluctantly cut Myron loose. Now it was noon and he was back at the Crown pub cooling his heels on the same stool. Win came in and took the stool next to him. The barman dropped down two ales.

"Mr. Lockwood," he said. "It's been months. Wonderful to see you again."

"And you too, Nigel."

Myron looked at the barman, then at Win, then arched an eyebrow to indicate a question.

"I just flew in from the United States today when I heard the news," Win said.

The barman stared at Myron. Myron stared at the barman, then at Win, and then said, "Ah."

The barman moved away.

"Won't customs have you entering the country before today?"

Win smiled.

"Of course not," Myron said. "By the way, thanks for sending that lawyer, Wells."

"Solicitor."

"What?"

"In Great Britain, you call him a solicitor. In America, you call him a lawyer."

"In Great Britain, I call you anal. In the United States, I call you an assh--"

"Yes, quite, I see your point. Speaking of solicitors, mine is currently with the police. He will explain that it was indeed I who retained your services and that you, as my other solicitor, were protecting my interests."

Myron said, "I did tell them attorney-client privilege."

"So I will back that up. We will also turn over the anonymous email sent to me that started this. Perhaps Scotland Yard will have better luck tracking down the sender than I did."

"You think?"

"No chance. I was feigning modesty."

"It doesn't wear well on you," Myron said. "So how did you do it?"

"I told you that we cased the arcade. But not just inside."

Myron nodded. "So you figured out where that safe room was."

"Yes. Then we hooked up a Fox MJ listening device. If you press it to any wall, you can hear everything. We waited until you called out the safe word."

"And then?"

"It was an RPG-29."

"Very subtle."

"My forte."

"Thank you," Myron said.

Win pretended not to hear.

"So how's Patrick?" Myron asked. "The cops wouldn't tell me anything. I saw in the papers that his parents flew over, but no one will even confirm if it's him."

"Wait."

"What?"

"We will soon get some additional information on all that from a better source."

"Who?"

Win shook him off. "You may be wondering why the police didn't question you more about the throat stabbing."

"Not really," Myron said.

"No?"

"In the confusion, no one saw it. I figured that you probably took the knife with you, so they had nothing to tie me to it."

"Not exactly. For one thing, the police have confiscated your clothing."

"I liked those pants."

"Yes, they were very slimming. But they'll test the blood on them. It will be a match with the victim's, of course."

Myron finally gave in and took a sip. "Will that be a problem?"

"I don't think so. Do you remember your black friend with the machete?"

"Black friend?"

"Oh yes, let's be politically correct right this very moment. Is he Anglo-African? I must consult the handbook."

"My bad. What about him?"

"His name is Lester Connor."

"Okay."

"When the police arrived on the scene, Lester was unconscious and--surprise, surprise--had the bloody knife in his hand. Naturally he said the knife had been planted."

"Naturally."

"But you could say that you saw Lester stab Scott Taylor in the throat."

"I could indeed."

"But?"

"But I won't," Myron said.

"Because?"

"Because it wouldn't be true."

"Mr. Connor tried to kill you."

"Yeah, but to be fair, I broke his laptop."

"False equivalency," Win said.

"Better than false testimony."

"Touche."

"If they ask, I'll say that someone stabbed the guy and he fell on me. In the confusion, I didn't see who or even notice."

"That should play," Win said.

"Are there any leads on Rhys?"

"Remember what I said about a better source," Win said.

"What about him?"

"What about her?" Win shook his head. "God, Myron, you're such a sexist. And here she is now."

Win looked toward the door. Myron did the same and immediately recognized the woman who'd entered. It was Brooke Baldwin, Win's cousin and, more to the point, mother of the still-missing Rhys.

Myron hadn't seen Brooke in, what, five years, he surmised.

A barstool appeared between Myron and Win. They both scooched over to make room. Brooke walked over without hesitation, grabbed the beer that Nigel had already put out for her, and started guzzling. Half was gone when she put it down. Nigel gave a nod of approval.

"Needed that," Brooke said.

Myron had met too many parents/spouses/loved ones of missing people. Most appeared frail and drained, which seemed both obvious and right. With Brooke, it was more the opposite. She was tanned, defiant, healthy, with a coiled energy, as though she had just finished her morning laps in some Olympic-sized pool or gone a few rounds with a boxing trainer. Her petite frame was thick with ropy muscles. The word that first came to mind when you saw this wealthy suburban soccer mom who had taken one of life's cruelest body blows: fierce.

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