Darkest Fear

Chapter 40

Myron called Kimberly Green at her office. She answered the line and said, "Green." "I need a favor," Myron said.

"Shit, I thought you were out of my life."

"But never your fantasies. You want to help me or not?"

"Not."

"I need two things."

"Not. I said 'not.'"

"Eric Ford said that the supposedly plagiarized novel was sent directly to you."

"So?"

"Who sent it?"

"You heard him, Myron. It was sent anonymously."

"You have no idea."

"None."

"Where is it now?"

"The book?"

"Yes."

"In an evidence locker."

"Ever do anything with it?"

"Like what?"

Myron waited.

"Myron?"

"I knew you guys were holding something back," he said.

"Listen to me a second—"

"The author of that novel. It was Edwin Gibbs. He wrote it under a pseudonym after his wife died. It makes perfect sense now. You were searching for him right from the get-go. You knew, dammit. You knew the whole time."

"We suspected," she said. "We didn't know."

"All that crap about thinking he was Stan's first victim—"

"It wasn't total crap. We knew it was one of them. We just didn't know which one. We couldn't find Edwin Gibbs until you told us about the Waterbury address. By the time we got there, he was already on his way to kidnap Jeremy Downing. Maybe if you had been more forthcoming—"

"You guys lied to me."

"We didn't lie. We just didn't tell you everything."

"Jesus, you ever listen to yourself?"

"We owed you nothing here, Myron. You weren't a federal agent on this. You were just a pain in the ass."

"A pain in the ass who helped you solve the case."

"And for that I thank you."

Myron's thoughts entered the maze, turned left, turned right, circled back.

"Why doesn't the press know about Gibbs being the author?" Myron asked.

"They will. Ford wants all his ducks in a row first. Then he'll hold yet another big press conference and present it as something new."

"He could do that today," Myron said.

"He could."

"But then the story dies down. Right now the rumors keep it going. Ford gets more time in the limelight."

"He's a politician at heart," she said. "So what?"

Myron took another few turns, hit a few more walls, kept feeling for the way out. "Forget it," he said.

"Good. Can I go now?"

"First I need you to call the national bone marrow registry."

"Why?"

"I need to find out about a donor."

"This case is closed, Myron."

"I know," he said. "But I think a new one might be opening."

Stan Gibbs was at the anchor chair when Myron and Win arrived. His new cable show, Glib with Gibbs, was filming in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and the studio, like every television studio Myron had ever seen, looked like a room with the roof ripped off. Wires and lights hung in no discernible pattern. Studios, especially newsrooms, were always much smaller in person than on television. The desks, the chairs, the world map in the background. All smaller. The power of television. A room on a nineteen-inch screen somehow looks smaller in real life.

Stan wore a blue blazer, white shirt, red tie, jeans and sneakers. The jeans would stay under the desk and never get camera time. Classic anchorman-wear. Stan waved to them when they entered. Myron waved back. Win did not.

"We need to talk," Myron said to him.

Stan nodded. He sent away the producers and motioned Myron and Win to the guest chairs. "Sit."

Stan stayed in the anchor chair. Win and Myron sat in guest chairs, which felt pretty strange, as though a home audience were watching. Win checked his reflection in a camera glass and smiled. He liked what he saw.

"Any word on a donor?" Stan asked.

"None."

"Something will come through."

"Yeah," Myron said. "Look, Stan, I need your help."

Stan intertwined his fingers and rested both hands on the anchor desk. "Whatever you need."

"There's a lot of things that don't add up with Jeremy's kidnapping."

"For example?"

"Why do you think your father took a child this time? He never did that before, right? Always adults. Why this time a child?"

Stan mulled it over, chose his words one at a time. "I don't know. I'm not sure taking adults was a pattern or anything. His victims seemed pretty random."

"But this wasn't random," Myron said. "His choosing Jeremy Downing couldn't have been just a coincidence."

Stan thought about that one too. "I agree with you there."

"So he picked him because he was somehow connected with my investigation."

"Seems logical."

"But how would your father have known about Jeremy?"

"I don't know," Stan said. "He might have followed you."

"I don't think so. You see, Greg Downing stayed up in Waterbury after our visit. He kept his eye on Nathan Mostoni. We know he didn't travel out of town until the day before the kidnapping."

Win looked into the camera again. He smiled and waved. Just in case it was on.

"It's strange," Stan said.

"And there's more," Myron said. "Like the call where Jeremy screamed. With the others, your father told the family not to contact the cops. But he didn't this time. Why? And are you aware that he wore a disguise when he kidnapped Jeremy?"

"I heard that, yes."

"Why? If he planned on killing him, why go to the trouble of donning a disguise?"

"He kidnapped Jeremy off the streets," Stan said. "Someone might have been able to identify him."

"Yeah, okay, that makes sense. But then why blindfold Jeremy once he was in the van? He killed all the others. He would have killed Jeremy. So why worry about him seeing his face?"

"I'm not sure," Stan said. "He might have always done it that way, for all we know."

"I guess," Myron said. "But something about it all just rings wrong, don't you think?"

Stan thought about it. "It rings funny," he said slowly. "I'm not sure it rings wrong."

"That's why I came to you. All these questions have been swirling in my head. And then I remembered Win's credo."

Stan Gibbs looked over at Win. Win blinked his eyes and lowered them modestly. "What credo is that?"

"Man is into self-preservation," Myron said. "He is, above all, selfish." He paused a moment. "You agree with that, Stan?"

"To some degree, of course. We're all selfish."

Myron nodded. "You even."

"Yes, of course. And you too, I'm sure."

"The media is making you out to be this noble guy," Myron said. "Torn between family and duty and ultimately doing the right thing. But maybe you're not."

"Not what?"

"Noble."

"I'm not," Stan said. "I did wrong. I never claimed to be a saint."

Myron looked at Win. "He's good."

"Damn good," Win agreed.

Stan Gibbs frowned. "What are you talking about, Myron?"

"Follow me here, Stan. And remember Win's credo. Let's start at the beginning. When your father first contacted you. You talked to him and you decided to write the Sow the Seeds story. What was your motive at first? Were you trying to find an outlet for your fear and guilt? Was it simply to be a good reporter? Or — and here's where we're using the Win credo — did you write it because you knew it would make you a big star?"

Myron looked at him and waited.

"Am I supposed to answer that?"

"Please."

Stan looked in the air and rubbed his fingertips with his thumb. "All of the above, I guess. Yes, I was excited by the story. I thought it could very well be a big deal. If that's selfishness, okay, I'm guilty."

Myron glanced at Win again. "Good."

"Damn good."

"Let's keep following this track, Stan, okay? The story did indeed become a big deal. So did you. You became a celebrity—"

"We covered this already, Myron."

"Right. You're absolutely right. Let's skip to the part where the feds sued you. They demanded to know your source. You refused. Now again there might be several reasons for this. The First Amendment, of course. That could be it. Protecting your father would be another. The combination of the two. But — and again Win's credo — what would be the selfish choice?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think selfishly and you really have only one option."

"That being?"

"If you caved in to the feds — if you said, Okay, now that I'm in legal trouble, my source is my father — well, how would that have looked?"

"Bad," Win said.

"Damn bad. I doubt you'd have been much of a hero if you sold out your father — not to mention the First Amendment — just to save your hide from vague legal threats." Myron smiled. "See what I mean about Win's credo?"

"So you think I acted selfishly by not telling the feds," Stan said.

"It's possible."

"It's also possible that the selfish thing was also the right thing."

"Possible too," Myron agreed.

"I never claimed to be a hero in all this."

"Never denied it either."

Stan smiled this time. "Maybe I didn't deny it because I'm using Win's credo."

"How's that?"

"Denying it would harm me," Stan said. "As would boasting about it."

Myron didn't have a chance to look before he heard Win say, "Damn good."

"I still don't see the relevance of any of this," Stan said.

"Stick with me, I think you will."

Stan shrugged.

"Where were we?" Myron asked.

"The feds take him to court," Win said.

"Right, thanks, the feds take you to court. You battle back. Then something happens you totally didn't foresee. The plagiarism charges. For the sake of discussion, we'll assume the Lex family sent the book to the feds. They wanted to get you off their back — what better way to do that than to ruin your reputation? So what did you do? How did you react to the charges of plagiarism?"

Stan kept quiet. Win said, "He disappeared."

"Correct answer," Myron said.

Win smiled and nodded a thank-you into the camera.

"You took off," Myron said to Stan. "Now the question again is why. Several things come to mind. It could have been because you were trying to protect your father. Or it might have been that you were afraid of the Lex family."

"Which would certainly fit Win's credo," Stan said. "Self-preservation."

"Right. You were afraid they'd harm you."

"Yes."

Myron treaded gently. "But don't you see, Stan? We have to think selfishly too. You're presented with this serious plagiarism charge. What choices did you have? Two really. You could either run off — or you could tell the truth."

Stan said, "I still don't see your point."

"Stay with me. If you told the truth, you would again look like a louse. Here you've been defending the First Amendment and your father and whoops, you get in trouble and you sell them out. No good. You'd still be ruined."

"Damned if you do," Win said. "Damned if you don't."

"Right," Myron said. "So the wise move — the selfish move — was to vanish for a while."

"But I lost everything by vanishing."

"No, Stan, you didn't."

"How can you say that?"

Myron lifted his palms to the skies and grinned. "Look around you."

For the first time, something dark flicked across Stan's face. Myron saw it. So did Win.

"Let's continue, shall we?"

Stan said nothing.

"You go into hiding and start counting your problems. One, your father is a murderer. You're selfish, Stan, but you're not inhumane. You want him off the streets, yet you can't tell on him. Maybe because you love him. Or maybe there's Win's credo."

"Not this time," Stan said.

"Pardon?"

"Win's credo doesn't apply. I kept quiet because I loved my father and because I believe in protecting sources. And I can offer proof."

"I'm listening," Myron said.

"If I wanted to turn my father in — if that would have been in my best interest — I could have done it anonymously." Stan leaned back and folded his arms.

"That's your proof?"

"Sure. I didn't do the selfish thing."

Myron shook his head. "You got to go deeper."

"Deeper how?"

"Turning your father in anonymously wouldn't help you, Stan. Not really. Yes, you needed to put your father behind bars. But more than that, you needed to be redeemed."

Silence.

"So what would answer both those needs? What would put your father away and put you back on top— maybe even more on top than before? First, you had to be patient. That meant staying hidden. Second, you couldn't be the one who turned him in. You had to set him up."

"Set up my father?"

"Yes. You had to leave a trail for the feds to follow. Something subtle, something that would lead to your father, and something you could manipulate at any time. So you took a fake ID, Stan — the same way your father had. You even took a job where people would spot the disguise your father used and hey, maybe you could also tie in your dad's old nemesis the Lex family in the process."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know what bugged me? Your father had been so careful in the past. Now all of a sudden he's leaving incriminating evidence in a locker. He rents the kidnap van on a credit card and leaves a red sneaker in it. It didn't make any sense. Unless someone was setting him up."

Stan's look of disbelief was almost genuine. "You think I killed these people?"

"No," Myron said. "Your father did."

"Then what—?"

"You're the one who used the Dennis Lex identity," Myron said, "not your father."

Stan tried to look stunned, but it wasn't happening.

"You kidnapped Jeremy Downing. And you called me and pretended to be the Sow the Seeds killer."

"And why did I do that?"

"To have this heroic ending. To have your father arrested. To have yourself redeemed."

"How the hell does calling you—"

"To get me interested. You probably learned about my background. You knew I'd investigate. You needed a dupe and a witness. Someone outside the police. I was that dupe."

"The dupe du jour," Win added.

Myron shot him a look. Win shrugged.

"That's ridiculous."

"No, Stan, it adds up. It answers all my earlier questions. How did the kidnapper happen to choose Jeremy? Because you followed me after I left your condo. You saw the feds pick me up. That's how you knew I'd spoken to them. You followed me to Emily's house. From there, any old newsman worth a damn could have figured out her son was the sick kid I told you about. His illness wasn't a secret. So Jeremy's being taken is no longer a coincidence, see?"

Stan folded his arms across his chest. "I see nothing."

"Other questions get answered too now. Like why did the kidnapper wear a disguise and make Jeremy wear a blindfold? Because you couldn't let Jeremy identify you. Why didn't the kidnapper kill Jeremy right away, like he had the others? Same reason you wore the disguise. You had no intention of killing him. Jeremy had to survive the ordeal unharmed. Otherwise you're no hero. Why didn't the kidnapper make his usual demand not to contact the authorities? Because you wanted the feds in. You needed them to witness your heroics. It wouldn't work without their involvement. I wondered how the media was always in the right spot — in Bernardsville, at the cabin. But you set that part up too. Anonymous leaks probably. So the cameras could witness and replay your heroics — your tackling your father, the dramatic rescue of Jeremy Downing. Good television. You knew the power of capturing those moments for all the world to see."

Stan waited. "You finished?"

"Not yet. You see, I think you went too far in spots. Leaving that sneaker in the van, for example. That was overkill. Too obvious. It made me wonder how neatly it all came together in the end. And then I start realizing that I was your main sucker, Stan. You played me like a Stradivarius. But even if I hadn't shown up, you just would have kidnapped someone else. Your main dupes were the feds. For crying out loud, that photograph of your father by the statue was the only picture in the whole condo. It even faced the window. You knew the feds were spying on you. You threw the truth about Dennis Lex right in their faces. Surely they'd go to the sanitarium and put it together. And if not, you could somehow get it out in the end, when they had you in custody. You were all set to cave in and tell on your father when I came through in the clutch. Me, the dupe du jour, saw the truth up at the sanitarium. You must have been so pleased."

"This is crazy."

"It answers all the questions."

"That doesn't mean it's the truth."

"The Davis Taylor address you used at work. It was the same address as your father's in Waterbury. So we would trace it back to him, to Nathan Mostoni. Who else would have done that?"

"My father!"

"Why? Why would your father change identities at all? And if your father needed a new identity, wouldn't he shed the old one? Or hell, at least change addresses? Only you could have pulled it off, Stan. You could have hooked up the extra phone line with no problem. Your father was pretty far gone. He was demented, at the very least. You kidnapped Jeremy. Then you probably told your father to meet you at the house in Bernardsville. He did what you said — for love or because of dementia, I don't know which. Did you know he'd arm himself like that? I doubt it. If Greg had died, you'd probably look worse. But I don't know for sure. Maybe the fact that he fired shots just made you look more heroic in the end. Think selfishly, Stan. That's the key."

Stan shook his head.

" 'Say one last good-bye to the boy,'" Myron said.

"What?"

"That's what the Sow the Seeds killer said to me on the phone. The boy. I made a mistake when he called me. I told him a boy needed help. After that, I only used the word 'child.' When I spoke to Susan Lex. When I spoke to you. I said a thirteen-year-old child needs a transplant."

"So?"

"So when we talked in the car that night, you asked what I was really after, what my real interest in all this was. Remember?"

"Yes."

"And I said I already told you."

"Right."

"And you said, 'That boy who needs a bone marrow transplant?" You said, 'That boy.' How did you know he was a boy, Stan?"

Win turned toward Stan. Stan looked at Win's face.

"Is that your proof?" Stan countered. "I mean, is this supposed to be a Perry Mason moment or something? Maybe you slipped up, Myron. Or maybe I just assumed it was a boy. Or I heard wrong. That's not evidence."

"You're right. It's not. It just got me thinking, that's all."

"Thoughts aren't proof."

"Wow," Win said. "Thoughts aren't proof. I'll have to remember that one."

"But there is proof," Myron said. "Definitive proof."

"Impossible," Stan said, but his voice warbled now. "What?"

"I'll get to that in a moment. First let me back off on my indignation a little."

"I don't understand."

"At the end of the day, what you did was scummy, no question about it. But in its own way, it was almost ethical. Win and I often discuss the ends justifying the means. You could claim that's what happened here. You tried to turn your father in before he struck again. You did all you could to make sure nobody else was harmed. Jeremy was never in any real danger. You couldn't know that Greg would be shot. So in the end, you scared a boy, but so what? Next to the murder and destruction your father would have continued to wreak, it was nothing. So you did some good. The ends perhaps justified the means. Except for one thing."

Stan didn't bite.

"Jeremy's bone marrow transplant. He needs that to live, Stan. You know that. You also know that you're the match, not your father. That was why you slipped him that cyanide pill. Because once we dragged your father to the hospital and realized that he wasn't a match, well, we would have investigated. We would have realized that Edwin Gibbs was not Davis Taylor ne Dennis Lex. So you had to have him kill himself and then you pushed for a quick cremation. I don't mean to make it sound as harsh or cold as all that. You didn't murder your father. He took the pill all on his own. He was a sick man. He wanted to die. It's yet another case of the ends justifying the means."

Myron took a moment and just looked into Stan's eyes. Stan did not look away. In a sense, this was more agenting work. Myron was negotiating here — the most important negotiation of his life. He had put his opponent in a corner. Now he needed to reach out. Not help him yet. He had to keep him in the corner. But he had to start reaching out. Just a little.

"You're not a monster," Myron said. "You just didn't count on the complication of being a bone marrow match. You want to do right by Jeremy. It's why you've gone so nuts trying to help the bone marrow drive. If they find another donor, it takes you off the hook. Because you're in this lie too deep now. You couldn't admit the truth — that you are the match. It would ruin you. I understand that."

Stan's eyes were wide and wet, but he was listening.

"Before I told you that I had proof," Myron said. "We checked the bone marrow registry. Know what we found, Stan?"

Stan didn't reply.

"You're not registered," Myron said. "Here you are telling everybody to sign up and you yourself aren't in their computer. The three of us know why. It's because you'd be a match. And if you matched, there would be those questions again."

Stan gave defiance one last shot. "That's not proof."

"Then how will you explain not registering?"

"I don't have to explain anything."

"A blood test will prove it conclusively. The registry still has the blood that Davis Taylor gave during the marrow drive. We can do a DNA test with yours, see if it matches up."

"And if I don't agree to a test?"

Win took that one. "Oh, you'll give blood," he said with just the slightest smile. "One way or another."

Something on Stan's face broke then. He lowered his head. The defiance was over. He was trapped in the corner now. No way to escape. He'd start looking for an ally. It always happened in negotiations. When you're lost, you look for an out. Myron had reached out before. It was time to do it again.

"You don't understand," Stan said.

"Strangely enough, I do." Myron moved a little closer to Stan. He made his voice soft yet unyielding. Total command mode. "Here's what we're going to do, Stan. You and I are going to make a deal."

Stan looked up, confused but also hopeful. "What?"

"You are going to agree to donate bone marrow to save Jeremy's life. You'll do it anonymously. Win and I can set that up. No one will ever know who the donor was. You do that, you save Jeremy, I forget the rest."

"How can I believe you?"

"Two reasons," Myron said. "One, I'm interested in saving Jeremy's life, not ruining yours. Two" — he tilted both palms toward the ceiling—"I'm no better. I bent rules here too. I let the ends justify the means. I assaulted a man. I kidnapped a woman."

Win shook his head. "There's a difference. His reasons were selfish. You, on the other hand, were trying to save a boy's life."

Myron turned to his friend. "Weren't you the one who said that motives are irrelevant? That the act is the act?"

"Sure," Win said. "But I meant that to apply to him, not you."

Myron smiled and faced Stan again. "I'm not your moral superior. We both did wrong. Maybe we can both live with what we've done. But if you let a boy die, Stan, you cross the line. You can't go home again."

Stan closed his eyes. "I would have found a way," he said. "I would have gotten another fake ID, given blood under a pseudonym. I was just hoping—"

"I know," Myron said. "I know all about it."

Myron called Dr. Karen Singh. "I found a matching donor."

"What?"

"I can't explain. But he has to stay anonymous."

"I explained to you that all the bone marrow donors remain anonymous."

"No. The bone marrow registry can't know about this either. We have to find a place that can harvest the marrow without knowing the patient's identity."

"Can't be done."

"Yeah, it can."

"No doctor will agree—"

"We can't play these games, Karen. I have a donor. No one can know who he is. Make it work."

He could hear her breathing.

"He'll have to be retested," she said.

"No problem."

"And pass a physical."

"Done."

"Then okay. Let's get this started."

When Emily heard about the donor, she gave Myron a curious look and waited. He didn't explain. She never asked.

Myron visited the hospital the day before the marrow transplant was to begin. He peeked his head around the doorjamb and saw the boy sleeping. Jeremy was bald from the chemo. His skin had a ghostly glow, like something withering from a lack of sunshine. Myron watched his son sleeping. Then he turned and went home. He didn't come back.

He returned to work at MB SportsReps and lived his life. He visited his father and mother. He hung out with Win and Esperanza. He landed a few new clients and started rebuilding his business. Big Cyndi handed in her wrestling resignation and took over the front desk. His world was wobbly but back on the axis.

Eighty-four days later — Myron kept count — he got a call from Karen Singh. She asked him to visit her office. When he arrived, she wasted no time.

"It worked," she said. "Jeremy went home today."

Myron started to cry. Karen Singh moved around her desk. She sat on the arm of his chair and rubbed his back.

Myron knocked on the half-open door.

"Enter," Greg said.

Myron did so. Greg Downing was sitting up in a chair. He'd grown a beard during his long hospital stretch.

He smiled at Myron. "Nice to see you."

"Same here. I like the beard."

"Gives me that Paul Bunyan touch, don't you think?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Sebastian Cabot as Mr. French," Myron said.

Greg laughed. "Going home on Friday."

"Great."

Silence.

"You haven't visited much," Greg said.

"Wanted to give you time to heal. And grow that beard in fully."

Greg tried another laugh, but he sort of choked on it. "My basketball career is over, you know."

"You'll get over it."

"That easy?"

Myron smiled. "Who said anything about easy?"

"Yeah."

"But there are more important things in life than basketball," Myron said. "Though sometimes I forget that."

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 facade 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 facade 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—

"Mr. Bolitar?"

Myron looked up at the boy.

"My mom and dad told me," Jeremy said. "Two days ago."

His chest shuddered. "What?"

"I know you're my biological father."

Myron was surprised and yet he wasn't. Some might say that Emily and Greg had made a preemptive strike, almost like a lawyer who reveals something bad about his own client because he knows the opposition will do it. Lessen the blow. But maybe Emily and Greg had learned the same lesson he had about lies and how they fester. And maybe, once again, they were trying to do what was best for their boy.

"How do you feel about it?" Myron asked.

"Weird, I guess," Jeremy said. "I mean, Mom and Dad keep expecting me to fall apart or something. But I don't see why it has to be such a big deal."

"You don't?"

"Sure, okay, I see it, but" — he stopped, shrugged— "it's not like the whole world's turned inside out or anything. You know what I mean?"

Myron nodded. "Maybe it's because you've already had your world turned inside out."

"You mean being sick and all?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, maybe," he said, thinking about it. "Must be weird for you too."

"Yeah," Myron said.

"I've been thinking about it," Jeremy said. "You want to hear what I've come up with?"

Myron swallowed. He looked into the boy's eyes— serenity, yes, but not through innocence. "Very much," he said.

"You're not my dad," he said simply. "I mean, you might be my father. But you're not my dad. You know what I mean?"

Myron managed a nod "But" — Jeremy stopped, looked up, shrugged the shrug of a thirteen-year-old—"but maybe you can still be around."

"Around?" Myron repeated.

"Yeah," Jeremy said. He smiled again and pow, Myron's chest took another blow. "Around. You know."

"Yeah," Myron said, "I know."

"I think I'd like that."

"Me too," Myron said.

Jeremy nodded. "Cool."

"Yeah."

The gym clock grunted and pushed forward. Jeremy looked at it. "Mom's probably outside waiting for me. We usually stop at the supermarket on the way home. Want to come?"

Myron shook his head. "Not today, thanks."

"Cool." Jeremy stood, watching Myron's face. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

Jeremy smiled. "Don't worry. It's going to work out."

Myron tried to smile back. "How did you get to be so smart?"

"Good parenting," he said. "Combined with good genes."

Myron laughed. "You might want to consider a future in politics."

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "Take it easy, Myron."

"You too, Jeremy."

He watched the boy walk out the door, again with the familiar gait. Jeremy didn't look back. There was the sound of the door closing, the echoes, and then Myron was alone. He turned toward the basket and stared at the hoop until it blurred. He saw the boy's first step, heard his first word, smelled the sweet clean of a young child's pajamas. He felt the smack of a ball against a glove, bent over to help with his homework, stayed up all night when he had a virus, all of it, like his own father had, a whirl of taunting, aching images, as irretrievable as the past. He saw himself hovering in the boy's darkened doorway, the silent sentinel to his adolescence, and he felt what remained of his heart burst into flames.

The images scattered when he blinked. His heart started beating again. He stared again at the basket and waited. This time nothing blurred. Nothing happened.