Darkest Fear mb-7 Read online

  "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 NBAs 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.

  "Boring," Esperanza said.

  "Agreed," Win said.

  "Isn't there a Partridge Family marathon on TV Land?"

  Myron suddenly stopped.

  "Myron?" Win said.

  He did not reply.

  "Hello, world." Esperanza snapped her fingers in Myron's face. "There's a song that we're singing. Come on, get happy."

  Myron switched off the television. He looked at Win, then at Esperanza. "Say one last good-bye to the boy."

  Esperanza and Win exchanged a glance.

  "You were right, Win."

  "About what?"

  "Human nature," Myron said.

  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 selfish
ly 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."