Darkest Fear
Page 20
“Nope. Never.”
“Did this Stacy have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“My memory ain’t so good. But she’s at the college.”
“Which college?”
“Waterbury State.”
Myron turned to Greg and another thought hit him. “Mr. Mostoni, have you heard the name Davis Taylor before today?”
Another squint. “What do you mean?”
“Has anybody else visited you or called you and asked about Davis Taylor?”
“No, sir. Never heard the name before.”
Myron looked at Greg again, then turned back to the old man. “So no one from the bone marrow center has been in touch with you?”
The old man cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. “The bone what?”
Myron asked a few more questions, but Nathan Mostoni started time-traveling again. There was nothing more to get here. Myron and Greg thanked him and headed back down the cracked pathway.
When they were back in the car, Greg asked, “Why didn’t the bone marrow center contact this guy?”
“Maybe they did,” Myron said. “Maybe he just forgot.”
Greg didn’t like it. Neither did Myron. “So what’s next?” Greg asked.
“We run a background check on Davis Taylor. Find out everything we can about him.”
“How?
“It’s easy nowadays. Just a few keystrokes and my partner will know it all.”
“Your partner? You mean that violent wacko you used to room with in college?”
“A, it is unhealthy to refer to Win as a violent wacko, even when he appears not to be in the vicinity. B, no, I mean my partner at MB SportsReps, Esperanza Diaz.”
Greg looked back at the house. “What do I do?”
“Go home,” Myron said.
“And?”
“And be with your son.”
Greg shook his head. “I don’t get to see him until the weekend.”
“I’m sure Emily wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, right.” Greg smirked, shook his head. “You don’t know her too well anymore, do you, Myron?”
“I guess not, no.”
“If she had her way, I’d never get to see Jeremy again.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Greg.”
“No, Myron. If anything, it’s being generous.”
“Emily told me that you’re a good father.”
“Did she also tell you what she charged in our custody battle?”
Myron nodded. “That you abused the kids.”
“Not just abused them, Myron. Sexually abused them.”
“She wanted to win.”
“And that’s an excuse?”
“No,” Myron said. “It’s deplorable.”
“More than that,” Greg said. “It’s sick. You have no idea what Emily’s capable of doing to get her way.”
“For example?”
But Greg just shook his head and started up the car. “I’ll ask you again: What can I do to help?”
“Nothing, Greg.”
“No good. I’m not sitting around while my kid is dying, you understand?”
“I do.”
“You have anything besides this name and address?”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” Greg said. “I’ll drop you off at the train station. I’m staying up here and watching the house.”
“You think the old man is lying?”
Greg shrugged. “Maybe he’s just confused and forgot. Or maybe I’m wasting my time. But I got to do something.”
Myron said nothing. Greg continued to drive.
“You’ll call me if you hear something?” Greg asked.
“Sure.”
During the train ride back to Manhattan, Myron thought about what Greg had said. About Emily. And about what she’d done—and what she’d do—to save her son.
11
Myron and Terese started out the next morning showering together. Myron controlled the temperature and kept the water hot. Prevents, er, shrinkage.
When they stepped out of the steamy stall, he helped Terese towel off.
“Thorough,” she said.
“We’re a full-service operation, ma’am.” He toweled her off some more.
“One thing I notice when I shower with a man,” Terese said.
“What’s that?”
“My breasts always end up squeaky clean.”
Win had left several hours ago. Lately he liked to get to the office by six. Overseas markets or something. Terese toasted a bagel while Myron fixed himself a bowl of cereal. Quisp cereal. They didn’t have it in New York anymore, but Win had it shipped in from a place called Woodsman’s in Wisconsin. Myron downed an industrial-size spoonful; the sugar rush came at him so fast he nearly ducked.
Terese said, “I have to go back tomorrow morning.”
“I know.”
He took another spoonful, feeling her eyes on him.
“Run away with me again,” Terese said.
He glanced up at her. She looked smaller, farther away.
“I can get us the same house on the island. We can just hop on a plane and—”
“I can’t,” he interrupted.
“Oh,” she said. Then: “You need to find this Davis Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And after that …?”
Myron shook his head. They ate some more in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Myron said.
She nodded.
“Running away isn’t always the answer, Terese.”
“Myron?”
“What?”
“Do I look in the mood for platitudes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Sometimes you can’t help,” she said. “Sometimes all that’s left is running away.”
“Not for me,” he said.
“No,” she agreed. “Not for you.”
She wasn’t angry or upset, just flat and resigned, and that scared him all the more.
An hour later Esperanza came into Myron’s office without knocking.
“Okay,” she began, grabbing a seat, “here’s what we’ve got on Davis Taylor.”
Myron leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“One, he’s never filed a tax return with the IRS.”
“Never?”
“Glad you’re paying attention,” Esperanza said.
“Did this Stacy have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“My memory ain’t so good. But she’s at the college.”
“Which college?”
“Waterbury State.”
Myron turned to Greg and another thought hit him. “Mr. Mostoni, have you heard the name Davis Taylor before today?”
Another squint. “What do you mean?”
“Has anybody else visited you or called you and asked about Davis Taylor?”
“No, sir. Never heard the name before.”
Myron looked at Greg again, then turned back to the old man. “So no one from the bone marrow center has been in touch with you?”
The old man cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. “The bone what?”
Myron asked a few more questions, but Nathan Mostoni started time-traveling again. There was nothing more to get here. Myron and Greg thanked him and headed back down the cracked pathway.
When they were back in the car, Greg asked, “Why didn’t the bone marrow center contact this guy?”
“Maybe they did,” Myron said. “Maybe he just forgot.”
Greg didn’t like it. Neither did Myron. “So what’s next?” Greg asked.
“We run a background check on Davis Taylor. Find out everything we can about him.”
“How?
“It’s easy nowadays. Just a few keystrokes and my partner will know it all.”
“Your partner? You mean that violent wacko you used to room with in college?”
“A, it is unhealthy to refer to Win as a violent wacko, even when he appears not to be in the vicinity. B, no, I mean my partner at MB SportsReps, Esperanza Diaz.”
Greg looked back at the house. “What do I do?”
“Go home,” Myron said.
“And?”
“And be with your son.”
Greg shook his head. “I don’t get to see him until the weekend.”
“I’m sure Emily wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, right.” Greg smirked, shook his head. “You don’t know her too well anymore, do you, Myron?”
“I guess not, no.”
“If she had her way, I’d never get to see Jeremy again.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Greg.”
“No, Myron. If anything, it’s being generous.”
“Emily told me that you’re a good father.”
“Did she also tell you what she charged in our custody battle?”
Myron nodded. “That you abused the kids.”
“Not just abused them, Myron. Sexually abused them.”
“She wanted to win.”
“And that’s an excuse?”
“No,” Myron said. “It’s deplorable.”
“More than that,” Greg said. “It’s sick. You have no idea what Emily’s capable of doing to get her way.”
“For example?”
But Greg just shook his head and started up the car. “I’ll ask you again: What can I do to help?”
“Nothing, Greg.”
“No good. I’m not sitting around while my kid is dying, you understand?”
“I do.”
“You have anything besides this name and address?”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” Greg said. “I’ll drop you off at the train station. I’m staying up here and watching the house.”
“You think the old man is lying?”
Greg shrugged. “Maybe he’s just confused and forgot. Or maybe I’m wasting my time. But I got to do something.”
Myron said nothing. Greg continued to drive.
“You’ll call me if you hear something?” Greg asked.
“Sure.”
During the train ride back to Manhattan, Myron thought about what Greg had said. About Emily. And about what she’d done—and what she’d do—to save her son.
11
Myron and Terese started out the next morning showering together. Myron controlled the temperature and kept the water hot. Prevents, er, shrinkage.
When they stepped out of the steamy stall, he helped Terese towel off.
“Thorough,” she said.
“We’re a full-service operation, ma’am.” He toweled her off some more.
“One thing I notice when I shower with a man,” Terese said.
“What’s that?”
“My breasts always end up squeaky clean.”
Win had left several hours ago. Lately he liked to get to the office by six. Overseas markets or something. Terese toasted a bagel while Myron fixed himself a bowl of cereal. Quisp cereal. They didn’t have it in New York anymore, but Win had it shipped in from a place called Woodsman’s in Wisconsin. Myron downed an industrial-size spoonful; the sugar rush came at him so fast he nearly ducked.
Terese said, “I have to go back tomorrow morning.”
“I know.”
He took another spoonful, feeling her eyes on him.
“Run away with me again,” Terese said.
He glanced up at her. She looked smaller, farther away.
“I can get us the same house on the island. We can just hop on a plane and—”
“I can’t,” he interrupted.
“Oh,” she said. Then: “You need to find this Davis Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And after that …?”
Myron shook his head. They ate some more in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Myron said.
She nodded.
“Running away isn’t always the answer, Terese.”
“Myron?”
“What?”
“Do I look in the mood for platitudes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Sometimes you can’t help,” she said. “Sometimes all that’s left is running away.”
“Not for me,” he said.
“No,” she agreed. “Not for you.”
She wasn’t angry or upset, just flat and resigned, and that scared him all the more.
An hour later Esperanza came into Myron’s office without knocking.
“Okay,” she began, grabbing a seat, “here’s what we’ve got on Davis Taylor.”
Myron leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“One, he’s never filed a tax return with the IRS.”
“Never?”
“Glad you’re paying attention,” Esperanza said.
