'And you'll let a boy die for him?' Myron said.
'Don't start,' Clara said, but her voice was soft.
Myron studied her face again, saw no give. He turned to Ford. 'Agree,' he said.
'Are you nuts?'
'The family cares about retribution. But they care more about finding their son. Agree to her terms.'
'You think I'm taking orders from you?'
Myron's voice was soft. 'Come on, Eric.'
Ford frowned. He rubbed his face with his hands and then dropped them back to his side. 'This agreement assumes, of course, that the boy is still alive.'
'No,' Clara Steinberg said.
'What?'
'Alive or dead does not change the state of Edwin Gibb's mental health.'
'So you don't know if he's alive or—'
'If we did, it would be an attorney-client communication and thus confidential.'
Myron looked at her in stark horror. She met his eyes and would not blink. Myron tried Stan, but his head was still lowered. Even Win's face, usually the model of neutrality, was on edge. Win wanted to hurt somebody. He wanted to hurt somebody badly.
'We can't agree to that,' Ford said.
'Then there's no deal,' Clara said.
'You have to be reasonable—'
'Do we have a deal or not?'
Eric Ford shook his head. 'No.'
'See you in court, then.'
Myron moved into her path.
'Step aside, Myron,' Clara said.
He just looked down at her. She raised her eyes.
'You think your mother wouldn't be doing the same thing?' Clara said.
'Leave my mother out of this.'
'Step aside,' she said again. Aunt Clara was sixty-six. For the first time since he'd known her, she looked older than her age.
Myron turned back to Eric Ford. 'Agree,' he said.
He shook his head. 'The boy is probably dead.'
'Probably,' Myron repeated. 'Not definitely.'
Win spoke up this time. 'Agree,' he said.
Ford looked at him.
'He won't get off easily,' Win said.
Stan's head finally rose at that one. 'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'
Win gave him flat eyes. 'Absolutely nothing.'
'I want this man kept away from my father.'
Win smiled at him.
'You don't get it, do you?' Stan said. 'None of you get it. My father is sick. He's not responsible. We're not making this up. Any competent psychiatrist in the world will agree. He needs help.'
'He should die,' Win said.
'He's a sick man.'
'Sick men die all the time,' Win said.
'That's not what I mean. He's like someone who has a heart condition. Or cancer. He needs help.'
'He kidnaps and probably kills people,' Win said.
'And it doesn't matter why he does it?'
'Of course it doesn't matter,' Win said. 'He does it. That's enough. He should not be put in a comfortable mental hospital. He should not be allowed to enjoy a wonderful film or read a great book or laugh again. He should not be able to see a beautiful woman or listen to Beethoven or know kindness or love — because his victims never will. What part of that don't you understand, Mr. Gibbs?'
Stan was shaking. 'You agree,' he said to Ford. 'Or we don't help.'
'If the boy dies because of this negotiation,' Win said to Stan, 'you will die.'
Clara stepped into Win's face. 'You threatening my client?' she shouted.
Win smiled at her. 'I never threaten.'
'There are witnesses.'
'Worried about collecting your fee, Counselor?' Win asked.
'That's enough.' It was Eric Ford. He looked at Myron. Myron nodded. 'Okay,' Ford said slowly. 'We agree. Now, where is he?'
'I'll have to take you,' Stan said.
'Again?'
'I wouldn't be able to give you directions. I'm not even sure I can find it after all these years.'
'But we come along,' Kimberly Green said.
'Yes.'
There was an empty space, a sudden stillness that Myron didn't like.
'Is Jeremy alive or dead?' Myron asked.
'Truth?' Stan said. 'I don't know.'
Chapter 38
Eric Ford drove with Kimberly Green riding shotgun and Myron and Stan in the backseat. Several cars' worth of agents followed them. So too did the press. Nothing they could do about that.
'My mother died in 1977,' Stan said. 'Cancer. My father was already unwell. The one thing in his life that mattered to him — the one good thing — was my mother. He loved her very much.'
The time on the car clock read nearly 4:03 A.M. Stan told them where to turn off Route 15. A sign read DINGSMAN BRIDGE. They were heading into Pennsylvania.
'Whatever sanity was still there, my mother's death stripped away. He watched her suffer. Doctors tried everything — used all their technological advances — but it only made her suffer more. That's when my father started with the strength of the mind. If only my mother hadn't relied on technology, he thought. If only she used her mind instead. If only she'd seen its limitless potential. Technology killed her, he said. It gave her false hope. It stopped her from using the one thing that could save her — the limitless human brain.'
No one had a comment.
'We had a summerhouse out here. It was beautiful. Fifteen acres of land, walking distance to a lake. My father used to take me hunting and fishing. But I haven't been out here in years. Haven't even thought about the place. He took my mother out here to die. Then he buried her in the woods. See, it's where her suffering finally ended.'
The obvious question hung in the air, unasked:
Myron would later remember nothing about the drive. No buildings, no landmarks, no trees. Outside his window was total night, the black folding over black, eyes squeezed shut in the darkest of rooms. He sat back and waited.
Stan told them to stop at the foot of a wooded area. More crickets sounded. The other cars pulled up alongside them. Feds got out and started combing the area. Beams from powerful flashlights revealed uneven earth. Myron ignored them. He swallowed and ran. Stan ran with him.
Before morning broke, the federal officers would find graves. They'd find the father of three children, the female college student, and the young newlyweds.
But for now, Myron and Stan kept running. Branches whipped Myron's face. He tripped over a root, curled into
