Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,24

Nice work if you could get paid for it.

Scar Head needed help. He looked down the street in my direction, but I was probably too far away to see. I resisted the temptation to wave. I heard the sirens again, getting closer. I turned and two police cars came toward me.

The cops jumped out and pointed weapons at me. For a moment I was surprised, ready to explain that I was the good guy here, but then it all came clear. I was holding a gun in my hand. I had shot someone.

The cops yelled something that I assume was a command to freeze and raise my hands and I did just that. I let the weapon drop to the pavement and got on one knee. The cops ran toward me.

I looked back toward the minivan. I wanted to point it out to the cops, tell them to go after it, but I knew how any sudden move would appear. The police were shouting instructions at me, and I didn't understand any of them so I stayed perfectly still.

And then I saw something that made me want to go for the gun again.

The minivan door was open. Scar Head was rolling in. The other man jumped in behind him and began to close the doors as the van started to move. The angle changed and for just a second-less time really, maybe half a second-I was able to see into the back of the van.

I was also a good distance away, probably seventy to eighty yards, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't seeing what I thought I was seeing.

Panic took over. I couldn't help it-I started to stand back up. I was that desperate. I was ready to jump for the gun and start firing at the tires. But the cops were on me now. I don't know how many. Four or five. They leapt on me, pounding me back to the pavement.

I struggled and felt something sharp, probably the butt end of a club, dig into my kidney. I didn't stop.

"The green van!" I shouted.

There were too many of them. I felt my arms being twisted behind my back.

"Please"-I could hear the near-crazed fear in my voice, tried to quell it-"you have to stop them!"

But my words were having no effect. The minivan was gone.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure back the memory of that half a second. Because what I did see in the back-or what I thought I saw-right before the van doors closed and swallowed her whole, was a girl with long blond hair.
Chapter 10

TWO hours later, I was back in my stinky holding cell at 36 quai des Orfevres.

The police questioned me for a very long time.

I kept my narrative simple and begged them to find Berleand for me. I tried to keep my voice steady as I told them to find Terese Collins at the hotel-I was worried that whoever had gone after me might be interested in her too-and mostly I repeated the van's license plate number and said that there might be a kidnap victim in the back.

First they kept me out on the street, which was odd but also made sense. I was cuffed and had two officers, one holding each elbow, with me at all times. They wanted me to point out what had happened. They walked me back to Cafe Le Buci on the corner. The table was still overturned. There was a smear of blood on it. I explained what I had done. No witness had seen Scar Head holding the gun, of course, just my counterattack. The man I had shot had been rushed off in an ambulance, which I hoped meant he was alive.

"Please," I said for the hundredth time, "Captain Berleand can explain everything."

If you were trying to read their body language, you'd conclude that the cops were both skeptical of everything I said and rather bored. But you can't judge by the body language. I had learned that over the years. Cops are always skeptical-plus they get more information that way. They always act like they don't believe you so you keep talking, trying to defend and explain and blurting out things that maybe you shouldn't.

"You need to find the van," I said again, repeating the license plate number mantralike.

"My friend is staying at the d'Aubusson." I pointed down the Rue Dauphine, gave Terese's name and room number.

To all of this, the cops nodded and responded with questions that had