Run Away - Harlan Coben Page 0,35
A television played something in Spanish. Luther sat up in the bed, his shoulder wrapped. He gave Simon a scowl and said, “What’s he doing in here?”
“Oh, so you know this man?” Fagbenle asked.
Luther’s eyes shifted left and right. “Uh…”
Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Mr. Greene?”
“Yes, he’s the man who shot my wife.”
“That’s a lie!”
“You’re certain?” Fagbenle asked.
“Yes,” Simon said, “I’m certain.”
“They shot me!” Luther shouted.
“Did they, Luther?”
“Yeah. He’s a liar.”
“Where did they shoot you exactly?”
“In the shoulder.”
“No, Luther, I mean geographical location.”
“Huh?”
Fagbenle rolled his eyes. “The place, Luther.”
“Oh, in that basement. In Rocco’s lot.”
“So why did we find you hiding in an alley two blocks away?”
You could see the dumb stamped all over him. “Uh, I ran. From him.”
“And hid in an alley even when the police came searching for you?”
“Hey, I don’t like cops, that’s all.”
“Great, thanks for confirming that you were at the shooting scene, Luther. Really helps us wrap this all up.”
“I didn’t shoot nobody. You got no proof.”
“Do you own a gun, Luther?”
“No.”
“Never fired one?”
“A gun?” He got a cagey look. “Maybe once, like years ago.”
“Man, Luther, don’t you watch TV?”
“What?”
“Like every cop show.”
Luther looked confused.
“There’s always the part where some moronic perp says, ‘I never fired the gun,’ you know, like you just did, and then the cop says they ran a gunshot residue test—this ringing any bells, Luther?—and they find residue, usually in the form of gunpowder particles, on the moronic perp’s hands and clothes.”
Luther’s face lost color.
“And, see, once they have all that, the cops—that would be me—have the guy dead to rights. We have witnesses and gun residue and scientific proof our moronic perp is a liar. It’s over for him. He usually confesses and tries to cut a deal.”
Luther sat back and blinked.
“You want to tell us why you did it?”
“I didn’t do it.”
Fagbenle sighed. “You’re really boring us now.”
“Why don’t you ask him why?” Luther asked.
“Pardon?”
Luther tilted his chin toward Simon. “Ask him.”
Simon took deep breaths. He’d been blocking since he entered the room, but now it all came crashing down on him. Ingrid, the woman he loved like no other, was nearby, in this very building, clinging to life because of this piece of shit. Without conscious thought, Simon took a step toward the bed, raising his hands to throttle the useless turd, this nothing, this worthless dung who had tried to snuff out the life of such a wonderful, vibrant being.
Fagbenle put an arm out to keep Simon in check, more a mental blockade than a physical one. He met Simon’s eyes and gave an understanding but firm shake of the head.
“What should I ask him, Luther?” Fagbenle asked.
“What were they two doing at Rocco’s, huh? Let’s say I did do it. Not really, but like pretend, like what’s the word…hypodermically, let’s say I did it.”
Fagbenle tried not to frown. “Go for it.”
“Maybe Rocco needs protection.”
“Why would Rocco need protection?”
“Don’t know. I’m talking hypodermically.”
“So Rocco told you to shoot Dr. Greene?”
“Doctor?” He sat up, wincing. “What are you talking about? I didn’t shoot no doctor. You ain’t pinning that on me.” He pointed at Simon. “I just shot his old lady.”
Simon didn’t know whether he should burst out punching or laughing. Again the sheer outrage of the situation—that even this worthless slice of nothing has the power to destroy something as vital and cherished and loved as Ingrid—consumed him, making him realize that there was nothing just in this world, no control, no center force, just random chaos. He wanted to kill this punk, stomp him out like the bug that he was, except no bug could ever be this callous and harmful, so yes, stomp out this nothing for the good of mankind—much gained, nothing lost. And yet he suddenly felt exhausted by the notion, that in the end there was no point in doing even that. It was all a big fucking joke.
“I was just protecting my boss,” Luther said. “Self-defense, you know what I’m saying?”
Simon felt his phone vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was from Yvonne:
We can see Ingrid now.
* * *
When Simon first entered her room, when he first saw Ingrid on that bed, stiller than sleep, tubes everywhere, gurgling machines—when he first saw all of that, his knees buckled and his body fell toward the floor. He didn’t catch himself. He probably could have, probably could have reached out and grabbed the wheelchair accessibility bar on his right. But he didn’t. He let himself land and land hard and let himself