Run Away - Harlan Coben Page 0,85
down at him, and even from this distance, he could see the pleading in her eyes.
She shook her head in an ominous fashion.
He did nothing.
Ash circled around and got behind the wheel. He drove them back down the tree-lined road, watching the gates of Truth Haven grow smaller in the rearview mirror. He turned onto the main road and when they hit the first traffic light, he took out the note from Mother Adiona, opened it, and read it for the first time:
DON’T KILL HIM. PLEASE.
All in caps and block letters. Then in cursive underneath:
Don’t show this message to anyone, not even her. You have no idea what’s really going on.
“What’s that?” Dee Dee asked.
He handed her the note. “Mother Adiona slipped this to me before she left my room.”
Dee Dee read it.
“What does she mean by ‘You have no idea what’s really going on’?” Ash asked.
“No clue,” Dee Dee said. “But I’m glad you trust me.”
“I trust you more than I trust her.”
“My sneaking you that knife probably helped.”
“It didn’t hurt,” Ash said. “Did you know I’d kill him?”
“Massive retaliation. Massive deterrent.”
“Were you worried about how your leaders would react?”
“The Truth will always provide.”
“And killing that guard was the truth?”
She looked out the window. “He’s dying. You know that, right?”
“The Truth, you mean?”
Dee Dee smiled. “The Truth cannot die. But yes, the current embodiment.”
“Does his death have anything to do with why I was hired?”
“Does it matter?”
Ash thought about it. “No, not really.”
She sat back and hugged her knees to her chest.
“What do you make of Mother Adiona’s note?” he asked.
Dee Dee started playing with a too-long strand of hair she’d missed during her bathroom cut. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to tell the Truth?” He heard the funny way it sounded—the play on words that is the man’s moniker—even as he said it. “I mean, are you going to tell—?”
“Yeah, I know what you meant.”
“Well? Are you going to tell?”
Dee Dee thought about it. “Not right now. Right now, I want us to concentrate on doing our job.”
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
When Simon got back to the ICU, he was surprised to see Detective Isaac Fagbenle waiting for him. For a second, maybe two, hope filled his chest—had he found Paige?—but the expression on Fagbenle’s face indicated that this wasn’t going to be good news. The hope fled even faster than it came, replaced by whatever the opposite is.
Despair? Worry?
“It’s not about Paige,” Fagbenle said.
“What then?”
Simon glanced over the detective’s shoulder to where Sam sat bedside of Ingrid. Nothing new there, so he turned his attention back to Fagbenle.
“It’s about Luther Ritz.”
The man who shot his wife. “What about him?”
“He’s out.”
“What?”
“On bail. Rocco posted a bond for him.”
“Luther wasn’t remanded to trial?”
“Presumption of innocence, Eighth Amendment. You know, like we still do in America?”
“He’s free?” Simon let loose a breath. “You think that puts Ingrid in any danger?”
“Not really. The hospital has pretty good security.”
A nurse pushed past them, giving them an annoyed glance because they were somewhat blocking the entrance. The two men moved to the side.
“The thing is,” Fagbenle said, “the case against Luther isn’t a slam dunk.”
“How’s that?”
“He claims you shot him first.”
“Me?”
“You, your wife, one of you two.”
“Didn’t you do a residue test on him?”
“Yes. He claims two things. One, he was shooting practice shots, nothing to do with you. And two, if you don’t buy that, he fired back because you shot him first.”
Simon scoffed. “Who’s going to believe that?”
“You’d be surprised. Look, I don’t know all the details, but Luther Ritz is claiming self-defense. That’s going to lead to some tough questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like why you and Ingrid were down there in the first place.”
“To find our daughter.”
“Right. So you were agitated and worried, right? You went to a drug den that your daughter frequented. No one would tell you where she was. So maybe you got more than agitated and worried. Maybe you were desperate, so desperate you or your wife pulled a gun—”
“You can’t be serious.”
“—and he ended up shot. Luther, I mean. So he fired back.”
Simon made a face.
“Luther is back home how, convalescing from a serious wound—”
“And my wife is”—Simon felt his face redden—“lying in a coma ten yards from us.”
“I know that. But you see, someone shot Luther.”
Fagbenle moved in closer. Now Simon got it. Now he understood what was happening here.
“And as long as we don’t know who shot him, Luther’s claim of self-defense will lead to reasonable doubt. The witnesses, if there are any who come forward, won’t be backing