The Woods by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online Page B

few moments no one spoke, no one moved. Perez did not look at his wife. She did not look at him. They just stood there, frozen, the words still hanging in the air.
    "Our son was killed twenty years ago," Mr. Perez said at last.
    York nodded, not sure what to say.
    "Are you saying that you've finally found his body?"
    "No, I don't think so. Your son was eighteen when he vanished, correct?" "Almost nineteen," Mr. Perez said. "This man, the victim, as I mentioned before, he was probably in his late thirties."
    Perez's father sat back. The mother still hadn't moved.
    York dove in. "Your son's body was never found, isn't that correct?"
    "Are you trying to tell us…?"
    Mr. Perez's voice died off there. No one jumped in and said, "Yes, that's exactly what we are suggesting, that your son Gil has been alive this whole time, twenty years, and didn't tell you or anyone else, and now, when you finally have the chance to be reunited with your missing child, he's been murdered. Life's a gas, ain't it?"
    Mr. Perez said, "This is crazy."
    "I know what it must sound like-"
    "Why do you think it's our son?"
    "Like I said before. We have a witness."
    "Who?"
    It was the first time that I had heard Mrs. Perez speak. I almost ducked. York tried to sound reassuring. "Look, I understand you're upset-" "Upset?" The father again.
    "Do you know what it's like… can you imagine…?"
    His voice died off again. His wife put her hand on his forearm. She sat up a little straighter, for a second she turned to the window and I was sure she could see me through it. Then she met York's eye and said,
    "I assume you have a body."
    Yes, maam.
    "And that's why you brought us here. You want us to look at it and see if it's our son."
    "Yes."
    Mrs. Perez stood. Her husband watched her, looking small and helpless.
    "Okay," she said. "Why don't we do that?"
    Mr. and Mrs. Perez started down the corridor.
    I followed at a discreet distance. Dillon was with me. York stayed with the parents. Mrs. Perez held her head high. She still gripped the purse tight against her as though she feared a snatcher. She stayed a step ahead of her husband. So sexist to think it should be the other way around, that the mother should collapse while the father pushed on. Mr. Perez had been the strong one for the "show" part. Now that the grenade had exploded, Mrs. Perez took the lead while her husband seemed to shrink farther back with every step.
    With its worn floor of linoleum and walls of scrape-the-skin concrete, the corridor couldn't have looked more institutional without a bored bureaucrat leaning against it on a coffee break. I could hear the echo of the footsteps. Mrs. Perez wore heavy gold bracelets. I could hear them clank in rhythm with the walking.
    When they turned right at the same window I had stood in front of yesterday, Dillon stuck out his hand in front of me, almost in a protective way, as if I were a kid in the front seat and he'd just stopped short. We stayed a good ten yards back, maneuvering so that we stayed out of their line of vision.
    It was hard to see their faces. Mr. and Mrs. Perez stood next to each other. They did not touch. I could see Mr. Perez lower his head. He was wearing a blue blazer. Mrs. Perez had on a dark blouse almost the color of dried blood. She wore a lot of gold. I watched a different person, a tall man with a beard this time, wheel the gurney toward the window. The sheet covered the body.
    When it was in place, the man with the beard glanced toward York. York nodded. The man carefully lifted the sheet, as if there were some thing fragile underneath. I was afraid to make a sound, but I still tilted my body a little to the left. I wanted to see some of Mrs. Perez's face, at least a sliver of profile.
    I remember reading about torture victims who want to control something, anything, and so they fight hard not to cry out, not to twist up their face, not to show anything, not to give their tormenters any satisfaction whatsoever. Something in Mrs.