Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) by Harlan Coben

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.

10

     
     
     
    TWO hours later, I was back in my stinky holding cell at 36 quai des Orfèvres.
    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 Café 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 nothing to do with what I had just said. I answered the questions and they continued to stare at me as though every word out of my mouth were a complete fabrication.
    Then they dumped me back into this holding cell. I don’t think anyone had cleaned it since my last visit. Or since de Gaulle died. I was worried about Terese. I was also a tad worried about yours truly. I had shot a man in a foreign country. That was provable. What was not provable—what would be difficult, if not impossible, to corroborate—was my account of the incident.
    Did I have to shoot that guy?
    No question. He had a gun out.
    Would he have fired at me?
    You don’t wait to find out. So I fired first. How would that play here in France?
    I wondered if anyone else had been shot. I had seen more than one ambulance. Suppose someone innocent got hit by the machine-gun fire. That was on me. Suppose I had just gone with Scar Head. I could be with the blond girl now. Talk about terrified. What was that girl thinking and