The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (101 page)

“Yes.”

“I like her books.”

He nodded.

“Do you love her?”

“Very much.”

“So what do you want?”

“Want?”

“Out of life. What are your dreams?”

He smiled. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Just getting to the heart of the matter,” Linda said. “Humor me. What do you want, Myron?” She looked at him with keen interest. Myron felt flushed.

“I want to marry Jessica. I want to move to the suburbs. I want to raise a family.”

She leaned back as though satisfied. “For real?”

“Yes.”

“Like your parents?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “I think that’s nice.”

“It’s simple,” he said.

“Not all of us are built for the simple life,” she said, “even if it’s what we want.”

Myron nodded. “Deep, Linda. I don’t know what it means, but it sounded deep.”

“Me neither.” She laughed. It was deep and throaty and Myron liked the sound of it. “Tell me where you met Win.”

“At college,” Myron said. “Freshman year.”

“I haven’t seen him since he was eight years old.” Linda Coldren took a swallow of her seltzer. “I was fifteen then. Jack and I had already been dating a year, believe it or not. Win loved Jack, by the way. Did you know that?”

“No,” Myron said.

“It’s true. He followed Jack everywhere. And Jack could be such a prick back then. He bullied other kids. He was mischievous as all hell. At times he was downright cruel.”

“But you fell for him?”

“I was fifteen,” she said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

“What was Win like as a kid?” Myron asked.

She smiled again, the lines in the corners of her eyes and lips deepening. “Trying to figure him out, eh?”

“Just curious,” Myron said, but the truth in her words stung. He suddenly wanted to withdraw the question, but it was too late.

“Win was never a happy kid. He was always”—Linda stopped, searching for the word—“off. I don’t know how else to put it. He wasn’t crazy or flaky or aggressive or anything like that. But
something was not right with him. Always. Even as a child, he had this strange ability to detach.”

Myron nodded. He knew what she meant.

“Aunt Cissy is like that too.”

“Win’s mother?”

Linda nodded. “The woman can be pure ice when she wants to be. Even when it comes to Win. She acts as though he doesn’t exist.”

“She must talk about him,” Myron said. “To your father, at least.”

Linda shook her head. “When Aunt Cissy told my father to contact Win, it was the first time she’d mentioned his name to him in years.”

Myron said nothing. Again the obvious question hung in the air unasked: What had happened between Win and his mother? But Myron would never voice it. This conversation had already gone too far. Asking would be an unforgivable betrayal; if Win wanted him to know, he’d tell him.

Time passed, but neither one of them noticed. They talked, mostly about Chad and the kind of son he was. Jack had held on and still led by eight strokes. A gigantic lead. If he blew it this time, it would be worse than twenty-three years ago.

The tent began to empty out, but Myron and Linda stayed and talked some more. A feeling of intimacy began to warm him; he found it hard to breathe when he looked at her. For a moment he closed his eyes. Nothing, he realized, was really going on here. If there was an attraction of some sort, it was simply a classic case of damsel-in-distress syndrome—and there was nothing less politically correct (not to mention Neanderthal) than that.

The crowd was gone now. For a long time nobody came into view. At one point, Win stuck his head into the tent. Seeing them together, he arched an eyebrow and then slipped back out.

Myron checked his watch. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”

“With whom?”

“Tad Crispin.”

“Here at Merion?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you’ll be long?”

“No.”

She started fiddling with her engagement ring, studying it as though making an appraisal. “Do you mind if I wait?” she asked. “We can catch dinner together.” She took off her glasses. The eyes were puffy, but they were also strong and focused.

“Okay.”

He met up with Esperanza at the clubhouse. She made a face at him.

“What?” he said.

“You thinking about Jessica?” Esperanza asked suspiciously. “No, why?”

“Because you’re making your nauseating, lovesick-puppy face. You know. The one that makes me want to throw up on your shoes.”

“Come on,” he said. “Tad Crispin is waiting.”

The meeting ended with no deal. But they were getting close.

“That contract he signed with Zoom,” Esperanza said. “A major turkey.”

“I know.”

“Crispin likes you.”

“We’ll see what happens,” Myron said.

He excused himself and walked quickly back to the tent. Linda Coldren was in the same seat, her back to him, her posture still queenlike.

“Linda?”

“It’s dark now,” she said softly. “Chad doesn’t like the dark. I know he’s sixteen, but I still leave the hall light on. Just in case.”

Myron remained still. When she turned toward him—when he first saw her smile—it was like something corkscrewed into his heart. “When Chad was little,” she began, “he always carried around this red plastic golf club and Wiffle ball. It’s funny. When I think about him now, that’s how I see him. With that little red club. For a long time I hadn’t been able to picture him like that.
He’s so much like a man now. But since he’s been gone, all I see is that little, happy kid in the backyard hitting golf balls.”

Myron nodded. He stretched out his hand toward hers. “Let’s go, Linda,” he said gently.

She stood. They walked together in silence. The night sky was so bright it looked wet. Myron wanted to reach out and hold her hand. But he didn’t. When they got to her car, Linda unlocked it with a remote control. Then she opened the door as Myron began circling for the passenger side. He stopped suddenly.

The envelope was on her seat.

For several seconds, neither of them moved. The envelope was manila, big enough for an eight-by-ten photograph. It was flat except for an area in the middle that puffed up a bit.

Linda Coldren looked up at Myron. Myron reached down, and using his palms, he picked up the envelope by the edges. There was writing on the back. Block letters:

Dread wrapped Myron’s chest in tight steel bands. He slowly reached out and tentatively touched the puffy part with just a knuckle. It felt claylike. Carefully, Myron slit the seal open. He turned the envelope upside down and let the contents fall to the car seat.

The severed finger bounced once and then settled onto the leather.

Myron stared, unable to speak.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod …

Raw terror engulfed him. He started shivering, and his body went numb. He looked down at the note in his hand. A voice inside his head said,
Your fault, Myron. Your fault
.

He turned to Linda Coldren. Her hand fluttered near her mouth, her eyes wide.

Myron tried to step toward her, but he staggered like a boxer who didn’t take advantage of a standing eight count. “We have to call someone,” he managed, his voice sounding distant even to him. “The FBI. I have friends—”

“No.” Her tone was strong.

“Linda, listen to me.…”

“Read the note,” she said.

“But—”

“Read the note,” she repeated. She lowered her head grimly. “You’re out of this now, Myron.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh no?” Her head snapped up. Her hands tightened into fists. “I’m dealing with a sick monster,” she said. “The kind of monster
who maims at the slightest provocation.” She stepped closer to the car. “He cut off my son’s finger just because I talked to you. What do you think he’d do if I went directly against his orders?”

Myron’s head swirled. “Linda, paying off the ransom doesn’t guarantee—”

“I know that,” she interrupted.

“But …” His mind flailed about helplessly and then said something exceedingly dumb. “You don’t even know if it’s his finger.”

She looked down now. With one hand, she held back a sob. With the other, she caressed the finger lovingly, without a trace of repulsion on her face. “Yes,” Linda said softly. “I do.”

“He may already be dead.”

“Then it makes no difference what I do, does it?”

Myron stopped himself from saying any more. He had sounded asinine enough. He just needed a moment or two to gather himself, to figure out what the next step should be.

Your fault, Myron. Your fault
.

He shook it off. He had, after all, been in worse scrapes. He had seen dead bodies, taken on some very bad people, caught and brought killers to justice. He just needed—

All with Win’s help, Myron. Never on your own
.

Linda Coldren lifted the finger into view. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her face remained a placid pool.

“Good-bye, Myron.”

“Linda …”

“I’m not going to disobey him again.”

“We have to think this through—”

She shook her head. “We should never have contacted you.”

Cupping her son’s severed finger like a baby chick, Linda Coldren slid into the car. She put the finger down carefully and started the car. Then she shifted it into gear and drove away.

Myron made his way to his car. For several minutes he sat and took deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. He had studied martial arts since Win had first introduced him to tae kwon do when they were college freshmen. Meditation was a big part of
what they’d learned, yet Myron never quite grasped the critical nuances. His mind had a habit of drifting. Now he tried to practice the simple rules. He closed his eyes. He breathed in through the nose slowly forcing it down low, letting only his stomach, not his chest, expand. He released it through the mouth, even slower, draining his lungs fully.

Okay, he thought, what is your next step?

The first answer to float to the surface was the most basic: Give up. Cut your losses. Realize that you are very much out of your element. You never really worked for the feds. You only accompanied Win. You were way out of your league on this and it cost a sixteen-year-old boy his finger and maybe more. As Esperanza had said, “Without Win, you’re hopeless.” Learn your lesson and walk away.

And then what? Let the Coldrens face this crisis alone?

If he had, maybe Chad Coldren would still have ten fingers.

The thought made something inside of him crumble. He opened his eyes. His heart started trip-hammering again. He couldn’t call the Coldrens. He couldn’t call the feds. If he pursued this on his own, he would be risking Chad Coldren’s life.

He started up the car, still trying to regain his balance. It was time to be analytical. It was time to be cold. He had to look at this latest development as a clue for a moment. Forget the horror. Forget the fact that he might have screwed up. The finger was just a clue.

One: The placement of the envelope was curious—inside Linda Coldren’s locked (yes, it had been locked—Linda had used the remote control to open it) car. How had it gotten there? Had the kidnapper simply broken into the vehicle? Good possibility, but would he have had time in Merion’s parking lot? Wouldn’t someone have reported it? Probably. Did Chad Coldren have a key that the kidnapper could have used? Hmm. Very good possibility, but one he couldn’t confirm unless he spoke to Linda, which was out of the question.

Dead end. For now.

Two: More than one person was involved in this kidnapping. This hardly took brilliant detective work. First off, you have the
Crusty Nazi. The phone call at the mall proved that he had something to do with this—not to mention his subsequent behavior. But there was no way a guy like Crusty could sneak into Merion and plant the envelope in Linda Coldren’s car. Not without drawing suspicion. Not during the U.S. Open. And the note had warned the Coldrens not to “cross” them again. Cross. Did that sound like a Crusty word?

Okay good. What else?

Three: The kidnappers were both vicious and dumb. Vicious was again obvious—the dumb part maybe less so. But look at the facts. For example, making a large ransom demand over a weekend when you know that the banks won’t be open until Monday—was that bright? Not knowing how much to ask for the first two times they called—didn’t that say ding-a-ling? And lastly was it really prudent to cut off a kid’s finger just because his parents happened to talk to a sports agent? Did that even make sense?

No.

Unless, of course, the kidnappers knew that Myron was more than a sports agent.

But how?

Myron pulled into Win’s long driveway. Unfamiliar people were taking horses out of the stable. As he approached the guest house, Win appeared in the doorway. Myron pulled into a spot and got out.

“How did your meeting with Tad Crispin go?” Win asked.

Myron hurried over to him. “They chopped off his finger,” he managed, breathy to the point of almost hyperventilating. “The kidnappers. They cut off Chad’s finger. Left it in Linda’s car.”

Win’s expression did not change. “Did you discover this before or after your meeting with Tad Crispin?”

Myron was puzzled by the question. “After.”

Win nodded slowly. “Then my original question remains: How did your meeting go with Tad Crispin?”

Myron stepped back as though slapped. “Jesus Christ,” he said in an almost reverent tone. “You can’t be serious.”

“What happens to that family does not concern me. What happens to your business dealings with Tad Crispin does.”

Myron shook his head, stunned. “Not even you could be that cold.”

“Oh please.”

“Please what?”

“There are far greater tragedies in this world than a sixteen-year-old boy losing his finger. People die, Myron. Floods wipe out entire villages. Men do horrible things to children every day.” He paused. “Did you, for example, read this afternoon’s paper?”