The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (119 page)

The decor was far simpler and less opulent than Myron had expected. Solid-colored furniture and pillows. Uncluttered white walls. Pine bookcases with artifacts gathered from vacations to Asia and Africa. Victoria had told him that Cissy Lockwood loved to travel.

They stopped in front of a doorway. Myron looked inside. Win’s mother lay in bed. Exhaustion emanated from her. Her head was back on the pillow as though it were too heavy to lift. An IV bag was attached to her arm. She looked at Myron and mustered a gentle smile. Myron smiled back. With his peripheral vision, he saw Victoria signal to the nurse. The nurse stood and moved past him. Myron stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

Myron moved closer to the bed. Her breathing was labored and constricted, as though she was being slowly strangled from
inside. Myron did not know what to say. He had seen people die before, but those had been quick, violent deaths, the life force snuffed out in one big, powerful gust. This was different. He was actually watching a human being die, her vitality dripping out of her like the liquid in her IV bag, the light in her eyes almost imperceptibly dimming, the grinding whir of tissues and sinews and organs eroding under the onslaught of whatever manic beast had lain claim to her.

She lifted a hand and put it on his. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She was not bony or pale. Her muscles were still toned, her summer tan only slightly faded.

“You know,” she said.

Myron nodded.

She smiled. “How?”

“A lot of little things,” he said. “Victoria not wanting me to dig into the past. Jack’s mischievous past. Your too-casual comment about how Win was supposed to be playing golf with Jack that day. But mostly it was Win. When I told him about our conversation, he said that I now knew why he wanted nothing to do with you and Jack. You, I could understand. But why Jack?”

Her chest heaved a bit. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Jack destroyed my life,” she said. “I realize that he was only a teenager pulling a prank. He apologized profusely. He told me that he had not realized that my husband was on the premises. He said that he was certain I would hear Win coming and hide. It was all a joke, he said. Nothing more. But none of that made him less liable. I lost my son forever because of what he did. He had to face the consequences.”

Myron nodded. “So you paid off Lloyd Rennart to sabotage Jack at the Open.”

“Yes. It was an inadequate punishment for what he had done to my family, but it was the best I could do.”

The bedroom door opened, and Win stepped into the room. Myron felt the hand release his. A sob came out of Cissy Lockwood. Myron did not hesitate or say good-bye. He turned away and walked out the door.

She died three days later. Win never left her side. When the last pitiful breath was drawn, when the chest mercifully stopped rising and falling and her face froze in a final, bloodless death mask, Win appeared in the corridor.

Myron stood and waited. Win looked at him. His face was serene, untroubled.

“I did not want her to die alone,” he said.

Myron nodded. He tried to stop shaking.

“I am going to take a walk.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Myron asked.

Win stopped. “Actually,” he said, “there is.”

“Name it.”

They played thirty-six holes at Merion that day. And thirty-six more the next. And by the third day, Myron was starting to get it.

When an author is writing about an activity he enjoys about as much as sticking his tongue in a fan (golf), he needs help and lots of it. With that in mind the author wishes to thank the following: James Bradbeer, Jr., Peter Roisman, Maggie Griffin, Craig Coben, Larry Coben, Jacob Hoye, Lisa Erbach Vance, Frank Snyder, the rec.sports.golf board, Knitwit, Sparkle Hayter, Anita Meyer, the many golfers who regaled me with their scintillating tales (snore), and of course, Dave Bolt. While the U.S. Open is a real golf tournament and Merion is a real golf club, this book is a work of fiction. I took some liberties, combined locales and tournaments, that kind of thing. As always, any errors—factual or otherwise—are totally the fault of these people. The author is not to blame.

Myron and I tried. But we’re still not sure we get it.

The cemetery overlooked a schoolyard.

Myron pushed at the loose dirt with the toe of his Rockport. There was no stone here yet, just a metal marker holding a plain index card with a name typed in capital letters. He shook his head. Why was he standing here like some cliché from a bad TV show? In his mind’s eye Myron could see how the whole scene should be played out. Torrential rain should be pounding on his back, but he would be too bereaved to notice. His head should be lowered, tears glistening in his eyes, maybe one running down his cheek, blending in with the rain. Cue the stirring music. The camera should move off his face and pull back slowly, very slowly, showing his slumped shoulders, the rain driving harder, more graves, no one else present. Still pulling back, the camera eventually shows Win, Myron’s loyal partner, standing in the distance, silently understanding,
giving his buddy time alone to grieve. The TV image should suddenly freeze and the executive producer’s name should flash across the screen in yellow caps. Slight hesitation before the viewers are urged to stay tuned for scenes from next week’s episode. Cut to commercial.

But that would not happen here. The sun shone like it was the first day and the skies had the hue of the freshly painted. Win was at the office. And Myron would not cry.

So why was he here?

Because a murderer would be coming soon. He was sure of it.

Myron searched for some kind of meaning in the landscape but only came up with more clichés. It had been two weeks since the funeral. Weeds and dandelions had already begun to break through the dirt and stretch toward the heavens. Myron waited for his inner voice-over to spout the standard drivel about weeds and dandelions representing cycles and renewal and life going on, but the voice was mercifully mute. He sought irony in the radiant innocence of the schoolyard—the faded chalk on black asphalt, the multicolor three-wheelers, the slightly rusted chains for the swings—cloaked in the shadows of tombstones that watched over the children like silent sentinels, patient and almost beckoning. But the irony would not hold. Schoolyards were not about innocence. There were bullies down there too and sociopaths-in-waiting and burgeoning psychoses and young minds filled prenatally with undiluted hate.

Okay
, Myron thought,
enough abstract babbling for one day
.

On some level, he recognized that this inner dialogue was merely a distraction, a philosophical sleight of hand to keep his brittle mind from snapping like a dry twig. He wanted so very much to cave in, to let his legs give way, to fall to the ground and claw at the dirt with his bare hands and beg forgiveness and plead for a higher power to give him one more chance.

But that too would not happen.

Myron heard footsteps coming up from behind him. He closed his eyes. It was as he expected. The footsteps came closer. When they stopped, Myron did not turn around.

“You killed her,” Myron said.

“Yes.”

A block of ice melted in Myron’s stomach. “Do you feel better now?”

The killer’s tone caressed the back of Myron’s neck with a cold, bloodless hand. “The question is, Myron, do you?”

Myron hunched his shoulders and slurred his words. “I am not a baby-sitter,” he said. “I am a sports agent.”

Norm Zuckerman looked pained. “Was that supposed to be Bela Lugosi?”