The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (94 page)

Should he go in?

No. That would be pointless at best. He had no idea how big the woods were, what direction to head in, nothing. The odds of finding the perpetrator were frighteningly remote. Myron’s best hope was that the perp was just hiding for a while, waiting for Myron to clear out.

Clear out. That sounded like a plan.

Myron moved back to the end of Green Acres. He turned left, traveled a couple of hundred yards, and settled behind yet another shrub. He and shrubs were on a first-name basis by now. This one he named Frank.

He waited an hour. No one appeared.

Great.

He finally stood up, said good-bye to Frank, and headed back to the car. The perpetrator must have escaped through the woods. That meant that he had planned an escape route or, more probably, he knew the area well. Could mean that it was Chad
Coldren. Or it could mean that the kidnappers knew what they were doing. And if that was so, it meant there was a good chance that they now knew about Myron’s involvement and the fact that the Coldrens had disobeyed them.

Myron hoped like hell it was just a hoax. But if it wasn’t, if this was indeed a real kidnapping, he wondered about repercussions. He wondered how the kidnappers would react to what he had done. And as he continued on his way, Myron remembered their previous phone call and the harrowing, flesh-creeping sound of Chad Coldren’s scream.

“Meanwhile, back at
stately Wayne Manor
 …”

That voice-over from the TV
Batman
always came to Myron when he reached the steely gates of the Lockwood estate. In reality Win’s family home looked very little like Bruce Wayne’s house, though it did offer up the same aura. A tremendous serpentine driveway wound to an imposing stone mansion on the hill. There was grass, lots of it, all the blades kept at a consistently ideal length, like a politician’s hair in an election year. There were also lush gardens and hills and a swimming pool, a pond, a tennis court, horse stables, and a horse obstacle course of some kind.

All in all, the Lockwood estate was very “stately” and worthy of the term “manor,” whatever that meant.

Myron and Win were staying at the guest house—or as Win’s father liked to call it, “the cottage.” Exposed beams, hardwood floors, fireplace, new kitchen with a big island in the middle, pool room—not to mention five bedrooms, four and half baths. Some cottage.

Myron tried to sort through what was happening, but all he came up with was a series of paradoxes, a whole lot of “which
came first, the chicken or the egg?” Motive, for example. On the one hand, it might make sense to kidnap Chad Coldren to throw off Jack Coldren. But Chad had been missing since
before
the tournament, which meant the kidnapper was either very cautious or very prophetic. On the other hand, the kidnapper had asked for one hundred grand, which pointed to a simple case of kidnapping for money. A hundred grand was a nice, tidy sum—a little low for a kidnapping, but not bad for a few days’ work.

But if this was merely a kidnapping to extort mucho dinero, the timing was curious. Why now? Why during the one time a year the U.S. Open was played? More than that, why kidnap Chad during the one time in the last twenty-three years the Open was being played at Merion—the one time in almost a quarter of a century that Jack Coldren had a chance to revisit and redeem his greatest failing?

Seemed like a hell of a coincidence.

That brought it back to a hoax and a scenario that went something like this: Chad Coldren disappears before the tournament to screw around with his dad’s mind. When that doesn’t work—when, to the contrary, Dad starts winning—he ups the ante and fakes his own kidnapping. Taking it a step further, one could assume that it had been Chad Coldren who had been climbing out of his own window. Who better? Chad Coldren knew the area. Chad Coldren probably knew how to go through those woods. Or maybe he was hiding out at a friend’s house who lived on Green Acres Road. Whatever.

It added up. It made sense.

All of this assumed, of course, that Chad truly disliked his father. Was there evidence of that? Myron thought so. Start off with the fact that Chad was sixteen years old. Not an easy age. Weak evidence for sure, but worth keeping in mind. Second—and far, far more important—Jack Coldren was an absent father. No athlete is away from home as much as a golfer. Not basketball players or football players or baseball players or hockey players. The only ones who come close are tennis players. In both tennis and golf, tournaments are taking place almost all year—there is
little so-called off season—and there is no such thing as a home game. If you were lucky you hit your home course once a year.

Lastly—and perhaps most crucial of all—Chad had been gone for
two
days without raising eyebrows. Forget Linda Coldren’s discourse on responsible children and open child-raising. The only rational explanation for their nonchalance was that this had happened before, or at the very least, was not unexpected.

But there were problems with the hoax scenario too.

For example, how did Mr. Total Grunge from the mall fit in?

There was indeed the rub. What role was the Crusty Nazi playing in all this? Did Chad Coldren have an accomplice? Possibly, but that really didn’t fit in well with a revenge scenario. If Chad was indeed behind all this, Myron doubted that the preppy golfer would join forces with a “skinhead wanna-be,” complete with a swastika tattoo.

So where did that leave Myron?

Baffled.

As Myron pulled up to the guest house, he felt his heart constrict. Win’s Jag was there. But so was a green Chevy Nova.

Oh, Christ.

Myron got out of the car slowly. He checked the license plate on the Nova. Unfamiliar. As he expected. He swallowed and moved away.

He opened the cottage’s front door and welcomed the sudden onslaught of air-conditioning. The lights were out. For a moment he just stood in the foyer, eyes closed, the cool air tingling his skin. An enormous grandfather clock ticked.

Myron opened his eyes and flicked on a light.

“Good evening.”

He pivoted to his right. Win was seated in a high-back leather chair by the fireplace. He cupped a brandy snifter in his hand.

“You were sitting in the dark?” Myron asked.

“Yes.”

Myron frowned. “A bit theatrical, don’t you think?”

Win switched on a nearby lamp. His face was a tad rosy from the brandy. “Care to join me?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Myron grabbed a cold Yoo-Hoo from the refrigerator and sat on the couch across from his friend. He shook the can and popped it open. They drank in silence for several minutes. The clock ticked. Long shadows snaked across the floor in thin, almost smoky tendrils. Too bad it was summertime. This was the kind of setting that begged for a roaring fire and maybe some howling wind. An air conditioner just didn’t cut it.

Myron was just getting comfortable when he heard a toilet flush. He looked a question at Win.

“I am not alone,” Win said.

“Oh.” Myron adjusted himself on the couch. “A woman?”

“Your gifts,” Win said. “They never cease to amaze.”

“Anybody I know?” Myron asked.

Win shook his head. “Not even somebody I know.”

The norm. Myron looked steadily at his friend. “You want to talk about this?”

“No.”

“I’m here if you do.”

“Yes, I see that.” Win swished around the drink in the snifter. He finished it in one gulp and reached for the crystal decanter. There was a slight slur in his speech. Myron tried to remember the last time he had seen Win the vegetarian, the master of several martial arts, the transcendental meditator, the man so at ease and in focus with his surroundings, have too much to drink.

It had been a very long time.

“I have a golf question for you,” Myron said.

Win nodded for him to proceed.

“Do you think Jack Coldren can hang on to this lead?”

Win poured the brandy. “Jack will win,” he said.

“You sound pretty sure.”

“I am sure.”

“Why?”

Win raised the glass to his mouth and looked over the rim. “I saw his eyes.”

Myron made a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He has it back. The look in the eyes.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Perhaps I am. But let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“What separates the great athletes from the very good? The legend from the journeyman? Simply put, what makes winners?”

“Talent,” Myron said. “Practice. Skill.”

Win gave a slight shake of the head. “You know better than that.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Many have talent. Many practice. There is more to the art of creating a true winner.”

“This look-in-the-eye thing?”

“Yes.”

Myron winced. “You’re not going to start singing ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ are you?”

Win cocked his head. “Who sang that song?”

The continuing trivia game. Win knew the answer, of course. “It was in
Rocky II
, right?”

“Rocky III,”
Win corrected.

“That the one with Mr. T?”

Win nodded. “Who played …?” he prompted.

“Clubber Lange.”

“Very good. Now who sang the song?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The name of the group was Survivor,” Win said. “Ironic name when you think of how quickly they vanished, no?”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “So what is this great divider, Win? What makes a winner?”

Win took another swish and sip. “Wanting,” he said.

“Wanting?”

“Hunger.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The answer isn’t surprising,” Win said. “Look in Joe DiMaggio’s eyes. Or Larry Bird’s. Or Michael Jordan’s. Look at pictures of John McEnroe in his prime, or Chris Evert. Look at Linda Coldren.” He stopped. “Look in the mirror.”

“The mirror? I have this?”

“When you were on the court,” Win said slowly “your eyes were barely sane.”

They fell into silence. Myron took a swig of Yoo-Hoo. The cold aluminum felt good in his hand. “You make the whole ‘wanting’ thing sound like it’s all foreign to you,” Myron said.

“It is.”

“Bull.”

“I am a good golfer,” Win said. “Correction: I am a very good golfer. I practiced quite a bit in my youth. I have even won my share of tournaments. But I never wanted it bad enough to move up to that next level.”

“I’ve seen you in the ring,” Myron countered. “In martial arts tournaments. You seemed plenty ‘wanting’ to me.”

“That is very different,” Win said.

“How so?”

“I do not view a martial arts tournament as a sporting contest, whereby the winner brings home a chintzy trophy and brags to colleagues and friends—nor do I view it as a competition that will lead to some sort of empty emotion that the insecure among us perceive as glory. Fighting is not a sport to me. It’s about survival. If I could lose in there”—he motioned to an imaginary ring—“I could lose in the real world.” Win looked up in the air. “But …” His voice drifted off.

“But?” Myron repeated.

“But you may be on to something.”

“Oh?”

Win steepled his fingers. “You see, fighting is life-and-death to me. That’s how I treat it. But the athletes we’ve been talking about take it a step further. Every competition, even the most banal, is viewed by them as life-and-death—and losing is death.”

Myron nodded. He didn’t buy it, but what the hell. Keep him talking. “I don’t get something,” he said. “If Jack has this special ‘wanting,’ why hasn’t he ever won a professional tournament?”

“He lost it.”

“The wanting?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Twenty-three years ago.”

“During the Open?”

“Yes,” Win said again. “Most athletes lose it in a slow burnout. They grow weary or they win enough to quench whatever inferno rages in their bellies. But that was not the case with Jack. His fire was extinguished in one crisp, cold gust. You could almost see it. Twenty-three years ago. The sixteenth hole. The ball landing in the stone quarry. His eyes have never been the same.”

“Until now,” Myron added.

“Until now,” Win agreed. “It took him twenty-three years, but he stoked the flames back to life.”

They both drank. Win sipped. Myron guzzled. The chocolaty coldness felt wonderful sliding down his throat. “How long have you known Jack?” Myron asked.

“I met him when I was six years old. He was fifteen.”

“Did he have the ‘wanting’ back then?”

Win smiled at the ceiling. “He would sooner carve out his own kidney with a grapefruit spoon than lose to someone on the golf course.” He lowered his gaze to Myron. “Did Jack Coldren have the ‘wanting’? He was the pure definition.”

“Sounds like you admired him.”

“I did.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No.”

“What made you change?”

“I grew up.”

“Wow.” Myron took another swig of Yoo-Hoo. “That’s heavy.”

Win chuckled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Win put down the brandy snifter. He leaned forward very slowly. “What is so great about winning?”

“Pardon?”

“People love a winner. They look up to him. They admire—nay, revere—him. They use terms like
hero
and
courage
and
perseverance
to describe him. They want to be near him and touch him. They want to be like him.”

Win spread his hands. “But why? What about the winner do
we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement? His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?” He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. “Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?”

“Competitive drive isn’t a bad thing, Win. You’re talking about extremes.”

“But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call ‘competitive drive’ leads to extremism and destroys all in its path.”

“You’re being simplistic, Win.”

“It is simple, my friend.”