by Harlan Coben
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.”
They both settled back. Myron stared up at the exposed beams. After some time, he said, “You have it wrong.”
“How so?”
Myron wondered how to explain it. “When I played basketball,” he began, “I mean, when I really got into it and reached these levels you’re talking about—I barely thought about the score. I barely thought about my opponent or about beating somebody. I was alone. I was in the zone. This is going to sound stupid, but playing at the top of my game was almost Zen-like.”
Win nodded. “And when did you feel this way?”
“Pardon?”
“When did you feel your most—to use your word—Zen?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Was it at practice? No. Was it during an unimportant game or when your team was up by thirty points? No. What brought you to this sweat-drenched state of Nirvana, my friend, was competition. The desire—the naked need—to defeat a top-level opponent.”
Myron opened his mouth to counter. Then he stopped. Exhaustion was starting to take over. “I’m not sure I have an answer to that,” he said. “At the end of the day, I like to win. I don’t know why. I like ice cream too. I don’t know why either.”
Win frowned. “Impressive simile,” he said flatly.
“Hey, it’s late.”
Myron heard a car pull up front. A young blonde entered the room and smiled. Win smiled back. She bent down and kissed him. Win had no problem with that. Win was never outwardly rude to his dates. He was not the type to rush them out. He had no problem with them staying the night, if it made them happier. Some might mistake this for kindness or a tender spot in the soul. They’d be wrong. Win let them stay because they meant so little to him. They could never reach him. They could never touch him. So why not let them stay?
“That’s my taxi,” the blonde said.
Win’s smile was blank.
“I had fun,” she said.
Not even a blink.
“You can reach me through Amanda if you want”—she looked at Myron, then back at Win—“well, you know.”
“Yes,” Win said. “I know.”
The young woman offered up an uncomfortable smile and left.
Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past—in the mid-eighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called “Chinese Night”—but to still partake, in this day and age?
Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.
He turned to his friend. They looked at each other. Neither one of them said anything.
“Moralizing,” Win said. “How nice.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Indeed.” Win stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Myron felt his heart pound. “Mind if I go with you?”
“Yes.”
“What car are you taking?”
Win did not bother responding. “Good night, Myron.”
Myron’s mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. “One question, if I may.”
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
“Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you?” Win asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“Then who?”
“Your uncle Bucky.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “And who suggested us to Bucky?”
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
“Win?”
“Go to sleep, Myron.”
11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn’t even bother trying.
He sat in Win’s chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win’s potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A.M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open. Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion.
“Good night,” Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach. He had just begun to slide into true REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open.
“You’re still asleep?” a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking; he wasn’t used to her doing it where he slept.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“Six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations. With one finger she tucked a few
spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“Amtrak red-eye,” she said.
Myron was still groggy. “Then what did you do? Catch a cab?”
“What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab.”
“Just asking.”
“The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he’s not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood.”
Myron shrugged. “Probably thought you were a domestic,” he said.
“In these shoes?” She lifted her foot so he could see.
“Very nice.” Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. “Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?”
“I got some information on the old caddie.”
“Lloyd Rennart?”
Esperanza nodded. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.” Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a beginning. “You could have just called.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh?”
“The circumstances surrounding his death are”—she stopped, bit her lower lip—“fuzzy.”
Myron sat up a bit. “Fuzzy?”
“Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago.”
“How?”
“That’s the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain range in Peru. He woke up one morning, wrote a brief note, then he jumped off a cliff of some kind.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I haven’t been able to get too many details yet. The Philadelphia Daily News just had a brief story on it.” There was a hint of a smile. “But according to the article, the body had not yet been located.”
Myron was starting to wake up in a big hurry. “What?”
“Apparently Lloyd Rennart took the plunge in a remote crevasse with no access. They may have located the body by now, but I couldn’t find a follow-up article. None of the local papers carried an obituary.”
Myron shook his head. No body. The questions that sprang to mind were obvious: Could Lloyd Rennart still be alive? Did he fake his own death in order to plot out his revenge? Seemed a tad out there, but you never know. If he had, why would he have waited twenty-three years? True, the U.S. Open was back at Merion. True, that could make old wounds resurface. But still. “Weird,” he said. He looked up at her. “You could have told me all this on the phone. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
