by Harlan Coben
17
“Hello.”
Myron turned around. It was Linda Coldren. Her head was wrapped in a semi-babushka and she wore dark sunglasses. Greta Garbo circa 1984. She opened her purse. “I forwarded the home phone here,” she whispered, pointing to a cellular phone in the purse. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Please do,” Myron said.
She sat facing him. The sunglasses were big, but Myron could still see a hint of redness around the rims of her eyes. Her nose, too, looked like it had been rubbed raw by a Kleenex overdose. “Anything new?” she asked.
He told her about the Crusty Nazis jumping him. Linda asked several follow-up questions. Again the internal paradox tore at her: She wanted her son to be safe, yet she did not want it all to be a hoax. Myron finished by saying, “I still think we should get in touch with the feds. I can do it quietly.”
She shook her head. “Too risky.”
“So is going on like this.”
Linda Coldren shook her head again and leaned back. For several moments they sat in silence. Her gaze was cast somewhere over his shoulder. Then she said, “When Chad was born, I took off nearly two years. Did you know that?”
“No,” Myron said.
“Women’s golf,” she muttered. “I was at the height of my game, the top female golfer in the world, and yet you never read about it.”
“I don’t follow golf much,” Myron said.
“Yeah, right,” she snorted. “If Jack Nicklaus took two years off, you would have heard about it.”
Myron nodded. She had a point. “Was it tough coming back?” he asked.
“You mean in terms of playing or leaving my son?”
“Both.”
She took a breath and considered the question. “I missed playing,” she said. “You have no idea how much. I regained the number one spot in a couple of months. As for Chad, well, he was still an infant. I hired a nanny to travel with us.”
“How long did that last?”
“Until Chad was three. That’s when I realized that I couldn’t drag him around anymore. It wasn’t fair to him. A child needs some sort of stability. So I had to make a choice.”
They fell into silence.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m not into the self-pity thing and I’m glad women are given choices. But what they don’t tell you is that when you have choices, you have guilt.”
“What kind of guilt?”
“A mother’s guilt, the worst kind there is. The pangs are constant and ceaseless. They haunt your sleep. They point accusatory fingers. Every joyous swing of the golf club made me feel like I was forsaking my own child. I flew home as often as I could. I missed some tournaments that I really wanted to play in. I tried damn hard to balance career and motherhood. And every step of the way, I felt like a selfish louse.” She looked at him. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“But you don’t really sympathize,” she added.
“Of course I do.”
Linda Coldren gave him a skeptical glance. “If I had been a stay-at-home mother, would you have been so quick to suspect that Chad was behind this? Didn’t the fact that I was an absent mother sway your thinking?”
“Not an absent mother,” Myron corrected. “Absent parents.”
“Same thing.”
“No. You were making more money. You were by far the more successful parent business-wise. If anyone should have stayed home, it was Jack.”
She smiled. “Aren’t we politically correct?”
“Nope. Just practical.”
“But it’s not that simple, Myron. Jack loves his son. And during the years he didn’t qualify for the tour, he did stay home with him. But let’s face facts: Like it or not, it’s the mother who bears that burden.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Nor does it let me off the hook. Like I said, I made my choices. If I had to do it all over again, I still would have toured.”
“And you still would have felt guilty.”
She nodded. “With choice comes guilt. No escaping it.”
Myron took a sip of his Yoo-Hoo. “You said that Jack stayed home some of the time.”
“Yes,” she said. “When he failed Q school.”
“Q school?”
“Qualifying school,” she said. “Every year the top 125 moneymakers get their PGA Tour card automatically. A couple of other players get sponsor exemptions. The rest are forced to go to Q school. Qualifying school. If you don’t do well there, you don’t play for the year.”
“One tournament decides all that?”
She tilted the glass at him as though making a toast. “That’s right.”
Talk about pressure. “So when Jack failed Q school, he’d stay home for the year?”
She nodded.
“How did Jack and Chad get along?”
“Chad used to worship his father,” Linda said.
“And now?”
She looked off, her face vaguely pained. “Now Chad is old enough to wonder why his father keeps losing. I don’t know what he thinks anymore. But Jack is a good man. He tries very hard. You have to understand what happened to him. Losing the Open that way—it might sound overly melodramatic, but it killed something inside him. Not even having a son could make him whole.”
“It shouldn’t matter so much,” Myron said, hearing the echo of Win in his words. “It was just one tournament.”
“You were involved in a lot of big games,” she said. “Ever choke away a victory like Jack did?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.”
Two gray-haired men sporting matching green ascots made their way down the buffet table. They leaned over each food selection and frowned like it had ants. Their plates were still piled high enough to cause the occasional avalanche.
“There’s something else,” Linda said.
Myron waited.
She adjusted the sunglasses and put her hands on the table palms down. “Jack and I are not close. We haven’t been close in many years.”
When she didn’t continue, Myron said, “But you’ve stayed married.”
“Yes.”
He wanted to ask why, but the question was so obvious, just hanging out there within easy view, that to voice it would be redundant.
“I am a constant reminder of his failures,” she continued. “It’s not easy for a man to live with that. We’re supposed to be life partners, but I have what Jack longs for most.” Linda tilted her head. “It’s funny.”
“What?”
“I never allow mediocrity on the golf course. Yet I allowed it to dominate my personal life. Don’t you find that odd?”
Myron made a noncommittal motion with his head. He could feel Linda’s unhappiness radiating off her like a breaking fever. She looked up now and smiled at him. The smile was intoxicating, nearly breaking his heart. He found himself wanting to lean over and hold Linda Coldren. He felt this almost uncontrollable urge to press her against him and feel the sheen of her hair in his face. He tried to remember the last time he had held such a thought for any woman but Jessica; no answer came to him.
“Tell me about you,” Linda suddenly said.
The change of subject caught him off guard. He sort of shook his head. “Boring stuff.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, almost playfully. “Come on now. It’ll distract me.”
Myron shook his head again.
“I know you almost played pro basketball. I know you hurt your knee. I know you went to law school at Harvard. And I know you tried to make a comeback a few months ago. Want to fill in the blanks?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“No, I don’t think so, Myron. Aunt Cissy didn’t say that you could help us because you were good at basketball.”
“I worked a bit for the government.”
“With Win?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
Again he shook his head.
<
br /> “Top secret, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“And you date Jessica Culver?”
“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:
I WARNED YOU NOT TO SEEK HELP
NOW CHAD PAYS THE PRICE
CROSS US AGAIN AND IT WILL GET MUCH WORSE.
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.
18
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 stro
ng.
“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.
