The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle
Page 114
“ ‘Don’t think’?” she repeated with a laugh. “You talk about Jack being under pressure, but what about me? I hadn’t slept. I was stressed and I was confused and I was more scared than I had ever been in my entire life—and yes, I was enraged that Jack had sacrificed our son’s chance of playing the game we all so loved. I didn’t have the luxury of an I-don’t-know, Myron. My son’s life was hanging in the balance. I only had time to react.”
They turned up Ardmore Avenue and drove in silence past the Merion Golf Club. They both looked out the window at the course’s gently sloping sea of green broken up only by the clean, white faces of sand. It was, Myron had to admit, a magnificent sight.
“Are you going to tell?” she asked.
She already knew the answer. “I’m your attorney,” Myron said. “I can’t tell.”
“And if you weren’t my attorney?”
“It wouldn’t matter. Victoria would still be able to offer up enough reasonable doubt to win the case.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Myron said. He left it at that. She waited, but no answer was coming.
“I know you don’t care,” Linda continued, “but I meant what I said before. My feelings for you were real.”
Neither of them spoke again. Myron pulled into the driveway. The police kept the media back. Chad was outside, waiting. He smiled at his mother and ran toward her. Linda opened the car door and got out. They might have embraced, but Myron did not see it. He was already backing out the drive.
42
Victoria opened the door.
“In the bedroom. Follow me.”
“How is she?” Myron asked.
“She’s been sleeping a lot. But I don’t think the pain is that bad yet. We have a nurse and a morphine drip ready if she needs it.”
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.
For the Armstrongs,
The World’s Greatest In-Laws,
Jack and Nancy
Molly, Jane, Eliza, Sara, John and Kate
Thank you all for Anne
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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.
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1998 by Harlan Coben
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.
The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-48906-7
v3.0_r1
CONTENTS
Master - Table of Contents
One False Move
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26<
br />
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
SEPTEMBER 15
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?”
AUGUST 30
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?”
“The Elephant Man,” Myron said.
“Damn, that was awful. And who said anything about being a baby-sitter? Did I say the word baby-sitter or baby-sitting or for that matter any form of the verb to baby-sit or noun or even the word baby or the word sit or sat or—”
Myron held up a hand. “I get the point, Norm.”
They sat under a basket at Madison Square Garden in those cloth-and-wood directors’ chairs that have stars’ names on the back. Their chairs were set high so that the net from the basket almost tickled Myron’s hair. A model shoot was going on at half-court. Lots of those umbrella lights and tall, bony women-cum-children and tripods and people huffing and fluffing about. Myron waited for someone to mistake him for a model. And waited.
“A young woman may be in danger,” Norm said. “I need your help.”
Norm Zuckerman was approaching seventy and as CEO of Zoom, a megasize sports manufacturing conglomerate, he had more money than Trump. He looked, however, like a beatnik trapped in a bad acid trip. Retro, Norm had explained earlier, was cresting, and he was catching the wave by wearing a psychedelic poncho, fatigue pants, love beads, and an earring with a dangling peace sign. Groovy, man. His black-to-gray beard was unruly enough to nest beetle larvae, his hair newly curled like something out of a bad production of Godspell.
Che Guevara lives and gets a perm.
“You don’t need me,” Myron said. “You need a bodyguard.”
Norm waved a dismissing hand. “Too obvious.”
“What?”
“She’d never go for it. Look, Myron, what do you know about Brenda Slaughter?”
“Not much,” Myron said.
He looked surprised. “What do you mean, not much?”
“What word are you having trouble with, Norm?”
“For crying out loud, you were a basketball player.”
“So?”
“So Brenda Slaughter may be the greatest female player of all time. A pioneer in her sport—not to mention the pinup girl, pardon the political insensitivity, for my new league.”
“That much I know.”
“Well, know this: I’m worried about her. If something happens to Brenda Slaughter, the whole WPBA—and my substantial investment—could go right down the toilet.”
“Well, as long as it’s for humanitarian reasons.”
“Fine, I’m a greedy capitalist pig. But you, my friend, are a sports agent. There is not a greedier, sleazier, slimier, more capitalist entity in existence.”
Myron nodded. “Suck up to me,” he said. “That’ll work.”
“You’re not letting me finish. Yes, you’re a sports agent. But a damn fine one. The best, really. You and the Spanish shiksa do incredible work for your clients. Get the most for them. More than they should get really. By the time you finish with me, I feel violated. Hand to God, you’re that good. You come into my office, you rip off my clothes and have your way with me.”
Myron made a face. “Please.”
“But I know your secret background with the feds.”
Some secret. Myron was still hoping to bump into someone above the equator who didn’t know about it.
“Just listen to me for a second, Myron, okay? Hear me out. Brenda is a lovely girl, a wonderful basketball player—and a pain in my left tuchis. I don’t blame her. If I grew up with a father like that, I’d be a pain in the left tuchis too.”
“So her father is the problem?”
Norm made a yes-and-no gesture. “Probably.”
“So get a restraining order,” Myron said.
“Already done.”
“Then what’s the problem? Hire a private eye. If he steps within a hundred yards of her, call the cops.”
“It’s not that easy.” Norm looked out over the court. The workers involved in the shoot darted about like trapped particles under sudden heat. Myron sipped his coffee. Gourmet coffee. A year ago he never drank coffee. Then he started stopping into one of the new coffee bars that kept cropping up like bad movies on cable. Now Myron could not go through a morning without his gourmet coffee fix.
There is a fine line between a coffee break and a crack house.
“We don’t know where he is,” Norm said.
“Excuse me?”
“Her father,” Norm
said. “He’s vanished. Brenda is always looking over her shoulder. She’s terrified.”
“And you think the father is a danger to her?”
“This guy is the Great Santini on steroids. He used to play ball himself. Pac Ten, I think. His name is—”
“Horace Slaughter,” Myron said.
“You know him?”
Myron nodded very slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know him.”
Norm studied his face. “You’re too young to have played with him.”
Myron said nothing. Norm did not catch the hint. He rarely did.
“So how do you know Horace Slaughter?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Myron said. “Tell me why you think Brenda Slaughter is in danger.”
“She’s been getting threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Death.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
The photo shoot frenzy continued to whirl. Models sporting the latest in Zoom wear and oodles of attitude cycled through poses and pouts and postures and pursed lips. Come on and vogue. Someone called out for Ted, where the hell is Ted, that prima donna, why isn’t Ted dressed yet, I swear, Ted will be the death of me yet.
“She gets phone calls,” Norm said. “A car follows her. That kind of thing.”
“And you want me to do what exactly?”
“Watch her.”
Myron shook his head. “Even if I said yes—which I’m not—you said she won’t go for a bodyguard.”