his forte. Myron reclicked the Win icon. Just protoplasm, he told himself Just hemoglobin and platelets and enzymes and other stuff he'd forgotten since ninth-grade biology.
The blocking worked enough to allow him to dig his hands under the seats and into the cushion crevices. His fingers located lots of crud. Old sandwiches. Wrappers from Wendy's. Crumbs of various shapes and sizes.
Fingernail clippings.
Myron looked at the dead body and shook his head. A
little late for a scolding, but what the hell.
Then he hit pay dirt.
It was gold. It had a golf insignia on it. The initials C. B. C. were engraved lightly on the inside Chad Buckwell Coldren.
It was a ring.
Myron's first thought was that Chad Coldren had cleverly taken it off and left it behind as a clue. Like in a movie. The young man was sending a message. lf Myron was playing his part correctly, he would shake his head, toss the ring in the air, and mutter admiringly, 'Smart kid.'
Myron's second thought, however, was far more sobering. +
The severed finger in Linda Coldren's car had been the ring finger;
Chapter 24
What to do?
Should he contact the police? Just leave? Make an anonymous call? What?
Myron had no idea. He had to think first and foremost of Chad Coldren. What risk would calling the police put the kid in?
No idea.
Christ, what a mess. He wasn't even supposed to be involved in this anymore. He was supposed to haveshould have stayed out. But now the proverbial doo-doo was hitting a plethora of proverbial fans. What should he do about finding a dead body? And what about Escape?
Myron couldn't just leave him tied and gagged indefinitely.
Suppose he vomited into the duct tape, for chrissake?
Okay, Myron, think. First, you should not repeat, not call the police. Someone else will discover the body.
Or maybe he should make an anonymous call from a pay phone. That might work. But don't the police tape all incoming calls nowadays? They'd have his voice on tape.
He could change it maybe. The rhythm and tempo. Make the tone a little deeper. Add an accent or something. Oh, right, like Meryl Streep. Tell the dispatcher to hurry because 'the dingo's got ma baby.'
Wait, hold the phone.
Think about what had just happened. Rewind to about an hour ago and see how it looks. Without provocation, Myron had broken into a man's house. He had physically assaulted the man, threatened him in terrible ways, left him tied and gagged all in the pursuit of Tito. Not long after this incident, the police get an anonymous call. They find Tito dead in his pickup.
Who is going to be the obvious suspect?
Myron Bolitar, sports agent of the terminally troubled.
Damn.
So now what? No matter what Myron did at this stage - call or not call he was going to be a suspect. Escape would be questioned. He would tell about Myron, and then Myron would look like the killer. Very simple equation when you thought about it.
So the question remained: What to do?
He couldn't worry about what conclusions the police might leap upon. He also couldn't worry about himself.
The focus must be on Chad Coldren. What would be best for him? Hard to say. The safest bet, of course, would be to upset the apple cart as little as possible. Try not to make his presence in all this known.
Okay, good, that made sense.
So the answer was: Don't report it. Let the body lay where it was. Put the ring back in the seat cushion in case the police need it as evidence later. Good, this looked like a plan a plan that seemed the best way of keeping the kid safe and also obeying the Coldrens' wishes.
Now, what about Escape?
Myron drove back to Escape's shack. He found Escape right where he left him on his bed, hog-tied and gagged with gray duct tape. He looked half dead. Myron shook him. The punk started to, his face the green of seaweed. Myron ripped off the gag.
Escape retched and did a few dry heaves.
'I have a man outside,' Myron said, removing more duct tape. 'If he sees you move from this window, you will experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Do you understand?'
Escape nodded quickly.
Experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Jesus.
There was no phone in the house, so he didn't have to worry about that. With a few more harsh wamings lightly sprinkled with torture clichTs including Myron's personal favorite, 'Before I'm finished, you'll beg me to kill you' he left the neo-Nazi alone to quake in his goosestepping black boots.
No one was outside. The proverbial coast was clear.
Myron got in the car, wondering yet again about the Coldrens.
What was going on with them right now? Had the kidnapper already called? Had he given them instructions?
How did Tito's death affect what was happening?
Had Chad suffered more bloodshed or had he escaped?
Maybe he'd gotten hold of the gun and shot someone.
Maybe. But doubtful. More likely, something had gone awry. Someone had lost control. Someone had gone nuts.
He stopped the car. He had to warn the Coldrens.
Yes, Linda Coldren had clearly instructed him to stay away. But that was before he'd found a dead body. How could he sit back now and leave them blind? Someone had chopped off their son's finger. Someone had murdered one of the kidnappers. A 'simple' kidnapping if there is such a thing- had spun off its axis. Blood had been splattered about freely.
He had to warn them. He had to contact the Coldrens and let them know what he had learned;
But how?
He pulled onto Golf House Road. lt was very late now, almost two in the moming. Nobody would be up.
Myron flicked off his lights and cruised silently. He glided the car into a spot on the property line between two houses if by some chance one of the occupants was awake and looked out the window, he or she might believe the car belonged to someone visiting a neighbor. He stepped out and slowly made his way on foot toward the Coldren house.
Keeping out of sight, Myron moved closer. He knew, of course, that there was no chance the Coldrens would be asleep. Jack might give it a token effort; Linda wouldn't even sit down. But right now, that didn't much matter.
How was he going to contact them?
He couldn't call on the phone. He couldn't walk up and knock on the door. And he couldn't throw pebbles at the window, like some clumsy suitor in a bad romantic comedy. So where did that leave him?
Lost.
He moved from shrub to shrub. Some of the shrubs were familiar trom his last sojourn into these parts. He said hello to them, chatted, offered up his best cocktailparty banter. One shrub gave him a stock tip. Myron ignored it. He circled closer to the Coldren house, slowly, still careful not to be seen. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he got close enough to see a light on in the den, an idea came to him.
A note.
He would write a note, telling them of his discovery, warning them to be extra careful, offering up his
