dorm he had occupied throughout his senior year, working as a counselor at Reston U’s football summer camp. The Titans minicamp, however, started in two days, and Christian would be there. Myron had no intention of having Christian hold out.
Christian opened the door immediately. Before Myron had a chance to explain his tardiness, Christian said, “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
“Uh, sure. No problem.”
Christian’s face was completely devoid of its usual healthy color. Gone were the rosy cheeks that dimpled when Christian smiled. Gone was the wide-open, aw-shucks smile that made the co-eds swoon. Even the famed steady hands were noticeably quaking.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Christian’s room looked more like a 1950s sitcom set than a modern-day campus dorm room. For one thing, the place was neat. The bed was made, the shoes in a row beneath it. There were no socks on the floor, no underwear, no jock straps. On the walls were pennants. Actual pennants. Myron couldn’t believe it. No posters, no calendars with Claudia Schiffer or Cindy Crawford or the Barbi twins. Just old-fashioned pennants. Myron felt as if he’d just stepped into Wally Cleaver’s dormitory.
Christian didn’t say anything at first. They both stood there uncomfortably, like two strangers stuck together at some cocktail party with no drinks in their hands. Christian kept his eyes lowered to the floor like a scolded child. He hadn’t commented on the blood on Myron’s suit. He probably hadn’t noticed it.
Myron decided to try one of his patented silver-tongued ice-breakers. “What’s up?”
Christian began to pace-no easy accomplishment in a room slightly larger than the average armoire. Myron could see that Christian’s eyes were red. He’d been crying, his cheeks still showing small traces of the tear tracks.
“Did Mr. Burke get mad about canceling the meeting?” Christian asked.
Myron shrugged. “He had a major conniption, but he’ll survive. Means nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“Minicamp starts Thursday?”
Myron nodded. “Are you nervous?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
Christian shook his head. He hesitated and then said, “I-I don’t understand it, Mr. Bolitar.”
Every time he called him mister, Myron looked for his father.
“Don’t understand what, Christian? What’s this all about?”
He hesitated again. “It’s…” He stopped, took a deep breath, started again. “It’s about Kathy.”
Myron thought he’d heard wrong. “Kathy Culver?”
“You knew her,” Christian said. Myron couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.
“A long time ago,” Myron replied.
“When you were with Jessica.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe you’ll understand. I miss Kathy. More than anyone can ever know. She was very special.”
Myron nodded, encouraging. Very Phil Donahue.
Christian took a step back, nearly banging his head into a bookshelf. “Everybody sensationalized what happened to her,” he began. “They put it in tabloids, had stories about the disappearance on
Christian’s boyish quality-something that Myron thought would help make him the future endorsement king-had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Instead of the shy, gee-whiz, modest little Kansas boy, Myron saw reality: a scared child huddled in a corner, a child whose parents were dead, who had no real family, probably no real friends, just hero-worshipers and those who wanted a piece of him (like Myron himself?).
Myron shook his head. No way. Other agents, yes, but not him. Myron wasn’t like that. But still something akin to guilt stayed there, poking a sharp finger into his ribs.
“I never really believed Kathy was dead,” Christian continued. “That was part of the problem, I guess. The not-knowing gets to you after a while. Part of me-part of me almost hoped they’d find her body already, anything to end it. Is that an awful thing to say, Mr. Bolitar?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Christian looked at him solemnly. “I kept thinking about the panties. You know about that?”
Myron nodded. The lone clue in the mystery was Kathy’s ripped panties, found on top of a campus Dumpster. Rumor had it that they were covered with semen and blood. To the world at large, the panties had confirmed what had long been suspected: Kathy Culver was dead. It was a sad though not uncommon story. She had been raped and murdered by a random psychopath. Her body would probably never be found-or maybe some hunters would stumble across the skeletal remains in the woods one day, giving the press a great eleven o’clock commercial teaser, bringing the cameras back into the story with undying hopes of catching a grief-stricken relative on film.
“They made it seem like it was a dirty thing,” Christian continued. “‘Pink,’ they said. ‘Silk,’ they said. They never called them underwear or undergarments or even just plain panties. It was always pink silk panties. Like that was important. One TV station even interviewed a Victoria’s Secret model for her comment on them. Pink silk panties. Like that meant she was asking for it. Trashing Kathy like that…”
His voice sort of faded away then. Myron said nothing. Christian was working up to something. Myron only hoped it wasn’t a breakdown.
“I guess I should get to the point,” Christian finally said.
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I saw something today. I-” Christian stopped and swung his eyes toward Myron’s. They looked at him, pleading. “Kathy may still be alive.”
His words hit Myron like a wet slap. Whatever Myron had been preparing himself for, whatever he imagined Christian was leading up to, hearing Kathy Culver might still be alive was not a part of the equation.
“What?”
Christian reached behind him and opened his desk drawer. The desk too was something out of
“This came in the mail today.”
He handed Myron a magazine. On the cover was a naked woman. Calling her well-endowed would be tantamount to calling World War II a skirmish. Most men are somewhat mammary obsessed, and Myron was not above having similar sentiments, but this was positively freakish. The woman’s face was far from pretty, kind of harsh looking. She was giving the camera a look that was supposed to be come-hither but looked more like constipation. Her tongue was licking her lips, her legs spread, her finger beckoning the reader to come closer.
Very subtle effect, Myron thought.
The magazine was called
Myron looked up sharply. “What’s this all about?”
“The paper clip.”
“What?”
But Christian seemed too weak to repeat it. He just pointed. On the top of the magazine Myron spotted a glint of silver. A paper clip was being used as a bookmark.
“It came with that on there,” Christian said by way of explanation.
Myron fingered through the pages, catching quick glimpses of flesh, until he arrived at the page marked off by the paper clip. His eyes squinted in confusion. It was an ad page, though it had as many erotic photos as any other. The top of the page read:
