Darkest Fear

Myron settled into the lush leather. Win hit the accelerator pad. He was big with the accelerator pad; he had a bit more trouble when it came to the brake.

'Do you know Raymond Lex's family?'

'They used to be clients,' Win said.

'You're kidding?'

'Oh yes, I'm a regular Red Buttons.'

'Were you directly involved in this inheritance squabble?'

'Calling this a squabble would be similar to calling nuclear Armageddon a campfire.'

'Hard to divide up billions, huh?'

'Indeed. So why are we discussing the Lex clan?'

'Esperanza is going to meet us down at the dojang. She has some information on Davis Taylor. Somehow the Lex family is connected.'

Win arched his eyebrow. 'The plot doth thicken.'

'So tell me a little about them.'

'Most of it was in the media. Raymond Lex writes a controversial bestseller called Midnight Confessions. Said bestseller becomes an Oscar-winning blockbuster. Suddenly he goes from obscure junior-college instructor to millionaire. Unlike most of his artistic brethren, he understands business. He invests and amasses private holdings with a substantial yet confidential net worth.'

'The papers place it in the billions.'

'I won't argue.'

'That's a lot of money.'

'The way you word things,' Win said. 'It's like Proust.'

'He never wrote another book?'

'No.'

'Odd.'

'Not really,' Win said. 'Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell never wrote another book. And at least Lex kept busy. It's hard to build one of the largest privately held corporations and do book signings.'

'So now that he's dead, his family is — how to say it? — nuclear Armageddoning?'

'Close enough.'

Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main dojang into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms — studios really — with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment — oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.

Myron and Win slipped into their dobok, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and hapkido since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn't been to a dojang more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don't tug on Superman's cape, don't spit in the wind, don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.

Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asian travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools — with Win's financial backing, of course. Once he saw the Karate Kid movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words 'Confucius say,' ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.

Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon's office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.

'Please in,' Master Kwon said.

The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.

When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, 'You better?'

'Better,' Myron agreed.

The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. 'Armani,' he said.

'I thought so,' Myron said.

'You like?'

'Very nice.'

Satisfied, Master Kwon said, 'Go.'

Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the dojang, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate — had been trying for years — but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.

They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician's voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.

'I'm already sore,' Myron said through a grunt.

Win tilted his head. 'Odd.'

'What?'

'That's precisely what my date said last night.'

'You weren't kidding before,' Myron said. 'You really are another Red Buttons.'

They did a little sparring, and Myron immediately realized how out of shape he was. Sparring is the most tiring activity in the world. Don't believe it? Find a punching bag and pretend-box with it for one three-minute round. Just a bag that can't fight back. Try it, just one round. You'll see.

When Esperanza came in, the sparring mercifully ceased and Myron grabbed his knees, sucking wind. He bowed to Win, threw a towel over his shoulder, grabbed some Evian. Esperanza folded her arms and waited. A group of students walked past the door, saw Esperanza, did a double take.

Esperanza handed Myron a sheet of paper. 'The birth certificate of Davis Taylor ne Dennis Lex.'

'Lex,' Myron repeated. 'As in…?'

'Yep.'

Myron scanned the photocopy. According to the document, Dennis Lex would be thirty-seven years old. His father was listed as one Raymond Lex, his mother as Maureen Lehman Lex. Born in East Hampton, New York.

Myron handed it to Win.

'They had another child?'

'Apparently so,' Esperanza said.

Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.

'He must have died young,' Win said.

'If he did,' Esperanza said, 'I can't find it anywhere. There's no death certificate.'

'No one in the family ever mentioned another child?' Myron asked Win.

'No one,' Win said.

He turned back to Esperanza. 'What else you got?'

'Not much. Dennis Lex changed his name to Davis Taylor eight months ago. I also found this.' She handed him a photocopy of a news clipping. A small birth announcement from the Hampton Gazette dated thirty-seven years ago: Raymond and Maureen Lex of Wister Drive in East Hampton are delighted to announce the birth of their son, Dennis, six pounds eight ounces on June 18th. Dennis joins his sister Susan and his brother Bronwyn.

Myron shook his head. 'How could no one know about this?'