Linda chewed on her lower lip. "That would explain the envelope and pen," she said. "I bought all the office supplies. Jack would have had some in his briefcase."
"Exactly. But here is where things get really interesting."
She arched an eyebrow. "They're not interesting now?"
"Just hold on. It's Sunday morning. Jack is about to head into the final round with an insurmountable lead. Bigger than he had twenty-three years ago. If he loses now, it would be the greatest golf collapse in history. His name would forever be synonymous with choking--the one thing Jack hated more than anything else. But on the other hand, Jack was not a complete ogre. He loved his son. He knew now that the kidnapping was not a hoax. He was probably torn, not sure what to do. But in the end he made a decision. He was going to lose the tournament."
Linda said nothing.
"Stroke by stroke, we watched him die. Win understands the destructive side of wanting to win far better than I. He also saw that Jack had the fire back, that old need to win. But despite all that, Jack still tried to lose. He didn't completely collapse. That would have looked too suspicious. But he started dropping strokes. He made it close. And then he purposely fumbled big-time in the stone quarry and lost his lead.
"But imagine what was going on in his head. Jack was fighting against everything that he was. They say a man can't drown himself. Even if it means saving his own child's life, a man cannot keep himself under water until his lungs burst. I'm not so sure that's any different than what Jack was trying to do. He was literally killing himself. His sanity was probably ripping away like divots on the course. On the eighteenth green, the survival instinct took over. Maybe he started rationalizing again--or more likely, he just couldn't help himself. But we both saw the transformation, Linda. We saw his face suddenly crystallize on eighteen. Jack stroked that putt home and tied the score."
Linda's voice was barely audible. "Yes," she said. "I saw him change." She sat up in her seat and let loose a long breath. "Esme Fong must have been in a panic by then."
"Yes."
"Jack had left her no choice. She had to kill him."
Myron shook his head. "No."
She looked confused again. "But it adds up. Esme was desperate. You said so yourself. She wanted vengeance for her father, and on top of that she was now worried about what would happen if Tad Crispin lost. She had to kill him."
"One problem," Myron said.
"What?"
"She called your house that night."
"Right," Linda said. "To set up the meeting at the course. She probably told Jack to come alone. To not tell me anything."
"No," Myron said. "That's not what happened."
"What?"
"If that was what happened," Myron continued, "we'd have the call on tape."
Linda shook her head. "What are you talking about?"
"Esme Fong did call your house. That part is true. My bet is that she just threatened him some more. Let him know that she meant business. Jack probably begged forgiveness. I don't know. I'll probably never know. But I'd bet he ended the call by promising to lose the next day."
"So?" Linda said. "What does that have to do with the call being taped?"
"Jack was going through hell," Myron went on. "The pressure was too much. He was probably close to a breakdown. So he ran out of the house--just as you said--and ended up at his favorite place in the world. Merion. The golf course. Did he go out there just to think? I don't know. Did he bring the gun with him, maybe even contemplating suicide? Again, I don't know. But I do know that the tape machine was still hooked up to your phone. The police confirmed that. So where did the tape of that last conversation go?"
Linda's tone was suddenly more measured. "I don't know."
"Yes, Linda, you do."
She gave him a look.
"Jack might have forgotten the call was recorded," Myron continued. "But you didn't. When he ran out of the house, you went down to the basement. You played the tape. And you heard everything. What I'm telling you in this car is not new to you. You knew why the kidnappers had taken your child. You knew what Jack had done. You knew where he liked to go when he took his walks. And you knew you had to stop him."
Myron waited. He missed the turnoff, took the next one, U-turned back onto the highway. He found the right exit and put on his blinker.
"Jack did bring the gun," Linda said too calmly. "I didn't even know where he kept it."
Myron gave a slight nod, silently trying to encourage.
"You're right," she continued. "When I played back the tape, I realized that Jack couldn't be trusted. He knew it too. Even with the threat of his own son's death, he had nailed that putt on eighteen. I followed him out to the course. I confronted him. He started to cry. He said he would try to lose. But"--she hesitated, weighed her words--"that drowning man example you gave. That was Jack."
Myron tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.
"Jack wanted to kill himself. And I knew he had to. I'd listened to the tape. I'd heard the threats. And I had no doubts: If Jack won, Chad was dead. I also knew something else."
She stopped and looked at Myron.
"What?" he said.
"I knew Jack would win. Win was right--the fire was back in Jack's eyes. But it was a raging inferno now. One that even he couldn't control anymore."
"So you shot him," Myron said.
"I struggled to get the gun from him. I wanted to injure him. Seriously injure him. If there was the possibility he could play again, I was afraid the kidnapper might just hold on to Chad indefinitely. The voice on the phone sounded that desperate. But Jack wouldn't surrender the gun--nor would he pull it away from me. It was weird. He just held on and looked at me. Almost like he was waiting. So I curled my finger around the trigger and pulled." Her voice was very clear now. "It didn't go off accidentally. I had hoped to wound him seriously, not kill him. But I fired. I fired to save my son. And Jack ended up dead."
More silence.
"Then you headed back to the house," Myron said. "You buried the gun. You saw me in the bushes. When you got inside, you erased the tape."
"Yes."
"And that was why you released that press announcement so early. The police wanted to keep it quiet, but you needed the story to go public. You wanted the kidnappers to know that Jack was dead, so they'd let Chad go."
"It was my son or my husband," Linda said. She turned her body to face him. "What would you have done?"
"I don't know. But I don't think I would have shot him."
" '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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HARLAN COBEN is the winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards. His critically acclaimed novels have been published in thirty-seven languages around the world and have been number one bestsellers in more than half a dozen countries. In addition to the Myron Bolitar series (Deal Breaker, Drop Shot, Fade Away, Back Spin, One False Move, The Final Detail, Darkest Fear, Promise Me, and Long Lost), he is also the author of Tell No One, Gone for Good, No Second Chance, Just One Look, The Innocent, The Woods, and Hold Tight.
www.harlancoben.com
Harlan Coben, Back Spin
(Series: Myron Bolitar # 4)
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