Myron nodded. He stretched out his hand toward hers. “Let’s go, Linda,” he said gently.
She stood. They walked together in silence. The night sky was so bright it looked wet. Myron wanted to reach out and hold her hand. But he didn’t. When they got to her car, Linda unlocked it with a remote control. Then she opened the door as Myron began circling for the passenger side. He stopped suddenly.
The envelope was on her seat.
For several seconds, neither of them moved. The envelope was manila, big enough for an eight-by-ten photograph. It was flat except for an area in the middle that puffed up a bit.
Linda Coldren looked up at Myron. Myron reached down, and using his palms, he picked up the envelope by the edges. There was writing on the back. Block letters:
I WARNED YOU NOT TO SEEK HELP
NOW CHAD PAYS THE PRICE
CROSS US AGAIN AND IT WILL GET MUCH WORSE.
Dread wrapped Myron’s chest in tight steel bands. He slowly reached out and tentatively touched the puffy part with just a knuckle. It felt claylike. Carefully, Myron slit the seal open. He turned the envelope upside down and let the contents fall to the car seat.
The severed finger bounced once and then settled onto the leather.
18
Myron stared, unable to speak.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod …
Raw terror engulfed him. He started shivering, and his body went numb. He looked down at the note in his hand. A voice inside his head said, Your fault, Myron. Your fault.
He turned to Linda Coldren. Her hand fluttered near her mouth, her eyes wide.
Myron tried to step toward her, but he staggered like a boxer who didn’t take advantage of a standing eight count. “We have to call someone,” he managed, his voice sounding distant even to him. “The FBI. I have friends—”
“No.” Her tone was strong.
“Linda, listen to me.…”
“Read the note,” she said.
“But—”
“Read the note,” she repeated. She lowered her head grimly. “You’re out of this now, Myron.”
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“Oh no?” Her head snapped up. Her hands tightened into fists. “I’m dealing with a sick monster,” she said. “The kind of monster who maims at the slightest provocation.” She stepped closer to the car. “He cut off my son’s finger just because I talked to you. What do you think he’d do if I went directly against his orders?”
Myron’s head swirled. “Linda, paying off the ransom doesn’t guarantee—”
“I know that,” she interrupted.
“But …” His mind flailed about helplessly and then said something exceedingly dumb. “You don’t even know if it’s his finger.”
She looked down now. With one hand, she held back a sob. With the other, she caressed the finger lovingly, without a trace of repulsion on her face. “Yes,” Linda said softly. “I do.”
“He may already be dead.”
“Then it makes no difference what I do, does it?”
Myron stopped himself from saying any more. He had sounded asinine enough. He just needed a moment or two to gather himself, to figure out what the next step should be.
Your fault, Myron. Your fault.
He shook it off. He had, after all, been in worse scrapes. He had seen dead bodies, taken on some very bad people, caught and brought killers to justice. He just needed—
All with Win’s help, Myron. Never on your own.
Linda Coldren lifted the finger into view. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her face remained a placid pool.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
“Linda …”
“I’m not going to disobey him again.”
“We have to think this through—”
She shook her head. “We should never have contacted you.”
Cupping her son’s severed finger like a baby chick, Linda Coldren slid into the car. She put the finger down carefully and started the car. Then she shifted it into gear and drove away.
Myron made his way to his car. For several minutes he sat and took deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. He had studied martial arts since Win had first introduced him to tae kwon do when they were college freshmen. Meditation was a big part of what they’d learned, yet Myron never quite grasped the critical nuances. His mind had a habit of drifting. Now he tried to practice the simple rules. He closed his eyes. He breathed in through the nose slowly forcing it down low, letting only his stomach, not his chest, expand. He released it through the mouth, even slower, draining his lungs fully.
Okay, he thought, what is your next step?
The first answer to float to the surface was the most basic: Give up. Cut your losses. Realize that you are very much out of your element. You never really worked for the feds. You only accompanied Win. You were way out of your league on this and it cost a sixteen-year-old boy his finger and maybe more. As Esperanza had said, “Without Win, you’re hopeless.” Learn your lesson and walk away.
And then what? Let the Coldrens face this crisis alone?
If he had, maybe Chad Coldren would still have ten fingers.
The thought made something inside of him crumble. He opened his eyes. His heart started trip-hammering again. He couldn’t call the Coldrens. He couldn’t call the feds. If he pursued this on his own, he would be risking Chad Coldren’s life.
He started up the car, still trying to regain his balance. It was time to be analytical. It was time to be cold. He had to look at this latest development as a clue for a moment. Forget the horror. Forget the fact that he might have screwed up. The finger was just a clue.
One: The placement of the envelope was curious—inside Linda Coldren’s locked (yes, it had been locked—Linda had used the remote control to open it) car. How had it gotten there? Had the kidnapper simply broken into the vehicle? Good possibility, but would he have had time in Merion’s parking lot? Wouldn’t someone have reported it? Probably. Did Chad Coldren have a key that the kidnapper could have used? Hmm. Very good possibility, but one he couldn’t confirm unless he spoke to Linda, which was out of the question.
Dead end. For now.
Two: More than one person was involved in this kidnapping. This hardly took brilliant detective work. First off, you have the Crusty Nazi. The phone call at the mall proved that he had something to do with this—not to mention his subsequent behavior. But there was no way a guy like Crusty could sneak into Merion and plant the envelope in Linda Coldren’s car. Not without drawing suspicion. Not during the U.S. Open. And the note had warned the Coldrens not to “cross” them again. Cross. Did that sound like a Crusty word?