“It doesn’t have to be that extreme,” Myron said. “Maybe something you or your wife did that got him upset.”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly faraway. “I can’t think of anything.” He looked up. The sun was low and not very strong anymore, but he still sort of squinted up at Myron, the side of his hand resting on his forehead in an eye-shading salute. The posture reminded Myron of the photograph of Chad he’d seen at the house.
Jack said, “You have a thought, Myron, don’t you?”
“Barely.”
“I’d still like to hear it,” Coldren said.
“How badly do you want to win this tournament, Jack?”
Coldren gave a half-smile. “You were an athlete, Myron. You know how badly.”
“Yes,” Myron said, “I do.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Your son is an athlete. He probably knows too.”
“Yes,” Coldren said. Then: “I’m still waiting for the point.”
“If someone wanted to hurt you,” Myron said, “what better way than to mess up your chance of winning the Open?”
Jack Coldren’s eyes had that sucker punched look again. He took a step back.
“I’m only theorizing,” Myron added quickly. “I’m not saying your son is doing that.…”
“But you need to explore every avenue,” Jack Coldren finished for him.
“Yes.”
Coldren recovered, but it took him a little time. “Even if what you’re saying is true, it doesn’t have to be Chad. Someone else could have done this to get at me.” Again he glanced over at his caddie. Still looking at her, he said, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What do you mean?”
Jack Coldren didn’t answer right away. He turned away from both of them and squinted out toward where he’d been hitting balls. There was nothing to see. His back was to Myron. “You probably know I lost the Open a long time ago.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate.
“Did something happen back then?” Myron asked.
“Maybe,” Jack Coldren said slowly. “I don’t know anymore. The point is, someone else might be out to get me. It doesn’t have to be my son.”
“Maybe,” Myron agreed. He didn’t go into the fact that he’d pretty much dismissed this possibility because Chad had vanished before Coldren had his lead. No reason to go into it now.
Coldren turned back to Myron. “Bucky mentioned something about an ATM card,” he said.
“Your son’s ATM card was accessed last night. At Porter Street.”
Something crossed his face. Not for long. Not for more than a second. A flash and then it was gone. “On Porter Street?” he repeated.
“Yep. A First Philadelphia Bank on Porter Street in South Philadelphia.” Silence.
“Are you familiar with that part of town?”
“No,” Coldren said. He looked over at his caddie. Diane Hoffman remained the statue. Arms still folded. Feet still shoulder-width apart. Ash finally gone.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“I visited there today” Myron said.
His face remained steady. “Did you learn anything?”
“No.”
Silence.
Jack Coldren gestured behind him. “You mind if I take a few more swings while we talk?”
“Not at all.”
He put on his glove. “Do you think I should play tomorrow?”
“That’s up to you,” Myron said. “The kidnapper said to act normal. Your not playing would certainly draw suspicion.”
Coldren bent down to put a ball on the tee. “Can I ask you something, Myron?”
“Sure.”
“When you played basketball, how important was winning to you?”
Odd question. “Very.”
Jack nodded like he’d been expecting that. “You won the NCAA championship one year, right?”
“Yes.”
Coldren shook his head. “Must have been something.”
Myron did not reply.
Jack Coldren picked up a club and flexed his fingers around the grip. He lined up next to the ball. Again the smooth coil-and-release movement. Myron watched the ball sail away. For a moment no one spoke. They just looked off into the distance and watched the final streaks of sun color the sky purple.
When Coldren finally spoke, his voice was thick. “You want to hear something awful?”
Myron moved closer to him. Coldren’s eyes were wet.
“I still care about winning this thing,” Coldren said. He looked at Myron. The pain on his face was so naked, Myron almost reached out and hugged him. He imagined that he could see the reflection of the man’s past in his eyes, the years of torment, of thinking of what might have been, of finally having the chance at redemption, of having that chance suddenly snatched away.
“What kind of man still thinks about winning at a time like this?” Coldren asked.
Myron didn’t say anything. He didn’t know the answer. Or maybe he feared that he did.
5
Merion’s clubhouse was an expanded white farmhouse with black shutters. The only splash of color came from the green awnings shading the famed back porch and even that was muted by the surrounding green of the golf course. You expected something more awe-inspiring or intimidating at one of the country’s most exclusive clubs, and yet the simplicity seemed to say, “We’re Merion. We don’t need more.”
Myron walked past the pro shop. Golf bags were lined up on a metal stand. The men’s locker room door was on his right. A bronze sign read that Merion had been designated a historic landmark. A bulletin board listed members’ handicaps. Myron skimmed the names for Win’s. Three handicap. Myron didn’t know much about golfing, but he knew that was pretty damn good.
The outside porch had a stone floor and about two dozen tables. The legendary dining area did more than overlook the first tee—it actually seemed perched right over it. From here, members watched golfers tee off with the practiced glares of Roman senators at the Colosseum. Powerful businessmen and community leaders often crumbled under such century-old scrutiny. Even professionals were not immune—the porch’s dining facility was kept open during the Open. Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer and Ben Hogan and Bobby Jones and Sam Snead had all been subjected to the small restaurant noises, the grating tinkling of glass and silverware blending most disharmoniously with golf’s hushed crowds and distant cheers.