Okay good. What else?

Three: The kidnappers were both vicious and dumb. Vicious was again obvious—the dumb part maybe less so. But look at the facts. For example, making a large ransom demand over a weekend when you know that the banks won’t be open until Monday—was that bright? Not knowing how much to ask for the first two times they called—didn’t that say ding-a-ling? And lastly was it really prudent to cut off a kid’s finger just because his parents happened to talk to a sports agent? Did that even make sense?

No.

Unless, of course, the kidnappers knew that Myron was more than a sports agent.

But how?

Myron pulled into Win’s long driveway. Unfamiliar people were taking horses out of the stable. As he approached the guest house, Win appeared in the doorway. Myron pulled into a spot and got out.

“How did your meeting with Tad Crispin go?” Win asked.

Myron hurried over to him. “They chopped off his finger,” he managed, breathy to the point of almost hyperventilating. “The kidnappers. They cut off Chad’s finger. Left it in Linda’s car.”

Win’s expression did not change. “Did you discover this before or after your meeting with Tad Crispin?”

Myron was puzzled by the question. “After.”

Win nodded slowly. “Then my original question remains: How did your meeting go with Tad Crispin?”

Myron stepped back as though slapped. “Jesus Christ,” he said in an almost reverent tone. “You can’t be serious.”

“What happens to that family does not concern me. What happens to your business dealings with Tad Crispin does.”

Myron shook his head, stunned. “Not even you could be that cold.”

“Oh please.”

“Please what?”

“There are far greater tragedies in this world than a sixteen-year-old boy losing his finger. People die, Myron. Floods wipe out entire villages. Men do horrible things to children every day.” He paused. “Did you, for example, read this afternoon’s paper?”

“What are you rambling about?”

“I’m just trying to make you understand,” Win continued in too slow, too measured a voice. “The Coldrens mean nothing to me—no more than any other stranger and perhaps less. The newspaper is filled with tragedies that hit me on a more personal level. For example …”

Win stopped and looked at Myron very steadily.

“For example what?” Myron asked.

“There was a new development in the Kevin Morris case,” Win replied. “Are you familiar with that one?”

Myron shook his head.

“Two seven-year-old boys—Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy—have been missing for nearly three weeks. They disappeared while riding their bikes home from school. The police questioned one Kevin Morris, a man with a long record of perversion, including molestation, who had been hanging around the school. But Mr. Morris had a very sharp attorney. There was no physical evidence and despite a fairly convincing circumstantial case—they found the boys’ bikes in a Dumpster not far from his home—Mr. Morris was set free.”

Myron felt something cold press against his heart. “So what was the new development, Win?”

“The police received a tip late last night.”

“How late?”

Again Win looked at him steadily. “Very late.”

Silence.

“It seems,” Win went on, “that someone had witnessed Kevin Morris burying the bodies off a road in the woods near Lancaster. The police dug them up last night. Do you know what they found?”

Myron shook his head again, afraid to even open his mouth.

“Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy were both dead. They’d been sexually molested and mutilated in ways that even the media couldn’t report. The police also found enough evidence at the burial site to arrest Kevin Morris. Fingerprints on a medical scalpel. Plastic bags that matched ones in his kitchen. Semen samples that offer a preliminary match in both boys.”

Myron flinched.

“Everyone seems quite confident that Mr. Morris will be convicted,” Win finished.

“What about the person who called in the tip? Will he be a witness?”

“Funny thing,” Win said. “The man called from a pay phone and never gave his name. No one, it seems, knows who he was.”

“But the police captured Kevin Morris?”

“Yes.”

The two men stared at each other.

“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” Myron said.

“Then you really don’t know me.”

A horse whinnied. Win turned and looked at the magnificent animal. Something strange came across his face, a look of loss.

“What did she do to you, Win?”

Win kept staring. They both knew whom Myron was talking about.

“What did she do to make you hate so much?”

“Don’t engage in too much hyperbole, Myron. I am not that simple. My mother is not solely responsible for shaping me. A man is not made up of one incident, and I am a far cry from crazy, as you suggested earlier. Like any other human being, I choose my battles. I battle quite a bit—more than most—and usually on the right side. I battled for Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy. But I do not wish to battle for the Coldrens. That is my choice. You, as my closest friend, should respect that. You should not try to prod or guilt me into a battle I do not wish to fight.”

Myron was not sure what to say. It was scary when he could understand Win’s cold logic. “Win?”

Win wrested his gaze from the horse. He looked at Myron.

“I’m in trouble,” Myron said, hearing the desperation in his tone. “I need your help.”

Win’s voice was suddenly soft, his face almost pained. “If that were true, I’d be there. You know that. But you are not in any trouble from which you cannot easily disentangle. Just back away, Myron. You have the option of ending your involvement. To draw me into this against my will—using our friendship in that way—is wrong. Walk away this time.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Win nodded and headed toward his car. “Like I said, we all choose our battles.”

When he entered the guest house, Esperanza was screaming, “Bankrupt! Lose a turn! Bankrupt!”

Myron came up behind her. She was watching Wheel of Fortune.

“This woman is so greedy,” Esperanza said, gesturing at the screen. “She’s got over six thousand dollars and she keeps spinning. I hate that.”