Myron nodded. “Where does he live?”

“Mountainside Drive. Right down the street. Third house on the left after you make the turn.”

“If you’re lying to me, I will come back here and slice your eyes out.”

“I ain’t lying. Mountainside Drive.”

Myron pointed at the swastika tattoo with the barrel of the gun. “Why do you have this?”

“What?”

“The swastika, moron.”

“I’m proud of my race, that’s why.”

“You want to put all the ‘kikes’ in gas chambers? Kill all the ‘niggers’?”

“That ain’t what we’re about,” he said. More confidence in his voice now that he was on well-rehearsed ground. “We’re for the white man. We’re tired of being overrun by niggers. We’re sick of being trampled on by the Jews.”

Myron nodded. “Well, by this Jew anyway,” he said. In life, you take satisfaction where you can. “You know what duct tape is?”

“Yeah.”

“Gee, and I thought all neo-Nazis were dumb. Where is yours?”

Escape’s eyes kinda narrowed. Like he was actually thinking. You could almost hear rusty gears churning. Then: “I don’t have none.”

“Too bad. I was going to use it to tie you up, so you couldn’t warn Tito. But if you don’t have any, I’ll just have to shoot both your kneecaps.”

“Wait!”

Myron used up almost the entire roll.

Tito was in the driver’s seat of his pickup truck with the monster wheels.

He was also dead.

Two shots in the head, probably from very close range. Very bloody. There wasn’t much of a head left anymore. Poor Tito. No head to match his no ass. Myron didn’t laugh. Then again, gallows humor was not his forte.

Myron remained calm, probably because he was still in Win mode. No lights were on in the house. Tito’s keys were still in the ignition. Myron took them and unlocked the front door. His search confirmed what he’d already guessed: No one was there.

Now what?

Ignoring the blood and brain matter, Myron went back to the truck and did a thorough search. Talk about not his forte. Myron reclicked the Win icon. Just protoplasm, he told himself. Just hemoglobin and platelets and enzymes and other stuff he’d forgotten since ninth-grade biology. The blocking worked enough to allow him to dig his hands under the seats and into the cushion crevices. His fingers located lots of crud. Old sandwiches. Wrappers from Wendy’s. Crumbs of various shapes and sizes.

Fingernail clippings.

Myron looked at the dead body and shook his head. A little late for a scolding, but what the hell.

Then he hit pay dirt.

It was gold. It had a golf insignia on it. The initials C.B.C. were engraved lightly on the inside—Chad Buckwell Coldren.

It was a ring.

Myron’s first thought was that Chad Coldren had cleverly taken it off and left it behind as a clue. Like in a movie. The young man was sending a message. If Myron was playing his part correctly he would shake his head, toss the ring in the air, and mutter admiringly, “Smart kid.”

Myron’s second thought, however, was far more sobering.

The severed finger in Linda Coldren’s car had been the ring finger.

24

What to do?

Should he contact the police? Just leave? Make an anonymous call? What?

Myron had no idea. He had to think first and foremost of Chad Coldren. What risk would calling the police put the kid in?

No idea.

Christ, what a mess. He wasn’t even supposed to be involved in this anymore. He was supposed to have—should have—stayed out. But now the proverbial doo-doo was hitting a plethora of proverbial fans. What should he do about finding a dead body? And what about Escape? Myron couldn’t just leave him tied and gagged indefinitely. Suppose he vomited into the duct tape, for chrissake?

Okay, Myron, think. First, you should not—repeat, not—call the police. Someone else will discover the body. Or maybe he should make an anonymous call from a pay phone. That might work. But don’t the police tape all incoming calls nowadays? They’d have his voice on tape. He could change it maybe. The rhythm and tempo. Make the tone a little deeper. Add an accent or something. Oh, right, like Meryl Streep. Tell the dispatcher to hurry because “the dingo’s got ma baby.”

Wait, hold the phone.

Think about what had just happened. Rewind to about an hour ago and see how it looks. Without provocation, Myron had broken into a man’s house. He had physically assaulted the man, threatened him in terrible ways, left him tied and gagged—all in the pursuit of Tito. Not long after this incident, the police get an anonymous call. They find Tito dead in his pickup.

Who is going to be the obvious suspect?

Myron Bolitar, sports agent of the terminally troubled.

Damn.

So now what? No matter what Myron did at this stage—call or not call—he was going to be a suspect. Escape would be questioned. He would tell about Myron, and then Myron would look like the killer. Very simple equation when you thought about it.

So the question remained: What to do?

He couldn’t worry about what conclusions the police might leap upon. He also couldn’t worry about himself. The focus must be on Chad Coldren. What would be best for him? Hard to say. The safest bet, of course, would be to upset the apple cart as little as possible. Try not to make his presence in all this known.

Okay, good, that made sense.

So the answer was: Don’t report it. Let the body lay where it was. Put the ring back in the seat cushion in case the police need it as evidence later. Good, this looked like a plan—a plan that seemed the best way of keeping the kid safe and also obeying the Coldrens’ wishes.

Now, what about Escape?

Myron drove back to Escape’s shack. He found Escape right where he left him—on his bed, hog-tied and gagged with gray duct tape. He looked half dead. Myron shook him. The punk started to, his face the green of seaweed. Myron ripped off the gag.

Escape retched and did a few dry heaves.

“I have a man outside,” Myron said, removing more duct tape. “If he sees you move from this window, you will experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Do you understand?”

Escape nodded quickly.

Experience an agony very few have been forced to endure. Jesus.

There was no phone in the house, so he didn’t have to worry about that. With a few more harsh warnings lightly sprinkled with torture clichés—including Myron’s personal favorite, “Before I’m finished, you’ll beg me to kill you”—he left the neo-Nazi alone to quake in his goose-stepping black boots.