Probably had a lot more fun.
“The police found the body of your neo-Nazi friend,” she said. “His last name is Marshall.”
“Tito Marshall?” Myron frowned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t joke, Myron.”
Of that he had little doubt. “Do the police have any idea he’s tied into this?” Myron asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“And I assume he died of a gunshot wound.”
“That’s the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirty-eight.”
“A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twenty-two.”
“Yes, Myron, I know.”
“So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall.”
Victoria did the bored thing again. “Hard to believe you’re not a professional ballistics expert.”
Everyone’s a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.
Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “I called for another reason, Myron.”
“Oh?”
“Did you pass on the message to Win?”
“You set that up, didn’t you? You told her I’d be there.”
“Please answer the question.”
“Yes, I delivered the message.”
“What did Win say?”
“I delivered the message,” Myron said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving out reports on my friend’s reaction.”
“She’s getting worse, Myron.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“I just hit the New Jersey Turnpike. I’m on my way to Lloyd Rennart’s house.”
“I thought I told you to leave that path alone.”
“So you did.”
More silence.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
She hung up. Myron sighed. He suddenly longed for the days before the car phone, the cell phone, the beeper. Reaching out and touching someone was getting to be a real pain in the ass.
An hour later, Myron parked again in front of the Rennarts’ modest home. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Rennart opened it immediately. She studied his face for a few long seconds. Neither of them spoke. Not even a greeting or salutation.
“You look tired,” she said at last.
“I am.”
“Did Lloyd really send that postcard?”
“Yes.”
The answer had been automatic. But now he wondered—had Lloyd Rennart sent a postcard? For all he knew, Linda was simply sizing him for the title role in Big Sap: The Musical. Take the missing taped phone call, for example. If indeed the kidnapper had called Jack before his death, where was the tape of the call? Maybe the call had never occurred. Maybe Linda had lied about it. Maybe she was lying about the postcard too. Maybe she was lying about everything. Maybe Myron was simply being semi-seduced, like the hormone-driven male in one of those cheesy, unrated, direct-to-video, Body Heat rip-offs co-starring women with names like Shannon or Tawny.
Not a pleasant thought.
Francine Rennart silently led him into a dark basement. When they hit bottom, she reached up and switched on one of those swinging lightbulbs like something out of Psycho. The room was pure cement. There was a water heater, a gas heater, a washer and dryer, and storage containers of various sizes, shapes, and material. Four boxes lay on the floor in front of him.
“That’s his old stuff,” Francine Rennart said without looking down.
“Thank you.”
She tried, but she could not make herself look at the boxes. “I’ll be upstairs,” she said. Myron watched her feet disappear from view. Then he turned to the boxes and squatted down. The boxes were taped shut. He took out his key-chain penknife and slit the packing tape.
The first box had golf memorabilia. There were certificates and trophies and old tees. A golf ball was mounted to a wooden base with a rusty plaque that read:
HOLE IN ONE—15TH HOLE AT HICKORY PARK
JANUARY 17, 1972
Myron wondered what life had been like for Lloyd on that clear, crisp golf afternoon. He wondered how often Lloyd had replayed the shot in his mind, how many times he’d sat alone in that BarcaLounger and tried to recapture that pure, cold rush. Had he remembered the feel of the club’s grip, the tightness in his shoulders as he began the backswing, the clean, solid stroke of the ball, the floating follow-through.
In the second box, Myron found Lloyd’s high school diploma. He found a yearbook from Penn State. There was a picture of the golf team. Lloyd Rennart had been captain. Myron’s finger touched upon a large, felt P. Lloyd’s varsity letter. There was a recommendation letter from his golf coach at Penn State. The words bright future jumped out at Myron. Bright future. The coach may have been a great motivator, but he made a lousy soothsayer.
The third box started off with a photograph of Lloyd in Korea. It was a casual group photo, a dozen or so boys/men in unbuttoned fatigues, arms dangling loosely around neighboring necks. Lots of smiles, seemingly happy smiles. Lloyd was thinner there, but he saw nothing gaunt or drawn in the eyes.
Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing “Memory,” but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life—a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself.
From the bottom of the box Myron pulled out a wedding album. The faded gold leaf read: Lloyd and Lucille, November 17, 1968, Now and Forever. More irony. The fake-leather cover was crusted with what looked like drink ringlets. Lloyd’s first marriage, neatly wrapped and packed away in the bottom of a box.
Myron was about to put the album to the side when his curiosity got the better of him. He sat all the way down, his legs splayed like a kid with a new pack of baseball cards. He placed the photo album on the cement floor and began to open it. The binding made a cracking noise from the years of disuse.
The first photograph almost made Myron scream out loud.
“The police found the body of your neo-Nazi friend,” she said. “His last name is Marshall.”
“Tito Marshall?” Myron frowned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t joke, Myron.”
Of that he had little doubt. “Do the police have any idea he’s tied into this?” Myron asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“And I assume he died of a gunshot wound.”
“That’s the preliminary finding, yes. Mr. Marshall was shot twice in the head at close range with a thirty-eight.”
“A thirty-eight? But Jack was killed with a twenty-two.”
“Yes, Myron, I know.”
“So different guns killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall.”
Victoria did the bored thing again. “Hard to believe you’re not a professional ballistics expert.”
Everyone’s a smart-ass. But this new development threw a whole bunch of scenarios out of whack. If two different guns had killed Jack Coldren and Tito Marshall, did that mean there were two different killers? Or was the killer smart enough to use different weapons? Or had the killer disposed of the thirty-eight after killing Tito and was thus forced to use the twenty-two on Jack? And what kind of warped mind names a kid Tito Marshall? Bad enough to go through life with a moniker like Myron. But Tito Marshall? No wonder the kid had turned out as a neo-Nazi. Probably started out as a virulent anti-Communist.
Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “I called for another reason, Myron.”
“Oh?”
“Did you pass on the message to Win?”
“You set that up, didn’t you? You told her I’d be there.”
“Please answer the question.”
“Yes, I delivered the message.”
“What did Win say?”
“I delivered the message,” Myron said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving out reports on my friend’s reaction.”
“She’s getting worse, Myron.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“I just hit the New Jersey Turnpike. I’m on my way to Lloyd Rennart’s house.”
“I thought I told you to leave that path alone.”
“So you did.”
More silence.
“Good-bye, Myron.”
She hung up. Myron sighed. He suddenly longed for the days before the car phone, the cell phone, the beeper. Reaching out and touching someone was getting to be a real pain in the ass.
An hour later, Myron parked again in front of the Rennarts’ modest home. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Rennart opened it immediately. She studied his face for a few long seconds. Neither of them spoke. Not even a greeting or salutation.
“You look tired,” she said at last.
“I am.”
“Did Lloyd really send that postcard?”
“Yes.”
The answer had been automatic. But now he wondered—had Lloyd Rennart sent a postcard? For all he knew, Linda was simply sizing him for the title role in Big Sap: The Musical. Take the missing taped phone call, for example. If indeed the kidnapper had called Jack before his death, where was the tape of the call? Maybe the call had never occurred. Maybe Linda had lied about it. Maybe she was lying about the postcard too. Maybe she was lying about everything. Maybe Myron was simply being semi-seduced, like the hormone-driven male in one of those cheesy, unrated, direct-to-video, Body Heat rip-offs co-starring women with names like Shannon or Tawny.
Not a pleasant thought.
Francine Rennart silently led him into a dark basement. When they hit bottom, she reached up and switched on one of those swinging lightbulbs like something out of Psycho. The room was pure cement. There was a water heater, a gas heater, a washer and dryer, and storage containers of various sizes, shapes, and material. Four boxes lay on the floor in front of him.
“That’s his old stuff,” Francine Rennart said without looking down.
“Thank you.”
She tried, but she could not make herself look at the boxes. “I’ll be upstairs,” she said. Myron watched her feet disappear from view. Then he turned to the boxes and squatted down. The boxes were taped shut. He took out his key-chain penknife and slit the packing tape.
The first box had golf memorabilia. There were certificates and trophies and old tees. A golf ball was mounted to a wooden base with a rusty plaque that read:
HOLE IN ONE—15TH HOLE AT HICKORY PARK
JANUARY 17, 1972
Myron wondered what life had been like for Lloyd on that clear, crisp golf afternoon. He wondered how often Lloyd had replayed the shot in his mind, how many times he’d sat alone in that BarcaLounger and tried to recapture that pure, cold rush. Had he remembered the feel of the club’s grip, the tightness in his shoulders as he began the backswing, the clean, solid stroke of the ball, the floating follow-through.
In the second box, Myron found Lloyd’s high school diploma. He found a yearbook from Penn State. There was a picture of the golf team. Lloyd Rennart had been captain. Myron’s finger touched upon a large, felt P. Lloyd’s varsity letter. There was a recommendation letter from his golf coach at Penn State. The words bright future jumped out at Myron. Bright future. The coach may have been a great motivator, but he made a lousy soothsayer.
The third box started off with a photograph of Lloyd in Korea. It was a casual group photo, a dozen or so boys/men in unbuttoned fatigues, arms dangling loosely around neighboring necks. Lots of smiles, seemingly happy smiles. Lloyd was thinner there, but he saw nothing gaunt or drawn in the eyes.
Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing “Memory,” but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life—a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself.
From the bottom of the box Myron pulled out a wedding album. The faded gold leaf read: Lloyd and Lucille, November 17, 1968, Now and Forever. More irony. The fake-leather cover was crusted with what looked like drink ringlets. Lloyd’s first marriage, neatly wrapped and packed away in the bottom of a box.
Myron was about to put the album to the side when his curiosity got the better of him. He sat all the way down, his legs splayed like a kid with a new pack of baseball cards. He placed the photo album on the cement floor and began to open it. The binding made a cracking noise from the years of disuse.
The first photograph almost made Myron scream out loud.
