"Right."

"In the ACC. North Carolina?" , "Duke," he corrected.

' 'Right, Duke. I remember now. You blew out your knee after the draft." , Myron nodded slowly.

"That was the end of your career, right?"

Myron nodded again.

"It must have been tough," she said.

Myron said nothing.

She made a waving motion with her hand. "What happened to you is nothing compared to what happened to Jack."

"Why do you say that?"

"You had an injury. It may have been tough, but at least you weren't at fault. Jack had a six-stroke lead at the U. S. Open with only eight holes left. Do you know what that's like? That's like having a ten-point lead with a minute left in the seventh game of the NBA finals. It's .

like missing a wide-open slam dunk in the final seconds to lose the championship. Jack was never the same man after that. He never recovered. He has spent his whole life since, just waiting for the chance of redemption." She turned back to the television. The leader board was back up. Jack Coldren was still up by nine strokes.

"If he loses again . . ."

She did not bother finishing the thought. They all stood in silence. Linda staring at the television. Bucky craning his neck, his eyes moist, his face quivering near tears. .

"So what's wrong, Linda?" Myron asked.

"Our son," she said. "Somebody has kidnapped our son." .

Chapter 2

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Linda Coldren said.

"He said he'd kill him."

"Who said?"

Linda Coldren took several deep breaths, like a child atop the high board. Myron waited. It took some time, but she finally took the plunge.

"I got a call this morning," she said. Her large indigo eyes were wide and everywhere now, settling down on no one spot for more than a second. ' 'A man said he had my son. He said if I called the police, he would kill him."

"Did he say anything else'?'

"Just that he'd call back with instructions."

"That's it'?"

She nodded.

' 'What time was this?" Myron asked.

"Nine, nine-thirty."

Myron walked over to the television and picked up one of the framed photographs. ' 'Is this a recent photograph of your son?" '

' 'Yes.' '

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen. His name is Chad."

Myron studied the photograph. The smiling adolescent had the fleshy features of his father. He wore a baseball cap with the brim curled the way kids like to nowadays. A golf club rested proudly on his shoulder like a minuteman with a bayonet. His eyes were squinted as though he were looking into the sun. Myron looked over Chad's face, as if it might give him a clue or some rare insight. It didn't.

' 'When did you first notice that your son was missing'?' '

Linda Coldren gave her father a quick glance, then straightened up, holding her head high as if she were readying himself for a blow. Her words came slow.