![]() He had prostate cancer, and the cancer had spread to his bone marrow. He seemed self-conscious about his weight, and explained that his body had swollen because of medical treatments. And all his life, he said, he had worked out and kept himself in good shape. Few of the native Rhodesians had worn shoes, which was why he had to feel what it was like to run barefoot. The play he had mentioned the previous morning, “M’kubwa Junction,” was set in Rhodesia, he said, and was based on his time there. Now he was spending his free time trying to write, mainly plays and screenplays. After fighting in Vietnam, he returned to the United States, using his military benefits to study creative writing at the University of Oklahoma, and eventually earning a bachelor’s, a master’s in literature, and a law degree. He welcomed the opportunity to join the American cause in Southeast Asia and, for a long time, had never questioned the wisdom or morality of the war. The reason he had come to America, he said, was to enlist in the Army, so that he could go to Vietnam. These experiences had made him a fierce anti-Communist. He’d fought against Communist-backed insurgencies in Cyprus from 1957 to 1960, and in Rhodesia from 1960 to 1963. He’d left Hayle in 1956, when he was sixteen, to join the British military. He had grown up in Hayle, a tiny village in Cornwall, on England’s southwest coast, with his grandparents and his mother, who worked as a housekeeper and companion to the elderly. His name wasn’t really Rick, he explained, but hardly anyone called him by his given names, Cyril Richard. He had been married for many years, but he and his wife had grown apart, and when he felt his children were old enough they’d divorced. (She was later surprised to learn that he remembered everything she’d said.) Rescorla told her that he was divorced, with two children, and was living in the area to be near them. He said that his name was Rick Rescorla, and he seemed eager to talk-so eager that Susan doubted he was paying much attention to her end of the conversation. Within the hour, she was pouring him coffee. She gave him the address of her town house, just around the corner. “Why don’t you come have coffee on the patio,” she said. He seemed genuinely disappointed, so Susan proposed an alternative. Susan saw that the man had an open, friendly face and a direct gaze. She recognized the voice from the previous day. The next morning, she and the dog, Buddy, were again on their walk when a dark-green Lincoln Mark VIII pulled up, and a man inside said hello. She hadn’t bothered with any makeup that morning and was wearing old shorts and a T-shirt. She felt sure the same could not be said about her. Even though Susan hadn’t glimpsed his face, something about his voice made an impression. “I need to know what it feels like to run without shoes,” he shouted, and explained that he was writing a play, and it was set in Africa. The jogger didn’t stop, or even turn around. It wasn’t like her to say anything to a stranger, but curiosity overcame her, and she asked, “What are you doing jogging in your bare feet?” What really caught her attention was his feet. He was tall and somewhat heavy, and appeared to be about her age-she was fifty-six. The footsteps came closer, and then a jogger passed her. It was just after six, on a warm Saturday in late July of 1998 she liked the quiet and the early-morning light. Illustration by Mark UlriksenĪs Susan Greer was walking her golden retriever one morning near her home, in Morristown, New Jersey, she heard footsteps behind her. Susan Greer didn’t care what her friends thought-she wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.
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