Deal Breaker
Page 9
Except, of course, Kathy might not be dead. Ergo the chair—Mom’s lantern kept lit to guide her youngest back home.
Jessica awoke most mornings bolting upright in her bed, thinking about—no, inventing new possibilities for—her younger sister. Was Kathy lying dead in a pit somewhere? Buried under brush in the woods? A skeleton gnawed on by animals and inhabited by maggots? Was Kathy’s corpse stuck in some cement foundation? Was it weighed down in the bottom of some river like the little undersea man in the living-room aquarium? Had she died painlessly? Had she been tortured? Had her body been chopped into small bits, burned, broken down with acid …
Or was she still alive?
That eternal spring.
Had Kathy possibly been kidnapped? Was she living in white slavery under the thumb of some Middle East sheikh? Or was she living chained to a radiator on a farm in Wisconsin like something on Geraldo? Could she have banged her head, forgotten who she was, and was now living as a street person with amnesia? Or had she simply run away to a different world?
The possibilities were endless. Even those lacking creativity can come up with a million different horrors when their loved one suddenly vanishes—or more painfully, a million different hopes.
Jessica’s thoughts were chased away by the tired chugging of a car engine. A familiar Chevy Caprice blanketed with tiny dents pulled up. It looked like a retrieval car at a driving range. She stood and hurried out the front door.
Paul Duncan was a stocky man, compact, with salt-and-pepper hair now turning defiantly toward salt. He walked purposely, the way cops do. He greeted her on the front stoop with a big smile and kiss on the cheek. “Hey, beautiful! How are you?”
She hugged him. “I’m okay, Uncle Paul,” she said.
“You look great.”
“Thanks.”
Paul shaded his eyes from the sun. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s hot as hell out here.”
“In a minute,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm. “I want to talk to you first.”
“What about?”
“My father’s case.”
“I’m not handling that, honey. I don’t do homicides anymore, you know that. Besides, it would be a conflict of interest—me being Adam’s friend and all.”
“But you have to know what’s going on.”
Paul Duncan nodded slowly. “I do.”
“Mom said the police think he was killed in a robbery attempt.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Your father was robbed,” he said. “His wallet was gone. His watch. Even his rings. The guy stripped him clean.”
“To make it look like a robbery.”
Paul smiled then, gently—the way, she remembered, he had at her confirmation and Sweet Sixteen party and high school graduation. “What are you getting at, Jess?”
“You don’t find this whole thing odd?” she asked. “You don’t see a connection between this and Kathy?”
He stumbled a step back, as if her words had given him a gentle push. “What connection? Your sister vanished from her college campus. Your father was murdered by a robber a year and a half later. Where do you see a connection?”
“Do you really believe that they have nothing to do with each other?” she asked. “Do you honestly believe that lightning struck twice in the same place?”
He put his hands in his pockets. “If you mean do I think your family has been the victim of two separate awful tragedies, the answer is yes. It happens all the time, Jess. Life is rarely fair. God doesn’t go around divvying out the bad in equal doses. Some families go through life with nary a scratch. Some get too much. Like yours.”
“So it’s fate,” she said. “That’s your answer. Fate.”
He threw his hands up. “Fate, lightning striking twice—these are your phrases. You’re the writer here, not me. I just call it a tragedy. I just call it a tragic, somewhat bizarre coincidence. I’ve seen a lot stranger. So had your dad.”
The front door opened. Mom stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, Carol. We were just talking.”
Carol looked at her daughter. “Jessica?”
Her eyes stayed on Paul’s, probing. “Just talking, Mom.”
Jessica turned away and stepped back inside. Paul Duncan watched her, letting loose a silent breath. He had suspected she would be a problem—Jessica never accepted easy solutions to anything in life, even when the answer was simple. Yep, he had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but he had definitely foreseen this possibility.
He just wasn’t sure what he should do about it.
Midnight.
At ten P.M. Christian Steele had crawled under the blanket, read for ten minutes, and then switched off the light. Since then he had lain on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, not moving, not fooling himself into even hoping that sleep was imminent.
“Kathy,” he said out loud.
His mind floated about aimlessly, settling like a butterfly for only brief moments before moving on. Darkness surrounded him, but not silence. There was no such thing as silence at football camp. Christian heard kegs being thrown, loud music, laughter, singing, swearing. He could distinctly hear Charles and Eddie, his offensive tackles, in the next room. They were permanently set on loud, like a radio turned up before the knob was ripped out. Christian was not above partying too, having fun by consuming alcohol until he hugged the porcelain god and puked up his offering. But not tonight.
God, not tonight.
“Kathy,” he said again.
Was it possible? After all this time …
So many things were happening at once. School was over. The Titans’ minicamp began the day after tomorrow. The scrutiny of the press had grown more intense than ever. He liked the attention, liked being on the cover of Sports Illustrated, liked the awe in people’s faces when they spoke to him. Nice kid, they always said. Real nice. As though they expected him to be rude just because he could throw a pigskin with precision. As though he should somehow feel as though he belonged to a higher species, far above them, because he happened to be a good athlete.
Christian was excited. He was scared. He knew he had to think about the future. Myron had told him of the dangers and of how short-lived fame could be. Myron was, after all, a classic example. He had told Christian about the importance of cashing in now, that his career would at best last ten years. So much was at stake. So much. He was famous now, but there was a big difference between college famous and pro famous. Soon he’d have it all. Competition. Fame. Real money—not just the alumni secret handouts.…
Jessica awoke most mornings bolting upright in her bed, thinking about—no, inventing new possibilities for—her younger sister. Was Kathy lying dead in a pit somewhere? Buried under brush in the woods? A skeleton gnawed on by animals and inhabited by maggots? Was Kathy’s corpse stuck in some cement foundation? Was it weighed down in the bottom of some river like the little undersea man in the living-room aquarium? Had she died painlessly? Had she been tortured? Had her body been chopped into small bits, burned, broken down with acid …
Or was she still alive?
That eternal spring.
Had Kathy possibly been kidnapped? Was she living in white slavery under the thumb of some Middle East sheikh? Or was she living chained to a radiator on a farm in Wisconsin like something on Geraldo? Could she have banged her head, forgotten who she was, and was now living as a street person with amnesia? Or had she simply run away to a different world?
The possibilities were endless. Even those lacking creativity can come up with a million different horrors when their loved one suddenly vanishes—or more painfully, a million different hopes.
Jessica’s thoughts were chased away by the tired chugging of a car engine. A familiar Chevy Caprice blanketed with tiny dents pulled up. It looked like a retrieval car at a driving range. She stood and hurried out the front door.
Paul Duncan was a stocky man, compact, with salt-and-pepper hair now turning defiantly toward salt. He walked purposely, the way cops do. He greeted her on the front stoop with a big smile and kiss on the cheek. “Hey, beautiful! How are you?”
She hugged him. “I’m okay, Uncle Paul,” she said.
“You look great.”
“Thanks.”
Paul shaded his eyes from the sun. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s hot as hell out here.”
“In a minute,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm. “I want to talk to you first.”
“What about?”
“My father’s case.”
“I’m not handling that, honey. I don’t do homicides anymore, you know that. Besides, it would be a conflict of interest—me being Adam’s friend and all.”
“But you have to know what’s going on.”
Paul Duncan nodded slowly. “I do.”
“Mom said the police think he was killed in a robbery attempt.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Your father was robbed,” he said. “His wallet was gone. His watch. Even his rings. The guy stripped him clean.”
“To make it look like a robbery.”
Paul smiled then, gently—the way, she remembered, he had at her confirmation and Sweet Sixteen party and high school graduation. “What are you getting at, Jess?”
“You don’t find this whole thing odd?” she asked. “You don’t see a connection between this and Kathy?”
He stumbled a step back, as if her words had given him a gentle push. “What connection? Your sister vanished from her college campus. Your father was murdered by a robber a year and a half later. Where do you see a connection?”
“Do you really believe that they have nothing to do with each other?” she asked. “Do you honestly believe that lightning struck twice in the same place?”
He put his hands in his pockets. “If you mean do I think your family has been the victim of two separate awful tragedies, the answer is yes. It happens all the time, Jess. Life is rarely fair. God doesn’t go around divvying out the bad in equal doses. Some families go through life with nary a scratch. Some get too much. Like yours.”
“So it’s fate,” she said. “That’s your answer. Fate.”
He threw his hands up. “Fate, lightning striking twice—these are your phrases. You’re the writer here, not me. I just call it a tragedy. I just call it a tragic, somewhat bizarre coincidence. I’ve seen a lot stranger. So had your dad.”
The front door opened. Mom stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, Carol. We were just talking.”
Carol looked at her daughter. “Jessica?”
Her eyes stayed on Paul’s, probing. “Just talking, Mom.”
Jessica turned away and stepped back inside. Paul Duncan watched her, letting loose a silent breath. He had suspected she would be a problem—Jessica never accepted easy solutions to anything in life, even when the answer was simple. Yep, he had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but he had definitely foreseen this possibility.
He just wasn’t sure what he should do about it.
Midnight.
At ten P.M. Christian Steele had crawled under the blanket, read for ten minutes, and then switched off the light. Since then he had lain on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, not moving, not fooling himself into even hoping that sleep was imminent.
“Kathy,” he said out loud.
His mind floated about aimlessly, settling like a butterfly for only brief moments before moving on. Darkness surrounded him, but not silence. There was no such thing as silence at football camp. Christian heard kegs being thrown, loud music, laughter, singing, swearing. He could distinctly hear Charles and Eddie, his offensive tackles, in the next room. They were permanently set on loud, like a radio turned up before the knob was ripped out. Christian was not above partying too, having fun by consuming alcohol until he hugged the porcelain god and puked up his offering. But not tonight.
God, not tonight.
“Kathy,” he said again.
Was it possible? After all this time …
So many things were happening at once. School was over. The Titans’ minicamp began the day after tomorrow. The scrutiny of the press had grown more intense than ever. He liked the attention, liked being on the cover of Sports Illustrated, liked the awe in people’s faces when they spoke to him. Nice kid, they always said. Real nice. As though they expected him to be rude just because he could throw a pigskin with precision. As though he should somehow feel as though he belonged to a higher species, far above them, because he happened to be a good athlete.
Christian was excited. He was scared. He knew he had to think about the future. Myron had told him of the dangers and of how short-lived fame could be. Myron was, after all, a classic example. He had told Christian about the importance of cashing in now, that his career would at best last ten years. So much was at stake. So much. He was famous now, but there was a big difference between college famous and pro famous. Soon he’d have it all. Competition. Fame. Real money—not just the alumni secret handouts.…
