The reviews are in for
GAME 7: DEAD BALL
"If you like baseball and thrillers, Game 7: Dead Ball is a must read. Even those who are only so-so on the national pastime but enjoy complicated plots with well-drawn characters will find Game 7 most satisfying."
~ Bill Furlow
"Remaining my favorite genre to watch or read to this day, mysteries give my mind something to satisfy its continuous curiosity; mulling over plots and characters long after I’ve put the book down. Allen Schatz served me well with Game 7: Dead Ball."
~ Jess, Books and Pals.com
"Wow! This one kept me guessing and reading--great characters and an even better storyline!"
~ Erik Gustafson, author
FALL LEAVES AND
THE BLACK DRAGON
"I think what I loved most about this book is how Schatz artistically weaved details into every scene. Everything, down to the smallest fragment, popped off the screen."
~ Suzie Carr, author
THE FICHE ROOM
And now, the first sequel to Game 7: Dead Ball…
7TH INNING DEATH
A novel by
Allen Schatz
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published By:
Allen Schatz at Smashwords
7th Inning Death
Copyright 2011 Allen Schatz
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * * * * * * *
7th Inning Death is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents described within are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
In other words, I made it up.
* * * * * * * * * *
7TH INNING DEATH
"A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings."
~ Earl Wilson, 1934-2005
* * * * * * * * * *
PROLOGUE
Present Day - July 13, 2009
One day before the Major League All-Star Game
Citizens Bank Park, South Philadelphia
Call it: Point A
I went into the room first. Not more than three steps later, I heard the door's lock engage behind me. I stopped and let my head drop. I think I might have sighed, too. After a second, I regrouped and turned. Sure enough, I found a shiny silver gun pointed at my gut. I think that's where it was pointed, but I can't say I lined it up to check. It didn't really matter. I should have known better.
I'd been to hell and back just ten months earlier, participant in a game unlike any ever played. As an umpire, my game, baseball, was supposed to be ball or strike, safe or out, fair or foul, not life or death--emphasis on the death part. That wasn't the ride I'd signed up for. I'd booked fun. This wasn't fun. But like I said, I should have known better. That was obvious now.
There were days where it was better to simply reach up and pull the cord, to stop the ride and get off the bus. Today was another of those days. I never used to feel this way. My life had been going in the direction I wanted. The ride was smooth, the scenery, pleasant, the other passengers--well, let's just say they weren't stinking up the cabin. All in all, it was a very good trip.
And then somebody shit. And it got everywhere. And I started stepping in it.
And now I can't get away from the damn smell.
Part 1: The Journey to Point A
Chapter 1
Ten Months earlier
Late October 2008
Philadelphia
Two men were seated on a bench near the fountain in Logan Square. A group of pigeons scurried about at their feet, picking at scraps on the ground. Across the path, in front of the bench, a member of the city's homeless population scavenged from a trash can. If FBI Special Agent John King had thought about it, he might have seen both types of vermin as a signal that this was the starting point in his journey toward the place commonly known as rock bottom.
King was not given to such thoughtfulness.
He and his soon-to-be-ex partner, Special Agent Rudy Marquez, were in bad moods, King's more dangerous. That wasn't because he was a dangerous person, but because several loose wires in his head made it seem that way. There were ways to re-secure those wires, but one had to admit to the problem before that could happen.
Again, King was not given to such admissions.
"Get the fuck outta here," he said as he kicked at the birds.
A cacophony of fluttering wings followed. The vagrant looked up at the noise, but hastily retreated from King's scowl.
"Go get a goddamned job," King said in a tone as ugly as his expression.
The ratty man turned back and displayed a different kind of bird before cursing something under his breath and slithering away. King started to stand, but a hand from Rudy stopped him.
"Yo, John, lighten up. He isn't hurting anyone."
King's head slowly turned. His eyes were cold and dark.
"Yeah, he is," he said. "He's a fuckin' loser and he annoys me. They all do."
Rudy's head began to shake. King was reminded of his now-dead father's version of the rebuke, something he'd always hated, and his mood worsened. Rudy's next words pushed it further down.
"That may be," he said. "But one bad day is all that stands between him and you."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two days later
The room was familiar to King, but the view was different. Unlike his prior visits, on this occasion he was on the wrong side of the table, in the position of the accused. There were four men opposite, two seated facing him, two standing nearby. King once considered each a compatriot, at least in name if not actions, but now saw all as the enemy.
"This is bullshit," he said to none in particular. "I was just doing my job."
There was a scoff from one of the men, Aaron Bonner, head of the FBI's Internal Affairs unit in the Philadelphia field office. Bonner was at the table. The other person there was Alex Harris, Director of the office. The two standing behind them were Damien Hastings, another agent, and Ben Dykstra, one of Bonner's IA investigators.
This meeting had been called because of an unfortunate accident that had occurred during one of the scenes of the bad script hatched out by King and Rudy at the park. That Director Harris had inadvertently played the part of the victim only added to the agents' problems. Neither was going to win an award for their actions; just the opposite, in King's case.
"That's rich," Bonner said. "Just doing your job, huh? At what point did 'shoot your boss' get added to your responsibilities? Was it before or after 'frame the umpire'?"
The "umpire" was major league umpire Marshall Connors, a key figure in events taking place around baseball's World Series. The case would ultimately include two kidnappings, a connection to six previously unsolved murders, and the death of Agent Hastings several days after this meeting. What it did not include was an attempt by Marshall to fix games, something King and Rudy had tried to convince everyone was the situation. They couldn't have been more wrong, but in their haste to prove otherwise, King had shot and wounded Alex.
"I thought your job was to prevent trouble, not cause it," Bonner said. "I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Causing trouble seems to be your best attribute."
He tapped a finger on a thick folder resting on the table, King's IA file. King looked down at it and shrugged.
"We thought Connors was in on it," he said in a low voice. "Harris wasn't supposed to be there."
"You weren't supposed to be there," Bonner said.
King's arms moved, causing Bonner to flinch. The display of cowardice elicited a smirk from King as he crossed the arms in front of his chest.
"Says you," he said.
Bonner tried to recover, using the next few seconds to finish off a bottle of water he'd been holding. After swallowing, he stood and began to pace the room, rapping the empty container against the back of his knuckles. The hollow bonking noise echoed off the bare walls.
"I will give you one thing," he said. "Connors was in on it. Of course, he was one of the victims. It's too bad you missed that detail. But details aren't your strong suit, are they?"
King's smirk faded into something far more menacing.
"Fuck you," he said in a growl. "You fuckin' IA guys have no clue. You're nothin' but a bunch of pussies chasin' after your own tails."
At the table, Alex's head began to shake. Of those in the room, he was most aware of King's faulty wiring. His left arm was bandaged at the shoulder and his discomfort was obvious, but how much emanated from the gunshot wound versus King's attitude was debatable. Of course, it might have been neither. Bonner, and most everyone in IA, had a way of annoying folks just as much, if not more. King's last statement wasn't too far from the truth, but now wasn't the time for it.
"Enough," Alex said with as much force as his condition allowed.
All eyes turned to the director with the exception of King's. Those remained locked on Bonner.
"John, look at me," Alex said.
The tone was close to one a father might use on a misbehaving child, not surprising given that Alex considered his agents to be his children. No matter how well or badly they behaved, he still loved them and would do what he could to protect them, whether deserved or not.
"John," he said more sharply when King failed to react to the first request. "Look at me."
The new tone said Papa was pissed and King finally caught on. His head slowly turned, revealing an expression similar to one he'd displayed toward Alex in Marshall's hotel room, minutes after the shooting and seconds before getting his ass kicked by a paid consultant by the name of Thomas Hillsborough.
Thomas, an ex-CIA spy, had been brought in by Alex to help with the World Series case. He also happened to be Marshall's best friend, and had not reacted well to what King and Marquez had tried to do. Luckily for King, Thomas was not in the room to see the expression again. The result might have been a few steps up from an ass-kicking.
"This is what happens," Alex said, ignoring King's glare. "You are going to resign. Mr. Bonner here will be happy because he won't have to deal with your shit any longer. We'll all be happy for that. You'll get service credit to the minimum pension and then you'll go away. I don't care where."
Bonner started to protest, but a hand from Alex stopped him.
"We're done, Aaron," he said. "You got what you wanted, he's gone. This crap has already wasted more time than I had to give. It's over. Go write it up before I change my mind."
Bonner took a deep breath, but let it escape without another word before leading Dykstra out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Alex's eyes went back to King. His thoughts were heavily tilted toward unpleasant, but there was something else. He didn't want to care--King truly didn't deserve it--but like most every parent, found himself doing just that. The punishment he'd just doled out, something Marshall would later describe as a slap on the wrist, reflected those feelings. King's career was over, but it could have been a lot worse.
Still, it was enough, and Alex let out a long, loud sigh as he stood.
"John, do yourself and the world a big favor and get some help," he said as he moved toward the door. "Or that anger is going to be the end of more than just your job."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
South Philadelphia
Where John King was a brooding dour soul, his wife of six years, Amanda, was sunshine and happiness, although at the moment, both qualities were facing a severe test. That her husband had come home early should have been the first sign of trouble. What he told her moments later confirmed it. Processing the information was proving difficult.
"I, I--oh my God," she said before trailing off.
They were in the kitchen of their two-bedroom row-home, sitting across from each other at the small table there. It was a modest table in a modest kitchen in a modest house, but the Kings were a modest couple. This was what they could afford. For Amanda, it had always been enough, but now, thoughts of losing it all left her feeling faint.
She closed her eyes and tried to regroup, searching her mind for the lessons from the self-help books she devoured on a regular basis. Take a deep breath and engage… Don't react… Reactions have no thought… You must think to engage... Thinking is good…
The words made sense, but nothing else did. After a minute or so, she slowly opened her eyes. The picture in front of her had not changed. The tightness, the anger, was still on her husband's face. She did her best to get past it.
"What happened?" she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
"I quit," King said. "Retired, whatever, I'm done."
Amanda's mouth moved, but nothing came out. She took a deep breath, holding the air for as long as she could before letting it escape. She then took another breath and tried again.
"Aren't you--but you're too young to retire," she said. "I, I don't understand why--"
King cut her off by slamming his hands on the table. The entire room seemed to shake.
"What's there to understand?" he said as he stood. "I fucking quit. Jesus Christ, Amanda. Are you that fucking stupid?"
She had dismissed the incident from months ago as a one-time occurrence, but now, his voice, his words, his eyes, all made her wonder: What if it hadn't been? That thought left her shaking, her nerves beginning to fray. She fought hard not to cry--or run.
"I, I'm sorry, John, please," she said. "I, I'm just trying to be supportive."
His face morphed into something even uglier as he leaned down toward her. When he spoke, it was in a low, guttural sound Amanda was sure she'd never heard.
"Then be supportive and shut the fuck up. I don't need your shit, too."
He stayed there, close, breathing hard, staring, for what seemed like forever to Amanda, before turning and stomping out of the room. When the front door slammed seconds later, she remembered how to breathe again. In the stark quiet that descended over her, she sat there, unmoving.
"Oh my God," she said again, in the tiniest of voices, before the tears began to fall.
Almost ten minutes passed before the tremor of the sobs faded, along with some of the fear. "Some" was the best she could hope for. She now knew it would never completely leave.
It was too late for that.
Chapter 2
Two week later
South Philly
The Big Fish Bar was nestled among the row-homes along the east side of the 1500 block of Broad Street, two streets over from the Kings' doorstep on Juniper. There was no sign out front and little else to identify the place besides its reputation. If you didn't know it was there you wouldn't know it was there. King knew.
A regular beforehand, he had become closer to permanent fixture in the time since his firing, landing every day in the same spot, third stool from the wall furthest from the entrance. During most of the two weeks, no one had dared sit on either side. King was fine with that. He didn't have much use for people. In fact, if he never interacted with anyone again, he'd be even better.
The only exception to that was the tavern's other regular fixture, Gilly, the owner. The old face behind the well-worn bar top didn't mind the company or the business. King didn't mind giving it to him. It wasn't like he had anything else to do.
"You ready for another High Life, Johnnie?" Gilly said in a voice left scratchy by the years.
King's dead eyes came up. He used a single finger to flick the empty bottle that was resting in front of him. It fell over and rolled to Gilly's edge of the bar.
"The fuck's it look like?" he said, his voice matching the gaze.
Gilly, accustomed to the surliness, merely shook his head and moved to a cooler across from where King sat. Seconds later, a fresh bottle of the strong beer landed on the bar. King took a long pull, punctuating it with a loud belch. Both men made sounds that might have been laughs, but King's was more toward a grunt. Another pull left him to repeat the burp as Gilly stepped away.
"Amanda said I'd find you here," a familiar voice said moments later, from King's left.
King did not turn, but his eyes narrowed. Whether it was from hearing his wife's name or from the voice or from both, it was hard to tell.
"Christ, John, you look like shit," the voice said. "It's called a razor. You should look into it."
King turned his stubbled face to find his ex-partner standing just inside the saloon's doorway.
"Fuck you," he said before turning back to his brew.
Had the words come from anyone else, Rudy Marquez might have been offended. As it was, he simply smiled and moved to the stool on King's left.
"I'm serious, man," he said. "You look like shit."
"Like I said, fuck you," King said as Rudy sat.
He finished his beer and waved it at Gilly. The old man wandered over, another fresh one in hand.
"You want one, Agent?" he said.
Rudy shook him off.
"Some of us have to work," he said.
It was Gilly's turn to deliver a "Fuck you" as he moved away. Rudy again ignored it as he turned toward King. He eyed his friend for a moment, not liking what he saw. He had been saved from the same sorry fate only because his contribution to the events leading to King's dismissal was considered slightly less insubordinate, meaning he hadn't shot his boss.
Instead of a pink slip, Rudy was knocked back several grades in rank and pay and slotted into a mundane desk job where he'd push a pencil instead of doing any real work. Some in the office would argue he hadn't done any real work for a long time. King would likely agree.
"You got a reason for bothering me?" he said.
He lifted his bottle and took another long pull. Rudy frowned, but managed to stifle the urge to add a head shake--he knew how much King hated it.
"Listen, man, I'm not the bad guy," he said.
King's eyes came up.
"Oh, yeah, you're a regular fuckin' good Samaritan," he said.
Rudy didn't want to get mad, but King never made that easy. Rudy could see--no, he knew--what most others did not, the true nature of King's loose wires. He, too, had grown up with a family of depressed souls. It had not been easy. He wasn't sure how he'd avoided it. Some days he wasn't sure he had. Every day, he knew King had not.
"I'm just tryin' to help."
He pulled a business card from his jacket and set it on the bar.
BOYD LIVINGSTON, CEO AND PRESIDENT
EYE-ON-U SECURITY, INC.
1515 MARKET STREET, SUITE 2009
PHILADELPHIA, PA 19102
215.987.2121 -- blivingston@eye-on-u.com
King eyed it without touching it.
"That supposed to mean somethin' to me?" he said.
Rudy tapped a finger on the card.
"The guy used to run the Bureau's training courses," he said. "He's hiring. Call 'im, John, if not for yourself, then for Amanda."
King's head snapped around, but he said nothing--verbally, anyway. Rudy again ignored the harsh stare.
"She deserves better than this," he said.
He turned and left without another word. King stared after him for a long moment before turning back to the card. He lifted it from the bar and eyed it closely. His thoughts were racing. More than a few were crashing. Like a lot of things in his life.
"You ready for another?" Gilly said, interrupting.
King looked to the old man. Slowly, his head began to shake. He sighed heavily.
"No. I'm done."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Three days later
Amanda didn't know what to think when her husband left the bed at just before seven. She hoped it meant good news, but seeing as how he hadn't said more than a handful of words to her since leaving the FBI, and not wanting to inspire another outburst, she said nothing as he returned to the bedroom from a shower, content to leave it to him to break the silence. If he didn't, she'd be fine. That he did merely left her more confused.
"Sorry if I woke you," he said in a pleasant voice.
The words and tone starkly contrasted with those of recent "discussions" and Amanda hesitated before raising herself up onto an elbow. As she eyed him, her expression betrayed a mix of emotions.
"John?" she said in a timid voice. "Is everything OK?"
King smiled.
"Yeah, about that," he said. "I'm sorry. I know I've been out of it lately. I didn't mean to take it out on you. None of this is your fault."
She was scared by the apology, but she was happy, too. Most of all, she was still confused, and a sudden urge to cry came over her. She pushed it back as best she could.
"I, I'm--"
She trailed off into a stuttering sigh. King came and sat on the edge of the bed next to her. When he reached out and touched her short brown hair, Amanda's breathing faltered again. As with conversation, his touch had been missing. She gasped slightly as his hand moved down her neck and slowly pushed the thin strap of her camisole off her shoulder. She gasped again when his fingers made their way to her now-exposed breast and then the nipple.
In seconds, she felt a familiar wetness between her legs.
"Oh, John," she said in a whisper as her left hand went to his and squeezed atop the soft flesh.
At the same time, she reached out with her right hand and guided his to the dampness below her waist. When two of his fingers slipped inside her, she let out a small squeal. Part of her didn't want to give in to the sensations, not after how he'd been treating her, but she couldn't fight it. Of everything they weren't as a couple, being good in bed was not included. It was something they'd always had. Amanda didn't want to think it was all they had, but at times, she wondered. As he fingered her toward an orgasm, she decided not to care.
She opened her eyes. His were locked on her face as his hands continued to work.
"Do we--have time--for this?" she said in an unsteady voice, the words and her hips matching the rhythm of his hand.
"Actually, we don't," he said. "I better stop."
He increased the pace and then suddenly stopped. Amanda made a sound of complaint, but it came out more like a purr. King smiled again, another item missing from the past few weeks.
"Promise to finish later?" Amanda said as she recovered.
"I promise."
He stood and kissed her on the top of her head. She smiled back at him, but left the camisole askew as she watched him dress.
"When exactly is later?" she said as she mindlessly touched herself. "Is whatever you're doing, wherever you're going, is it good news?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, I got a job interview," he said. "Marquez hooked me up with an ex-Bureau guy who runs a security firm. He said a job there is a lock."
Amanda stopped touching herself and pulled the strap back into place.
"Rudy hooked you up?" she said in a sharp tone. "The last time he hooked you up you got fired."
King's eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. Amanda instantly realized the mistake. He had never said the word "fired" to her. Of course, he'd been mostly drunk for the past two weeks, so maybe he'd think he had, but as she waited for a confirmation, his expression descended back toward the abyss. She flinched from the new glower.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He was eyeing her closely, but then, suddenly, like with the finger-fuck, he stopped.
"Hey, it's just a job lead," he said. "This is a top-line outfit. They handle a lot of rich folks and high-profile gigs. Parties, special events, stuff like that. I checked it out. It's a good place. Rudy was only trying to help."
Amanda suppressed a cringe at hearing Rudy's name again by chewing on her bottom lip as she looked up at him. King misread it and rolled his eyes.
"C'mon, hon, it's fine," he said. "Quit worrying."
After a few more chews, Amanda relaxed a few degrees.
"Well, that's what I do," she said.
"I know."
The next few minutes passed quietly as King finished getting ready. After he pulled on his jacket, he looked a question at her.
"Handsome," she said with a smile. "You better call me as soon as you know for sure."
"I will," he said. "I'll get it."
Amanda smiled and sat up. King's smile grew when she pulled the camisole over her head.
"Then you'll get this when you do."
Chapter 3
Center City Philadelphia
The Eye-on-U Security, Inc., corporate headquarters occupied the twentieth and twenty-first floors of 1515 Market Street. Boyd Livingston's office was on twenty-one and overlooked Philadelphia's City Hall, but he met with King in the main conference room instead. After several minutes of small talk, the conversation turned to more serious matters.
"So, Mr. King," Boyd said. "Tell me why you left the Bureau."
For a fleeting moment, King thought about enhancing, or maybe de-emphasizing, the true nature of his departure from the FBI, but decided against it. From what Rudy had told him, he knew Boyd would already know the truth. Any adjustments would be easily spotted. Still, he wasn't completely comfortable discussing it.
Something else he wasn't comfortable with was the seating arrangement. The two were on opposite sides of a large table, Boyd with his back to the windows. The shades were raised, and the glare of the sun off the neighboring buildings was wreaking havoc on King's eyes, forcing him to continuously squint and look away to avoid being blinded by it.
"Marquez told me he filled you in on that," he said through the discomfort.
"He did," Boyd said. "But I'd like your take on it."
King blinked several times and tried to find a spot on Boyd's face on which to focus, something out of the direct line of the sun's fire. Boyd could see the struggle. After a few seconds, a smile formed on his face.
"Is everything OK?" he said.
The corner of King's lip curled. The smile and the glare had started to get to him, opening the door for some of the anger to seep out. He knew now was not the time for it and did everything he could to push it down, away from Boyd's sharp eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "It's good."
Boyd's head began to shake. King pushed away a new vision of his father's version.
"John, don't lie to me," Boyd said. "All you had to do was ask me to close the blinds."
King suppressed a sigh of disappointment, nodding his understanding instead. He saw now the seating arrangement had been a test--one of many that would come over the subsequent months--and he'd failed. It left him silently chiding himself as Boyd stood and moved to the windows. A few seconds later, the glare disappeared and he returned to the table.
"Let that be lesson number one," he said, confirming King's suspicion. "At my firm, you need to be in charge of every situation. Never give that up, especially when you can do something about it. My clients pay top-dollar for that simple service. I expect nothing less from my people."
"Sorry," King said. "It won't happen again."
"I know it won't," Boyd said as he settled in again and locked eyes with King. "Now, quit fucking around and tell me what happened to get you here."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Paradise Island, Bahamas
If anyone had asked, I would have said I chose the Comfort Suites Hotel instead of the more famous Atlantis Resort because I'd wanted to stay away from the crowds. In truth, it was because I was cheap. Hey, the ballplayers made the millions. I was just an umpire at the lower end of a low six-figure pay scale. It was decent money for a single guy, but I tried to save where I could, something my accountant father had gone to great lengths to instill in me.
Luckily, the person sharing the room didn't seem to mind.
Suze Keebler had been my girlfriend for all of about one month. Choice of room or cost didn't much matter to her. Anywhere would have been better than where'd she'd been a few weeks ago, kidnapped by a crazed killer bent on exacting revenge on me and a few other people in my life. It shouldn't have been that way, at least not for Suze.
My original vacation plans had been interrupted by a surprise assignment to work the World Series. It was during that time that Suze and I began seeing each other. That should have made for an unforgettable experience. It did, but for all the wrong reasons--like the part with the crazy guy, and the part when two FBI agents tried to frame me, and the part when Suze got kidnapped.
She and I survived, but a couple of people ended up dead. It could have been a lot worse if not for my best friend, Thomas Hillsborough. I suppose the FBI-- the ones who hadn't tried to frame me--deserved some credit, but I limited my thanks where they were concerned. A lot of people got hurt because of their sloppiness, including one of their own, an agent. His funeral was on the other side of this vacation, but I was doing my best not to think about it.
Suze and I were going to be in the Bahamas for another few days. Yes, it was an escape, and yes, real world issues beckoned, the funeral being one, figuring out how to make the relationship work being another, but I was intent on making the most of it. We deserved this time. That other stuff wasn't going anywhere.
Suze lived and worked in New York City, as executive assistant to the commissioner of Major League Baseball, a man named Mark Rosenbaum. I lived in Radnor, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Philadelphia, but worked in major league ballparks all across the country. I was used to the travel, but had never done the long-distance relationship thing. Or maybe the travel was why I'd never done much of any kind of relationship thing. Either way, it was sure to be a test.
At the moment, I wasn't much thinking about tests.
I was propped up on one elbow at the edge of the king-sized bed in our room. Suze was standing between me and the sliding doors to the room's balcony. The morning sun shone bright behind her, and a soft, warm breeze was pushing through the opening into the room. It was, in a word, spectacular, and I was in no hurry to change it.
"I'm confused," I said as I scrunched up my face.
Suze was getting dressed. She stopped to eye me.
"And why are you confused?" she said in her usual happy tone.
"Well, I can't figure out which I like more, when you dress or when you undress."
She giggled.
"Oh, is that so?" she said. "Let's test it."
Her hands moved to the bottom of the white stretch camisole she'd pulled on seconds earlier. My scrunched-up face disappeared and I sat up. She looked awesome in the light coming through the window. She had a perfect tan to go with what I considered a perfect body, and I think I groaned as she locked her eyes on mine and slowly began raising the fabric.
"Hey," I said when it stopped just below her breasts. "Don't stop, I'm still confused."
A sly smile worked onto her lips.
"Marshall Connors, I so own you right now," she said before lowering the top again. "Now come on, silly boy, time for you to get up and get ready. I want to go get breakfast before we do the tour."
"I was getting ready," I said in a pouty tone.
She shook her head at me and the pronounced bump in the sheet.
"Nice try," she said. "But, sorry, no more peep shows for you."
I grumbled and rolled over to the far side of the bed and scooted out from under the covers.
"If you insist," I said. "You're the boss. But just look what you're missing."
I gave her a front view before turning and wiggling my naked butt at her as I made my way to the bathroom.
"Nice body," she said in a yell as I closed the door behind me. "But I still want food instead."
Chapter 4
Four days later
Lansdowne, Pennsylvania
The cold gray afternoon had not prevented a large gathering of mourners from attending Damien Hastings' funeral. Almost everyone from the FBI field office was there, most notable in that group being Special Agent Sandy Hood, Damien's partner and lover, and Alex Harris. Rudy Marquez was part of the contingent as well, but John King was not. The latter failing to show was not unexpected. Of the others in attendance, Thomas Hillsborough, Marshall, and Suze were most significant.
Outside of Damien's family, Sandy was having the most difficulty coping. One hole in her life had been filled, that of finally learning the fate of her sister, one of six women killed by Suze's kidnapper over the years, but the new gaping chasm was even deeper. That Damien had helped recover Suze after her kidnapping, and that Sandy, along with Thomas and Alex, had ended the kidnapper's life an hour or so later didn't matter. He was gone.
Worse was that Sandy had watched as Damien was shot but could do nothing to stop it. Thoughts of that failure filled her head as she eyed his coffin, suspended just above the yawning blackness of the muddy earth. He had talked of leaving the FBI, but getting shot while on duty by a maniacal revenge-seeking serial killer was not something anyone could have imagined as his escape.
That merciless ending was a lot for Sandy to bear.
Through her quiet stare, a lonely tear escaped her eye and drew a line down her cheek. She sniffed to hold back more. Alex, standing next to her, turned toward the noise.
"I'm sorry, kiddo," he said in a soft voice. "I loved him, too."
Sandy looked up and managed a smile, but said nothing. She was thankful for Alex's strength, and hooked her arms around his elbow, pulling herself tight against his side. She didn't care if the image was somehow politically incorrect. Despite the fact he was her boss, on this day and at this moment he was more her friend.
From Sandy's other side, Thomas watched the exchange in silence. He was not one to show much emotion, but the scene left the muscles in his jaw working overtime. He, too, felt Damien's death could have been avoided, and the weight of that, or maybe Sandy's condition, or maybe both, caused his body to sag ever so slightly as he turned back to the grave and the aging priest standing in front.
"… Accept this humble man, O Lord, for he is now in your most sacred hands…"
Sandy was finding no comfort in the words. The God of the elderly servant was a ridiculous notion. Such a creature would have to be one sick motherfucker of an omniscient being to inflict the kind of shit she'd seen in her short life. No amount of faith could change the fact Damien and the other victims of his killer hadn't deserved to die. It was all bullshit, and Sandy was glad when the meaningless flow of words finally stopped.
In the moments that followed, a sad procession began. Sandy sought refuge from it by moving to a small concrete bench twenty or so feet from the main gathering. She watched in silence as the other mourners made a slow trek forward, first to offer a hand or hug to Damien's parents, then past the hole in the ground. Some placed objects on top of the coffin, while others simply stood and said a silent prayer before slowly dispersing into the fading light of the afternoon.
A few people nodded at her or touched her shoulder as they moved off, but she barely noticed. What little strength she had was focused on not breaking down.
"Never easy, is it?" a voice said.
Sandy turned. It was Thomas. She hadn't noticed that he'd taken a seat next to her. She pushed out a weak smile, but said nothing. The only noise around them was from the hushed voices near the grave and the dead leaves being tossed about in the cool air.
A handful of seconds later, Sandy sighed heavily.
"Is anything in life easy?" she said in a tired voice.
She answered the question herself with a shrug before turning back to the grave. Only Alex remained there, with the family. Despite the distance, Sandy could see the intensity in his features as he spoke to Damien's parents. It stayed on him as he turned and made his way to the bench. When he reached Sandy, he leaned down and gave her a peck on the cheek.
"Are you going to be OK?" he said, his hand on her shoulder.
She nodded.
"I'll be fine," she said.
A sympathetic frown worked onto Alex's features.
"Hmmm, if you say so," he said before adjusting his sightline. "Thomas, walk with me."
Thomas stood and did so. Sandy watched with great interest as the two men engaged in a hushed conversation for several minutes. After Alex moved away, Thomas rejoined Sandy at the bench.
"What was that about?" she said.
"He asked that I see you safely home after the reception," Thomas said.
Sandy's eyes narrowed. Despite her sadness, her instincts still worked.
"Liar," she said, but without the usual force such an accusation normally required.
Thomas did not appear offended.
"He also wanted to thank me for my help on the case," he said.
Sandy nodded.
"I do, too," she said.
Thomas' jaw worked through a new round of flexes before he looked at her and shook his head.
"There is no need for that," he said. "I failed."
Sandy arched her back slightly and gave him a hard look. She wasn't angry, but rather confused.
"How did you fail?" she said.
"Agent Hastings is dead," Thomas said in his normal flat tone. "Marshall and Ms. Keebler are safe, but I don't take well to losing a friend."
Sandy eyed him for a long moment. She thought she saw something on the other side of his steely façade, but he was not an easy man to read. Those close to him could usually figure out the hidden messages in the subtle changes in expression, but on top of the lack of strength at the moment, Sandy had a long way to go before "close" was the proper adjective.
"I'm sure Damien would appreciate the sentiment," she said with another small shrug. "But he knew the risks. I do, too. Shit, we all do. It comes with the damn job."
She blew out some air and looked away. When she turned back seconds later, a new tear had escaped her eye. It was quickly followed by more. She didn't try to stop them this time.
"I've had enough of it," she said, her tone a mix of anger, sadness, and regret. "My sister and those other girls can finally rest in peace, but there's nothing left for me at the FBI. I don't want to keep doing this by myself. I'm tired of trying to save the world."
Thomas nodded again.
"I understand," he said. "Director Harris and I suspected as much."
Sandy looked up at him.
"Is that what you guys were talking about just now?" she said.
"Yes," he said.
Some confusion returned to Sandy's expression, momentarily stopping the tears.
"And?" she said.
"There are other ways to save the world. I'd like you to consider working with me."
Surprise replaced confusion as Sandy reached up and wiped the wet tracks from her face.
"I'd say I'm interested, but I have no idea what it is you actually do."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Philadelphia
Boyd was in his office, sitting behind his desk. From outward appearances he was talking to himself, but was actually on a phone call courtesy of a tiny device in his right ear. The barely-visible toy was one of many at his disposable. He liked to keep Eye-on-U ahead of the technology curve, and his wealth of contacts and past relationships aided immensely in that effort. One such relationship was with Alex Harris. The director was on the other end of this particular conversation, a conversation related to King's job application.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get there," Boyd said. "Hastings was a good man."
A loud sigh came from Alex's end of the line.
"Yes, he was," he said after it faded. "But life goes on I guess."
Boyd heard a lot of pain in Alex's tone. He began to second-guess his timing.
"Hey, listen, we, uh, we can do this later," he said. "I understand--"
"No, no," Alex said, cutting him off. "Life does go on. What was it you needed to ask?"
Boyd took a few seconds to readjust his position, ending up leaning over the edge of the desk, all his upper body weight on his elbows. His eyes were locked on several sheets of paper in front of him, King's application and resume, and notes from the earlier interview.
"I got Marquez's story. I got King's story. Now I'd like yours," he said.
"Did you find out why he shot me?" Alex said.
The tone was tight. Boyd caught it.
"They said it was a mistake," he said. "I take it you'd like to dispute that."
"No, a mistake is definitely one way to look at it," Alex said. "King screwed up and we asked him to go away. You of all people know how that works."
It wasn't meant to be a shot, but it felt like one to Boyd. He took a few extra seconds to push back the painful memory. Mistakes did happen. He definitely knew, too well.
"OK, Mr. Director," he said, a touch of regret hanging on the words. "I hear you loud and clear."
Alex sighed again.
"Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to lump you in with King," he said. "It's night and day, believe me."
"Don't sweat it, Alex," Boyd said. "I get it."
"Listen, when he's focused, he's good," Alex said, a renewed strength in his voice. "But you'll need to keep an eye on him. His focus tends to stray. He doesn't see it, but he has serious issues. Most of it comes out in a basic contempt for authority. I think part of him enjoyed the fact he shot me."
"Well, we both know he wouldn't be the first," Boyd said.
There was a slight chuckle in his ear before Alex's voice returned.
"Yeah, you're right about that."
Chapter 5
Philadelphia
Other parts of Eye-on-U business got in the way, and it wasn't until the following evening that Boyd returned to the question of hiring King. Inspired by Alex's concerns, he had decided to seek out one final opinion before closing the deal. He'd also decided to do so at his favorite restaurant, Le Bec-Fin, a Philly landmark.
Accompanied by his top lieutenant, a younger man named Garrett Henderson, he set out on foot from the office. Despite a borderline freezing temperature, Garrett didn't seem to mind the cold or the walk. That wasn't surprising. He was getting face time with Boyd, something always worth the price.
It was just after eight P.M. when they arrived. As they were shown to Boyd's usual table, a third place-setting there seemed to trigger disappointment on Garrett's features.
"I didn't realize we were having company," he said in a matching tone. "Anyone I know?"
If Boyd caught the signals, he decided to ignore them.
"Indeed," he said.
The single word flipped Garrett's expression to the positive side. Boyd had figured as much.
"Oh, OK," Garrett said. "Is he late or are we early?"
"I have no idea," Boyd said. "I left it open. I just told him we'd be here at some point."
That wasn't really the case. Boyd was not one for taking chances. His guest would not be left to guess, not that the guest would have allowed someone to leave him guessing anyway.
"Gentlemen," a new voice said, interrupting. "It's a pleasure to see you again. Are we waiting?"
A waiter was motioning to the empty seat.
"Yes," Boyd said with a nod before ordering a bottle of white wine--a 2005 Bourgogne Blanc, Domaine Dupont-Fahn--and an appetizer.
The server acknowledged the selections with a sharp nod and stepped away.
"White, huh?" Garrett said. "Are we having fish or chicken?"
"Fish," Boyd said. "I've been craving the crab cake all day."
When dining at this restaurant, Boyd often ordered for everyone in his party. No one ever complained about his choices. Garrett would not be the first.
"Works for me," he said.
They filled the next few minutes with idle chat before the waiter returned. Boyd did the honors and checked the wine's bouquet. He nodded an approval and two glasses were poured. A second later, another server appeared with Pomme Frites and three dipping sauces. Boyd nodded again.
"Thank you, boys," he said. "This will do until our third arrives."
"Very well," one of the waiters said before both scurried away.
Boyd grabbed a fry and poked it into the first dip. He smiled after tasting the ginger ketchup's perfect combination of sweet and spicy. Garrett took a turn trying the second, a roasted garlic mayonnaise. His expression brightened as well.
"Try that one," he said, pointing.
Boyd did so as Garrett sampled the third, a Chipotle Aioli.
"I could eat here every day," Boyd said after trying the Aioli.
About half of the fries and an equal amount of sauce disappeared before Boyd spoke again.
"So, what do you make of Mr. King?" he said.
There was a pause as Garrett finished chewing.
"Not sure yet," he said after chasing the perfectly fried potato with a sip of wine. "Alex was right about the anger, though. I saw it right away. If we hire him, we'll need to watch him."
"Something of which you are quite capable," a familiar voice said from behind his back.
He turned just as Thomas reached the table.
"Gentlemen," Thomas said, before squeezing Garrett's shoulder and shaking hands with Boyd.
"Thomas," Boyd said. "Prompt as usual. Sit."
"Ah, fish, I see," Thomas said, eyeing the wine as he settled into the empty seat on Boyd's left.
"Yes, crab cake," Boyd said.
Thomas nodded as Garrett poured him a glass of wine. After a taste, he added another nod for the selection. He glanced at the fries, but held off sampling any.
"You mentioned a new hire," he said as his eyes landed on Boyd's. "How may I assist?"
Boyd smiled at the lack of small talk, but took a few more fries and popped them into his mouth before continuing.
"Former FBI Special Agent John King," he said after swallowing. "I'd like your opinion."
Thomas' expression held--even, as usual--but his normally flat voice picked up a slight edge.
"No, you wouldn't," he said.
Boyd was out of practice reading Thomas, but did catch the spur. His expression took on a more serious appearance. Seeing that, Garrett's brow knitted up a little, too.
"Any chance I can get you to expand on that?" Boyd said.
He waited patiently as Thomas looked away for a long second. After taking in the rest of the setting around them, his gaze came back to Boyd. It was mostly unchanged--mostly.
"Mr. King has issues."
"I've heard," Boyd said. "Tell me about your run-in with him. What happened?"
Thomas sampled another taste of wine.
"He and I did not see eye-to-eye. I found his methods unacceptable."
Boyd was beginning to remember how his old comrade operated. It was his turn to hesitate as he pondered the meaning behind the words and the tone. Thomas used the time to steal several fries and sample each of the sauces. He seemed most impressed by the middle choice.
"Good, right?" Garrett said, motioning toward the garlic mayo.
"Very," Thomas said with a nod.
Boyd waited as each took another dunk. When they were finished, he leaned in slightly.
"Yes, well, about King," he said. "You know me, I believe in second chances. Alex said the man's OK when he's good. I could use someone good."
"Director Harris is wise," Thomas said.
"So are you," Boyd said.
There was a lull. Boyd and Garrett filled it with a shot of wine. Thomas sat quietly.
"Alex told me about your work on the Series," Boyd said. "Sounds like you guys had fun."
A single eyebrow moved on Thomas' face, ala WWE's The Rock. Along with the tone and even expression, it was something of a trademark.
"I would not describe the events as fun," he said.
"No," Boyd said. "Sorry. I forgot about Hastings' death."
"Most unfortunate," Thomas said.
If he was feeling something, Boyd couldn't see it.
"I know Alex agrees," he said. "He's been losing too many agents. What's the name of the gal you hired away, Hood?"
"Sandy Hood, yes," Thomas said. "She was involved with Agent Hastings. After his death the Bureau no longer appealed to her. It is a good fit."
Boyd's head nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Good help is hard to find."
"Indeed," Garrett said.
Boyd smiled, but something that might have been a frown came to Thomas' face. Damien Hastings had been the last person to borrow Thomas' catchword--and he'd ended up dead. Boyd had no way of knowing that Thomas was hoping the trend wouldn't repeat itself. Given that King was about to enter into Boyd's life, the odds of that were suddenly less favorable.
Thomas hated when that happened.
Soon enough, Boyd would as well.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next day
South Philly
Amanda King was alone in her living room, curled up on the sofa with the latest Dean Koontz novel, a typically spooky thriller. Already on edge from Koontz' work, she almost peed herself when the front door slammed shut at just after four P.M. From her seat, she couldn't see into the foyer, but knew what the noise meant. King was home--and he was angry.
When he appeared in the opening to the living room, Amanda's breathing misfired. The disturbing look on her husband's face screamed bad news. She wasn't sure she could take it. It had been a long week waiting for word about the job. King had been bouncing from emotion to emotion. Amanda was tired from the rollercoaster ride, but his expression now was another twisting loop.
She thought she might get sick.
"John?" she said in a tentative voice.
King's face was set in stone as he stared down at her. Amanda's fear clicked up a few notches. She adjusted her position on the sofa, to something a bit more defensive in nature, and set her book on the side table on her right.
"Honey, please," she said. "You're scaring me."
She warily watched his eyes and waited. She wasn't sure where the train was headed, but she wanted to be ready to run if it went off the tracks. When King's arms moved, Amanda squealed, but it faded when she saw what he was holding, a large bouquet of flowers and bottle of champagne.
"I got it," King said in a shout. "I start Monday."
Amanda bounced off the sofa and leaped into his arms. They locked lips and the wet kiss lasted for almost a minute.
"Oh, thank God," she said as they separated. "I was so worried."
"I told you it would be OK," King said. "Sorry for making you worry."
The apology seemed genuine and Amanda's face filled with a big smile.
"It's OK," she said as she grabbed the roses.
Her free hand went to his and she led the way through their small dining room to the kitchen. Once there, she pulled a vase from a cabinet in the corner and hustled to the sink. Working quickly, she snipped the ends from the flowers and put them into some water. King grabbed two glasses from the dish-drainer and settled at the table. Amanda set the bouquet between them as she joined him.
A few seconds later, King handed her a half-full glass of bubbly.
"To us," he said, raising his in a toast. "No more worrying."
"Yeah, fuck worrying," Amanda said.
The glasses clinked together. Matching gulps later, each was emptied.
"More?" King said.
"Oh, yes," Amanda said in a sultry voice. "But I don't need the glass."
She stood and slowly unbuttoned the dress-shirt she was wearing, one of his. His excitement at the lack of a bra beneath grew when she grabbed the bottle of champagne and took another long gulp, spilling a lot of the clear liquid down the front of her body.
"Oops," she said. "I made a mess."
She began to pour more wine onto the shirt, over each breast. The fabric stuck to her skin and King's eyes lit up. That sex might be all they had as a couple had never entered his mind before. It wasn't about to now. He stood suddenly and pulled her close.
"Let's go upstairs," he said in a forceful tone. "It's my turn to make a mess."
Chapter 6
Radnor, Pennsylvania
The usual comfort I felt when home was nowhere to be found. A big part of me wanted to get back on a plane and return to the Bahamas, or some other island, or any place warm and sunny and away from the cold and damp of early fall--and away from the bad thoughts that had been filling my head in the days since Agent Hastings' funeral.
The entire time I couldn't stop picturing Buck Walters, my former mentor and friend, another of the victims in the World Series mess, suffering and dying alone in his hotel room. Buck hadn't been murdered, but getting dragged into the sick game had no doubt accelerated the ending brought on by his cancer.
He'd kept that illness a secret, along with a few other things, leaving me with more questions than answers. On top of that, our last conversation had been more argument than anything else, adding a layer of regret to my sadness. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, but knowing that was never going to happen sucked.
At least I still had Suze, but even that was beginning to make me wonder.
We were sitting on the sofa in the great room of my apartment. "Great room" was my description for it, anyway. I imagine on the original design it was simply labeled "living room." I had divided it by setting up a small office--a computer desk and filing cabinet--in the far corner. It didn't get a lot of use, but then again, neither did the rest of my one-bedroom unit, especially during the baseball season.
As I looked across at the desk, I started thinking about the long-distance thing. Most of me knew it was probably not a big deal, but for some reason, I kept picturing that scene from the movie Speed, when the Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock characters realize a mutual attraction, just after escaping the soon-to-explode bus. Sandra's "Annie" said "relationships that start under intense circumstances, they never last." Suze and I had definitely started that way.
I couldn't help but wonder if it would last.
"Marshall? Are you OK?" Suze said.
It took me an extra second to realize I'd missed whatever else she'd been saying.
"Uh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I said. "I was, uh, I was just thinking."
She reached over and took hold of my hand.
"You were doing a lot more than that," she said. "What's going on? Talk to me."
She smiled and squeezed my hand. It was better than any medicine could have been. I just sat there and let it sink in for a few seconds. We'd barely been together and I'd almost lost her. Not broken up lost, but dead and gone lost. Fucking AJ Singer--he was one dead person I wasn't upset about. I know, it was wrong to think that about anyone, but I couldn't help it. The man deserved to die for what he'd done, not just to Suze, but to everyone.
"What were you thinking?" she said when I stayed quiet.
I offered up a feeble shrug.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess maybe that I hate funerals and that two in two weeks is two too many. And now you're leaving. It's all kinda shitty, know what I mean?"
"I want to stay," she said in a soft voice. "But I can't keep hiding. I need to get back to work, to the real world."
She hooked her hands around my elbow and leaned into me. I closed my eyes and absorbed the feel of her body against mine. I could have stayed there forever.
"The real world sucks," I said.
She lifted her head slightly and kissed me on the neck. A lot of goosebumps followed.