Friday Edition, The (11 page)

A television in the corner captured her attention as Sam nursed another scotch. A news talk show was on. The guests were a mother and her two children. Their father, a former celebrity turned congressman, had just died in a skiing accident.

The mother had her arms wrapped around her children. Sam wished she could hear the program, but she didn’t need to. The mother’s love she saw was more powerful. It was fierce. Deep and abiding. Complete and pure and simple. Sam saw it in the woman’s eyes when she looked at her children. She could see it in her touch as she kept her arm wrapped warmly around them. Protecting them. Loving them the way Sam loved April.

Except.
Why is my love so hard to show?

It was midnight when Champ made his final round to Sam. He looked at her. She stared back with red, watery eyes. “I’ll have one more,” she said and stumbled slightly over the words.

“No. No more for Sam,” he said. “I’m calling a cab to take you home.”

Sam shook her head. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

Champ ignored Sam’s protests and called a cab. She stopped arguing. She was too weak, too tired to fight. The cab came and Champ helped Sam with her coat. “Your car will be fine here overnight. You can get it tomorrow.”

He eased her into the cab, closed the car door and banged on it. He watched until the car turned the corner. He returned to the warm interior of the bar, hoping she wouldn’t pass out until she got home.

Champ finished clearing Sam’s glass from the bar. He pulled his wallet from his pant pocket and removed a small slip of paper. He looked at the number written on it, remembering the instructions he received if Samantha Church contacted him about Robin Marino.

Champ picked up the telephone and dialed the number. His call was picked up on the second ring.

Captain answered.

Champ told him what had transpired that evening. Captain couldn’t help smiling.

****

Sam managed to stay awake and stare numbly out the car window as the cab headed toward her apartment. Champ had paid for the ride home and tipped the driver to help her to her apartment door.

She stumbled into her apartment just after midnight. Morrison greeted her immediately, meowing loudly. She tried to pick him up, but nearly fell over when she bent down to get him. She rose gingerly, holding the wall for support. She walked slowly into the kitchen and saw the cat dish was empty. She poured food into the bowl, but more of it landed on the outside. Morrison ate hungrily.

Sam went into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, not bothering to undress. She was asleep within minutes. It was 3 a.m. when she woke. Her head was spinning, full of thoughts. “What a loser I am. A worthless good for nothing,” she said into the darkness.

She stirred to find the phone and felt Morrison lying next to her. He looked at her in a huff as though she had disturbed his nap. “Sorry, Morrison, guess I’m making life miserable for you, too, huh?”

Sam reached for the phone and dialed the number from memory. A man answered on the end of the third ring. He was groggy. She must have pulled him from a deep sleep.

“Wilson?”

He recognized her voice immediately. “Sam, what it is?”

“I screwed up.”

The basketball Brady Gilmore shot toward the hoop missed easily. His second shot came closer to the rim, skimming the bottom of the net. His third shot hit the rim with a dull thud and teetered for a moment as though deciding which side to fall. Brady clasped his hands together against his chest and watched. He held his breath in the anticipation and sheer hope that the ball would fall through the hoop. It fell away from the net to the floor. Brady watched the ball dribble and come to rest against the long nets that surrounded the court.

“Brady!” Todd Matthews yelled to him from the sidelines. “Come on, Brady! Don’t let that stop you! You’ve got more basketballs to shoot. Practice isn’t over!”

Brady immediately grabbed another ball. He shot, but it missed the basket. He hung his head and didn’t go for the next ball.

Todd left the sidelines and trotted out to Brady. He put a comforting hand on Brady’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Hey, bud,” Todd said. “What’s the deal?”

Brady shrugged his husky shoulders and stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his sweat pants. He kept his concentration fixed on his tennis shoes, making one swirl against the smooth, shiny surface of the gym floor. “I’m not makin’ any baskets.”

Todd chuckled and remained upbeat and light.

“Yeah, so I noticed,” he said. “Why is that?”

Brady shrugged again. “I’m not thinkin’ ’bout what I’m supposed to do.”

Todd nodded and smiled. “Here, let me show you, but you know the routine, Brady. I’ll show you how, but you grab a ball and do exactly as I do. We do it together. Got it, bud?”

“Yeah,” Brady said nodding.

Each grabbed a basketball. “It’s all in the wrist, pal,” Todd said. He looked at Brady, who was doing his best to copy his stance.

“Use your wrist,” Todd went on, “and keep your eye on the basketball and know where you want that ball to go. Got it?”

Brady nodded. Todd shot the ball. It sailed through the hoop so effortlessly that the net hardly moved.

“What a shot!” Brady said.

Todd stepped away from Brady to give him room to shoot. Brady’s concentration on the hoop became intense. His tongue protruded slightly out the left side of his mouth and he squinted and bounced his stocky body several times on the balls of his feet. Todd watched, seeing in those movements traces of an erstwhile Brady, who could once shoot like Todd.

The ball left Brady’s hands, last touching the tips of his fingers, and sailed toward the basket. It had all the makings of a sure basket, height and good arc. The ball hit the rim one time, bounced up and fell through the hoop. Brady leapt in the air as high as his husky body would allow.

“Good shot, bud!” Todd said and patted Brady hard on the shoulder.

“I can do it now. Go back to the sideline,” Brady told Todd and shooed him away.

“You’ve got six more balls to shoot and you got to make all of them,” Todd said.

A looming presence near the gym doors captured Todd’s attention as he returned to the sidelines. Wyatt Gilmore was watching his son practice. He acknowledged Todd with a slight wave. Todd nodded. As he walked toward Wyatt he thought of Robin. She used to tell him often that there was something about Wyatt that she didn’t trust. When Todd asked her to be more specific, Robin would just say it was something she couldn’t put her finger on.

Both men stood over six feet, but Wyatt, a big-boned, solid man, seemed to tower over Todd. A quick glance told Todd that Wyatt came to the practice from work. Wyatt wore a casual dark blue blazer over a polo shirt. Todd saw the butt of his service revolver protruding slightly from his shoulder holster. “What brings you here?” Todd asked as they shook hands.

“Brady told his mother at breakfast he had practice this afternoon. There’s a game tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” Todd said. “Our first after the holiday break.”

Wyatt nodded silently. It wasn’t the kind of basketball league he had envisioned for his son. Brady’s team was the Grandview Warriors. They were part of a special needs basketball league, implemented and maintained for the last four years by a Grandview man whose son was disabled. The father wanted to develop something productive for his son to do to pass his time in a meaningful way. The man had loved basketball and asked several service clubs to sponsor a basketball league. The Warriors practiced and played their home games in the Grandview High School gymnasium.

“You like coaching this team?” Wyatt asked, watching his son collect basketballs.

“I like seeing the guys do their best,” Todd replied.

“Brady’s never going to get the hang of this game again,” Wyatt said not bothering to hide his disgust.

Robin’s doubts about Wyatt also had an effect on Todd. He looked at Wyatt, undecided how he felt about him. “No,” Todd said matter-of-factly. “Not like he once could, if that’s what you mean.”

Brady shot another basketball toward the basket.

“He’s missed every single one of those shots,” Wyatt said eyeing his son intently, not liking what he saw.

“Give the kid a break,” Todd said.

“There was a time he wouldn’t have missed any,” Wyatt said. “I went to every single one of his high school games. He was the best on the team. He hardly missed a shot. He was so quick he was hard to cover and he had a lay-up that guaranteed two points.”

“That was a long time ago,” Todd said.

If Wyatt had heard Todd, he gave no indication. He focused on watching his son, who was jogging the length of the basketball court with his teammates. As the basketball practice came to an end, Wyatt headed for the gym doors. Todd stopped him before he could leave.

“Aren’t you going to talk to Brady?” he asked. “He’ll be happy to know you came this afternoon.”

“He won’t be too happy when I tell him how badly he played,” Wyatt returned.

“Why would you say something like that?” Todd asked trying to stay patient. He could hear Robin’s voice in his mind. Wyatt’s comment would have angered her. Todd responded as if he was speaking for her.

“Can’t you think of something you saw Brady do well this afternoon and mention that instead of focusing on what he didn’t do so well. That will make him very happy, especially coming from you.”

“It’s a good idea, Todd, but I can’t recall anything Brady did here today that was worth mentioning,” Wyatt said. “My son had been accepted to the Air Force Academy. He was supposed to be what I was, a fighter pilot. Then he was going to go into law enforcement. We had it planned. It was our dream, but he messed everything up.”

Brady was the mail clerk for Grandview City Hall. It didn’t pay much, but he still lived at home and didn’t need much money. He liked the job because Robin often came to the police department. There they would talk. In those fleeting moments, he was happy again.

“Now look at him,” Wyatt continued. “He can’t shoot a basketball and he pushes a mail cart around city hall. I got him the job so I could keep an eye on him.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Todd said. “He needs you now.”

“Now? What could he possibly need me for now?” Wyatt glared at Todd and their eyes locked.

Todd stepped back from Wyatt, retreating from the conversation, but Wyatt continued to speak as though he couldn’t stop himself. “The money that was meant for my son’s college education paid his medical bills,” he said. “When that was gone, we scraped to get by until we filed bankruptcy. I have nothing left to give Brady now, Todd. I don’t know what else he needs from me.”

It was difficult for Todd to listen. He knew now what Robin meant. This was a dark side of Wyatt people seldom saw. “Your son is still as good as he was in high school, only in different ways and in different things,” Todd said, the anger in his voice apparent. “It’s a shame you can’t see that he’s just as good a person as a mail clerk as he would be if he were a fighter pilot. And now that Robin is gone, your son really needs and wants your support. If you’ll excuse me I have a practice I need to wrap up.”

Todd turned and walked away feeling his hot blood pumping like a volcano. He helped Brady collect the basketballs.

“How come Dad didn’t come over here?” Brady asked when they put the last of the balls away.

The comment caught Todd off guard and he stalled for an answer. He wanted to tell Brady the truth, but at the last moment heard himself say, “He got called away on an emergency, Brady. But he said he’d see you later at home.”

****

It was 5:30 p.m. Though he was certain everyone in the outer offices had left for the day, he poked his head outside his office door to make sure.

The hallway was quiet. He left the door ajar and returned to his desk and to his computer. The blue screen glowed and reflected in his glasses.

He programmed Sam’s number: 555-2159.

He placed his fingers lightly on the computer keyboard, poised to type. He hesitated, having trouble finding the exact words.

He felt distracted. And it made him angry. He had felt this way all day. Two weeks had passed since he had murdered Robin. Still the images of her final moments had not left him. If anything, they had intensified.

He shrugged and made himself concentrate on the keyboard. He typed slowly, using only his two index fingers to strike the keys.

I am watching you, Samantha. I know that you’ve been

to see Ruth, and I was watching you the night at Tim’s Place. Champ’s a great guy, isn’t he? I wanted to buy you a drink, but you were doing so well on your own. I know when you

come and when you go. I am watching you.

Remember that. Always remember that...

He clicked the ‘send’ key and the text message was gone. He turned off his computer. He smiled slightly. It was the first to leave his lips all day.

He would love to witness her reaction when she read the message.

To be a fly on the wall.