Tennessee Touch, Sisters of Spirit #6 (22 page)

"Sorry. But...yes. If it was any other team than the Wolverines, I'd turn it off. They've got a chance to go to the Super Bowl this year as a wild-card contender. And whether they make it or not depends upon this game." She looked uncomfortable, but kept glancing at the TV as she talked. "The Skippers really took off this year when they added Logan to their team."

The name combination was right...that much Alison admitted. But they couldn't be football players. Football players would have plenty of time between games, while Logan and Ken were always rushing back to wherever they came from.

She refused to accept the possibility. A weird coincidence, that was all. "Don't worry. I'll come over later... maybe Wednesday night."

"Look, they're showing a picture of Josh Logan."

Alison concentrated on the serious-looking face shown above some statistics. It did resemble Logan—a formidable, hulking Logan—and for the first time she agreed with Chantal. "It looks like him; quite a bit. But if they were football players they'd have told us; in fact we wouldn't have been able to stop them talking about it."

"Not necessarily."

"Be realistic," she scoffed, "you've been around football players before."

"Not the really good ones, Alison. Not the ones who are so good they don't need to tell anyone."

"Maybe. I've yet to see that rare creature. Even your dad talks football, and he was good. But this is the closest you've come to finding someone who looks like him." She frowned as a thought struck her. "Now you're going to start me spotting him wherever I look."

Chantal was not ready to admit it wasn't Logan and Ken. She informed Alison she had some team photos and individual pictures of the Skippers in the sports' magazines her dad regularly sent her. She rose to go get them, then stopped as another play began on the screen, dropping back into her chair as Jake Earle caught a touchdown pass that put the Skippers further ahead.

 "Oh, no. Block that kick," she begged, clinched hands urging her team on.

"Don't bother," Alison said, laughing at Chantal's dilemma. "I'll come back Wednesday. I'll even let myself out."

"I'm sorry, but—"

Alison laughed harder. "No, you're not. I'm going home. And seeing how I got the meal, you can do the dishes. See you."

She grabbed her coat and went outside into the rainy Seattle night. Her car was parked under a street light and she checked around and inside it carefully before she got in. Pro football players? At least this time the resemblance was close, but what would Chantal come up with next?

It had been a rough game but they had won. Jake and Logan joined their team as they filed out to the chartered bus, set to take them to the airport. A sudden commotion exploded behind them, people yelling and scattering, running past the line of players.

“What?” Logan asked, as he stepped aside.

“Somethin’ man.”

Logan looked toward the source, which was the home team’s bus, with fans running away and players taking cover in and behind it. One player lay on his face, a crumpled figure wearing a jersey. Number 32.

“It’s Ty Morens,” Logan stated, shocked, as Jake grabbed his jacket and urged him into the safety of their bus. Ty had had an outstanding game, playing above his abilities. He had sacked Logan twice and intercepted a pass for a touchdown. A fairly new player, he’d been vain enough to wear his game jersey so people would know who he was.

“What do you think?” a teammate asked Logan as they watched people gathering around the body.

“I think whoever’s doing this is no longer concerned with making it look accidental.”

Their bus left as an ambulance arrived.

“I never wear my jersey off the field and I’m not going to start. I suggest you fellas do the same,” Jake announced. “Now is not the time to advertise who you are.”

“I agree. Keep a low profile,” Coach Dobb added. “And I want all of you to break routine. Different routes, different times. I’ll ask the owners to set up a security perimeter whenever we have you in a group, but we can’t protect you once you leave.”

“How did he get past security?” a rookie asked.

“He probably didn’t even go to the game, since, as you know, they check people for guns. I bet he came in behind the fans waiting for the players to come out. Stay out of crowds, night clubs, anywhere you might be attacked.”

It was pretty silent on the bus as the knowledge that they could be next hung over them. Logan speed-dialed Alison’s number, feeling the need to talk to her about something pleasant.

The streets were heavy with traffic as the hour was still early. Monday evening stretched out long and lonely before Alison. If it hadn't have been for that all-intrusive game of football, she'd have stayed at Chantal's. Passing a theater, she spotted a movie she’d wanted to see but hadn't, and on impulse pulled her car into the lot. Just the thing to do. A large bag of hot buttered popcorn and a tongue-in-cheek James Bond-like adventure/comedy.

She watched the zany action, laughing easily at the plot which was amusingly absurd...and at herself, as she caught her fingers signing some of the dialogue. It was bad enough signing automatically as she talked to people, she didn't need to do it in the movies unless she had a friend with her who was hearing-impaired. She put both hands on the popcorn bag to keep them quiet and took a deep sniff of its mouthwatering aroma.

It was a double feature, the second movie a police thriller that gave her the creeps when it portrayed the rapist killer. She almost didn't watch it through to the end, but stayed, refusing to be unsettled by a movie. But it did bother her, somewhat, so she sat through enough of the comedy again until she could leave the theater in a more pleasant state of mind.

It was late by the time she got home, the phone ringing shrilly as she hurried to get the door open—too late to catch whoever was on the other end. It could have been Logan, or even Chantal, but she didn't want to chance waking her friend, so she locked up and showered. If they wanted her badly enough they'd try again or call in the morning.

The clock showed the time to be almost midnight when she was ready for bed and she moved closer to run her finger along the owl's silvery wings, the delicate feathers suggested in the metal. When asked how he'd accomplished it, Logan said he'd used a wire brush to mar the polished surface. A kiss was lightly given to a tiny rabbit she'd discovered down in one corner near where he'd signed his name—this last fast becoming a nighttime ritual—before she went to bed.

She had dropped off into a sound sleep and just about didn't wake up when the telephone rang. As it was she tripped over the bean bag and knocked the phone flying trying to answer while she was still half-asleep.

"Yes?" she said, totally disoriented.

"Alison! At last" It was Logan, sounding distraught. Or upset. Had something happened?

Her mind fought its way up out of sleep-induced comfort, the alarm in his voice speeding up her heart rate and penetrating her hazy thoughts. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing...now," he sighed, sounding greatly relieved. "I couldn't get you earlier so called Chantal; she said you'd left her place hours ago, headed for home."

"Oh." She pictured what had happened. Him calling, Chantal's answer; and then for her not to have been where she said.... "I stopped to see a movie—two, almost three—on impulse."

"I prayed it was something like that. I've been ringing every half hour. I felt so helpless...if you'd have been in trouble there was no way I could get to you in time." His low voice was still pitched higher than normal, his accent more pronounced.

"I'm okay, but you sound like you had a rough time. I didn't think of calling her; I'm not used to people checking up on me." Poor guy. Calling had never entered her mind; she had been completely on her own for many years now, not accountable to anyone.

His voice was dropping down now as tension eased. "I didn't mean to intrude...I shouldn't have worried, I know, but...."

"Don't apologize; I'm glad you care enough to worry." It would be foolish to resent people showing concern for her; they couldn't help it if she neglected to relay a change in plans. She'd have to be more careful of doing things like that. It would have been easy enough to call Chantal from the theater and tell her where she'd gone. Then if something ever did happen, at least she'd know her friends and family would start looking.

"It's more than that; I'm ready to take the next plane out. I've got my ticket."

What did he mean? More than what? Next plane? And if he were upset, her friend must be scared silly. "What about Chantal?"

"She was thinking of calling the police—"

"Oh, no. I'll call her right away. I'm sorry" she groaned; then added curiously, "Why did you phone?"

"The first time, just to talk. This time? To see if you were home. And now that you are, to ask you to meet me at the Sea-Tac airport tomorrow morning—"

"Tomorrow? Really?" He'd said he couldn't come. Something must have changed his plans.

"Uh, huh. Actually, now, it’s this morning."

"Where are you?"

"Logan International Airport...in Boston."

"You weren't kidding...about taking the next plane?" She still couldn't understand why he was coming.

"No, in fact the plane leaves in fifteen minutes. I’m in line, waiting to board."

Was he flying out just because he couldn't get hold of her? "But were you planning to...earlier this evening? Before you got worried?"

"No, but everything's arranged now. I'm on my way."

She sank into a chair, amazed at how much it meant to her to have him care; to have him come. He must have called, not reached her, kept calling and then decided to fly out to Seattle to look for himself. Even now that he had reached her, he was still coming. Her voice sank as the full impact hit her. "Oh."

"Can you meet me?"

"Yes, of course." She could have a friend cover for her who liked to keep in practice but didn't do any interpreting on a regular basis. Logan had canceled whatever plans he had—for her. She could easily do the same for him.

He gave her the time and flight number, wished her good night and hung up. Quickly she dialed Chantal's number, explained what happened and apologized for not thinking to call.

"I wouldn't have worried," Chantal explained after a deep sigh of relief, "except you said you were going home; and then Logan called trying to get hold of you. He was almost crazy with worry; he scared me, too. You know, they still haven’t caught whoever killed that woman near your place."

"I'm sorry, I just didn't think."

"What's worse, I called the police; they said to notify them if I hadn't heard from you by morning."

"Oh, no! Should I call them, too?"

"No, they weren't going to take any action unless I called again. I guess this happens fairly often."

"Well, Logan's flying out. I'm meeting him at the airport tomorrow—no, this morning. I guess I'd better get some sleep. And next time, I'll try to let people know when my plans change." The metal clock showed one a.m. when she hung up. Wide awake from the call, she tossed and turned for an hour or so before dropping off to sleep again. Why was he making the trip out when he knew she was safe? He could have canceled his flight, gotten a refund. Something in the tone of his voice when he'd said, "More than that" made her feel that this was not just another visit.

She left early for the airport but still was caught in the Seattle traffic jam which turned the freeways into parking lots for a few hours each morning and evening. Traffic was channeled north and south, sandwiched between Lake Washington and Puget Sound. The floating bridges on Lake Washington helped relieve the flow somewhat, but accidents could close them off completely.