Текст книги "A Devil in the Details"

Автор книги: K. A. Stewart

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

15

“Jess.”

“Jesse.”

“Jesse!” Although my head was buried under my pillow, Mira’s voice wouldn’t let me sleep in peace. Then, to make it worse, she started shaking my shoulder.

“Wha mrrmfh? G’way.” I swatted blindly at her, connecting with nothing.

“Wake up. Ivan’s on the phone.”

That at least penetrated the foggy haze in my head. I fumbled my hand free of the tangled sheets to take the cell phone and tried not to groan as every muscle in my body protested. It was official. I was way too old to be water-skiing across linoleum floors. “H’lo?”

“Dawson! I am to be waking you. Much to be apologizing.” A deep voice thundered in my ear, sounding totally unapologetic despite words to the contrary.

Oh hey . . . It was Ivan. Dimly, I knew Mira had told me that already. “Ivan. Um yeah, hi . . . Hang on, I gotta jump-start my brain.” Coffee—I could smell coffee. Like a zombie, I shuffled out into the hallway in only my plaid pajama pants, searching for the source of that divine smell. I don’t drink it often, but when I need it, I need it.

It didn’t take me long to realize that my right leg was still rather annoyed with me for last night’s escapades. It reinforced this message with a sharp pain every time I stepped down—not a good start to the day.

“I am not to be knowing what this ‘jump-starting’ means.” He didn’t wait to find out, either. “What news are you to be having from Grapevine?”

“Everyone has checked in but Sveta and the Order.”

“This is not to be surprising. Svetlana is to being difficult in the best of times. You will to be having Viljo contact her again, until she is to being responding.” Ivan sighed, and I could picture him running a hand through his snow-white hair. “And the priests . . . Well, they are to being warned, and this is the most we can do for them. At least, they are not alone.” There were never fewer than five of the Knights Stuck-up-idus, and I was inclined to agree with Ivan. Right now there was strength in numbers.

“I’ll pass the message on to Viljo.” Limp, step . . . limp, step . . . It was going to be a very long day at this rate. “I had him do some digging, too. He looked through Guy and Miguel’s phone records and found one number in common.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I thought I’d lost the connection. Finally, Ivan’s gravelly voice came again. “It could to be a coincidence. Archer declined a contract, so they were to be contacting Miguel instead.”

“It’s possible, yeah. And we don’t know just when Guy vanished. But it doesn’t look good.”

“Is Viljo to be having a name to go with this number?”

Shambling into the kitchen, I had my eyes on the prize—nice hot coffee, in the biggest mug I could find. No sugar, no cream, just as black as black gets—it was slap-you-in-the-face kinda coffee. The first sip touched my lips, and I almost disgraced myself by whimpering. “No. He’s working on it, but he says it may be a prepaid cell out of California somewhere. Could belong to anyone by now.”

“You Americans and your disposable society.” I could hear the growl in the old man’s voice, and my inner child flinched. I never wanted Ivan mad at me, at least not without a really good reason.

“Have faith in Viljo. If it’s there to be found, he’ll find it, and we can put a contract ban on whoever it is.” Rule number two: You only get one shot at redemption. If it fails, you’re done. No other champion will take up your cause. In the days before long-distance communications, it was easier for someone to try and pull a fast one. In these modern times, thanks to Ivan and the network he’d created, no one coughed without all the champions knowing—that is, usually.

“This number is to being from California. Who is this person you are to be aiding?”

“Nelson Kidd, baseball player. He’s always called me from the local hotel, though, so I don’t have his personal number to compare.” In the era of prepaid cellular phones, it certainly wasn’t impossible for someone in Arizona to have an out-of-state cell number. That thought made me frown as I savored my coffee. Was I being played? Had Guy and Miguel already tried to help Kidd out? No . . . Walter Brandt vouched for him, and he knew the rules. “I think he’s on the up-and-up.”

“He is what?”

“I think he is a legitimate client.”

“All the same, I will to be coming there next. I am preferring the contract be voided, if possible.”

My stomach knotted at the thought. True, contracts could be voided under certain circumstances, such as deception on the part of either party or violation of the terms. But it left me feeling clammy. When you start looking for loopholes, it’s too easy to hang yourself with one. That’s how most of the people who came to me wound up in a jam in the first place.

And on top of that . . . “I can’t back out, Ivan. I gave my word.” My honor was all I had, when you got down to the nitty-gritty. I couldn’t just go back on an oath.

Ivan cursed, using words and terms I didn’t want to understand. “You and this honor of yours. Sometimes, honor must be put aside!”

“And that’s usually when you need it the most.” Guess we were gonna find out what happened when Ivan’s unstoppable force met my immovable object. I always kinda wondered how that would turn out. Ivan’s gruff voice spat out a string of words that were definitely not complimentary. It was time to distract and evade. “Hey, Viljo had some other info, too.”

“Well, to being out with it,” he snapped, obviously not pleased with me.

I gave him the non– computer-genius version of events in cyberspace, concluding, “Viljo says he’s going to lock the system down, then see if he can’t catch this mysterious ghost.” Okay, so he didn’t say that, but I assumed that was what he’d do. It’s what I’d do.

“Then that will to being that, until Viljo has more information, I suppose.” He sighed, sounding weary. “I am liking this less and less, Dawson. Every day is to be bringing worse news and more questions than answers.”

I was inclined to agree with him, but at this exact moment, there was nothing I could do about it. I hated that feeling. “So, um . . . did you ever locate Miguel’s little brother?” Smoothly change the subject; that’s the ticket.

“No. The people at the village are to be saying that he took a bus into Mexico City some weeks ago.”

“How in the world do you misplace a seventeen-year-old for two weeks before someone questions it?” Maybe it would make sense after the caffeine kicked in; coffee, sweet nectar of the gods.

“This is not unusual for him, they are saying. He is to be going to the city often, without word.”

“Well, let’s hope he’s just off on one of those trips, and he hasn’t done something stupid.” I knew better, deep down. Somewhere, there was a seventeen-year-old kid wandering around with a machete or who knew what, trying to avenge his brother. I would have done the same for Cole at that age. Hell, I still would.

“We are to be praying to God for that.”

Laughter from the backyard drew me to the window, and I stood in the patch of bright sunlight on the kitchen floor, watching Mira and Anna play some approximation of baseball.

My daughter was not what one would call athletically inclined, and they were chasing the errant ball more than anything. The light gleamed through her red hair, making it look like spun copper. Her laugh was one of pure delight, that laugh that only young kids have.

The sun cast golden spirals through Mira’s chestnut curls, too. Maybe she felt me watching her. She looked up and smiled at me through the window, pointing me out to Anna. They mouthed, “Hi, Daddy!” and waved happily. I waved back, fingertips brushing the glass between us.

Mira’s color looked better than the day before. The dark circles under her eyes had faded, and only someone who knew her like I did would see that she was paler than usual.

“Dawson? Are you being all right?”

It looked so peaceful, out there; so tranquil in the early-morning sunlight. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just watching Anna play.”

Ivan chuckled. “She is to being so precious. I will to be bringing her something special, when I visit.”

“You don’t have to do that.” What I meant was, please don’t do that. Ivan was worse than my dad about spoiling her. He’d show up with a pony or something equally labor intensive.

“I am to be putting Rosaline on the line now, to be speaking to Mira. You go. Hug your daughter for me.”

“I can do that.”

There was static on the line as Ivan’s phone was passed to Rosaline. “Jesse?” Her voice was high and clear, a girl’s voice with a lilting Mexican accent. At twenty, she could barely be called a woman. “How are you?”

“Doing all right, I suppose. Is Ivan behaving himself down there?” What do you say to a woman, when you know her husband is dead and his soul imprisoned by the forces of darkness?

“Oh sí. Señor Ivan has been very helpful.” The silence stretched out for long uncomfortable moments.

“I’ll get Mira for you.” I’m not good at this comfort thing. That’s why I have Mira.

“Wait, Jesse. I have something to ask of you.”

Obediently, I waited.

“If . . . if Señor Ivan can find who . . . can find the thing that . . . can find out what happened to Miguel, can you . . . can you send his soul on to Heaven?” I wasn’t sure she was going to finish her sentence, by the end. She was so choked up, near tears. It made me squirm uncomfortably. I can’t handle crying women.

“Rosaline, I . . .”

“Por favor, Jesse. If anyone can defeat this thing that has taken my Miguel, it is you. Miguel always said this.” That was rather high praise, but it made my stomach sink to somewhere around my ankles.

What could I say? That anything that could take out two experienced champions was probably out of my league? That the odds of getting it to offer Miguel’s soul up were about a million to one? That even finding one particular demon, in the entire underworld, without knowing its name was . . . impossible? “I will do everything I can. I promise.” Sucker. I hated myself for promising her even that much, knowing that I’d likely never fulfill it.

The sound of sniffling almost muffled the fervent “God bless you, Jesse.” What was it with everyone God-blessing me lately? I couldn’t help but think if God was going to bless me, it would have happened already.

Walking out onto the patio, I realized, if he existed, he’d already given me all the blessings I could ever want. My two girls glanced up at the sound of the door and treated me to identical smiles. Annabelle looked so much like her mother, except for her coloring, which came from my Scottish roots. They had the same cute nose, the same willowy build. Maybe Anna would have my height, but other than that, she was her mommy through and through. They were like a pair of angels alighting on the grass.

“Daddy!” Annabelle launched herself at my knees, and I bit back a wince. I was not limping, dammit. And if I said it enough times, it would come true. While I’m at it, I would like five million dollars, the new video game console, and a Harley.

Mira had that speculative look on her face as she watched me, so when she got within arm’s reach, I grabbed her around the waist to pull her close and kiss her soundly. “Jesse . . .” She chuckled softly as she pulled away, giving me a smile that promised “later.” She didn’t, however, ask me anything about my leg. Mission accomplished.

“Rosaline wants to talk to you.” I handed the phone off and snatched Anna up when she started her chant, “I wanna talk on the phone; I wanna talk on the phone!”

“Nope, button, you stay with me. Mommy wants to talk on the phone in peace.” Mira gave me a grateful look as she disappeared inside. “So, what were you and Mommy playing?”

“Baseball!” Annabelle wriggled to get down and was off like a shot the moment her sneakered feet touched the grass. “You throw the ball!”

With visions of funniest home video clips running through my head, I was relieved to find they were using a sponge ball and bat instead of something that could do actual damage.

I tossed it to Anna a few times, and she nearly spun herself dizzy trying to whack at it with the oversized bat. She didn’t care if she hit the ball. Chasing it when she missed was just as much fun. Her giggle floated in the air, bright as the sun as she romped around the yard in the cool spring dew.

This was what baseball was supposed to be, I thought; playing for the fun of it, for the thrill of the game. It shouldn’t be about the money, about the endorsement deals, and the multimillion-dollar contracts. Seeing the current state of the game I adored made me sad. I had to wonder, if Nelson Kidd had been in his prime sixty years ago, when baseball was played just because it was baseball, would he have sold his soul to gain a few more years of playtime?

“Daddy, chase me!” The redheaded little imp abandoned her baseball game with the fickleness of childhood, and I grudgingly gave chase, gratified to feel my sore muscles loosen up under the exercise. My right leg, though . . . I’d pulled something, or twisted the wrong thingy or . . . something. It hurt—a lot.

Finally, I flopped onto the warm bricks of the patio with a groan. “That’s it, button, you defeated Daddy.” Her little face fell. “Hey, why don’t you practice that kata I taught you? Let me see how well you remember it.”

She perked up immediately and took a few moments to find just the right place in the yard to perform. Her face solemn with concentration, she bowed from the waist and I returned the gesture.

At five, her movements lacked grace, and maybe she didn’t flow from stance to stance as I did, but darned if she didn’t get every movement just as I’d taught her. It was a dance to her, something fun she did with her daddy. I’d wait until she was older to show her how to use each movement to defend herself. What, you think any daughter of mine wouldn’t know how to knock a boy on his ass? Yeah right.

She ended the series with a punch and her sharp little “Kyai!” yell, then bowed to me again. I applauded loudly. “Well done, button! You looked real good out there!”

With a running leap, she landed with both knees in the middle of my stomach, and only my expecting it saved me from injury. “Oof! What’d I tell you about jumping on people?”

“You said it was funny when I did it to Uncle Will.”

Oops. Speaking of which, I needed to call him and reserve his services for two weeks from now. “Here, lemme up, button. I need to call Uncle Will, now that you mention it.”

“Can I talk on the phone?” She followed me inside, jumping at my hip like a miniature kangaroo.

“Maybe in a minute, okay?” Mira’s voice was soft and muffled in the rear of the house, and I heard her shut the door to her little sanctuary. Mira had tried to explain to me once that being the wives of men in dangerous professions—policemen, soldiers, demon hunters—created a unique bond amongst women. I hoped whatever she was saying was some comfort to Rosaline.

Anna tugged on my pants. “Can I have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast?” The innocence shining from my daughter’s tiny face was picturesque. And I guarantee you she wouldn’t have asked her mother. That’s my girl.

I thought for a moment (and it was a short moment), weighing the pros of indulging my daughter against the cons of getting scolded by my wife. Finally, I shrugged. “Yeah, why not.” It was always much easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

So, as I dialed the phone to call my best friend, I, Jesse Dawson, samurai, demon slayer, and champion of lost souls, made two of the world’s best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

16

“Dude! I was just about to call you! It’s like ESPN!”

“ESP, you dork. And, creepy.”

“Like, totally.”

I had to chuckle around my mouthful of peanut butter sandwich. Will always made me laugh. Despite having grown up in rural Missouri like the rest of us, he still managed to sound like a born-and-bred Californian surfer. You’d never guess he was a bespectacled gaming nut, and like me, part of the long-haired club. The man was also a trained EMT and brilliant in his own right. “So, what did you want?”

“Dude . . . you called me.”

Sometimes, it’s like trying to talk to Ivan. “Yes . . . but you said you were going to call me, so what did you want?”

“Oh . . . um . . .” He whispered to someone in the background. “What did I want?”

Anna wandered off into the house with her sandwich, cheerfully dripping a trail of grape jelly behind her. I wet a rag down and started mopping the purple spots off the kitchen floor while I waited for Will’s brain to catch up with the rest of him.

“Oh! I remember!” Congratulations, Will. “Marty and I both got the day off, and we wanted to see if you wanted to hit the ball game today. Arizona’s in town. We could see Nelson Kidd pitch.”

My stomach roiled unhappily at the thought of watching Nelson Kidd pitch. “I don’t know. . . . I’m supposed to be shopping for my mom’s birthday, and Mira’s had Annabelle at the shop every day this week, and she’s not feeling real good.”

“Dude . . . come on. . . . It’s Nelson Kidd. You have those tickets just sitting around. You may as well use them.”

The hazard of having season tickets is that everyone knows you have them and wants to use them. Granted, they’re not the greatest seats. I don’t rate a skybox or anything, but seats are seats.

“Let me ask Mira, and I’ll call you back.” I heard a chorus of “whipped” in the background as I tossed the rag into the sink. I’d have to pummel Marty later. He was married, too. He of all people should appreciate the things it took to keep a household peaceful. “Shut up, asshole. I’ll call you back.” I hung up on Will’s laughter.

“Mommy, Daddy said a bad word!”

Aw crap. Never underestimate the range of hearing on the modern child. “Tattletale!” I followed Anna’s shrieking giggles to the bathroom, where Mira patiently scrubbed her breakfast off her face.

My wife raised one brow at me. “Peanut butter and jelly?”

“Pure protein. And I used the whole wheat bread!” I leaned against the doorjamb, watching them.

“Who was on the phone?”

“It was nothing important. Will and Marty wanted to know if I wanted to go to the ball game this afternoon.”

“You should go. Have a bit of fun.” She thought I didn’t see the slight grimace as she stood up straight.

“Mir . . .” She gave me a blank look. Apparently, I need to work on my chiding tone. “You need to rest. You can’t be chasing Anna again all day.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine. You should go.” When I just continued to look at her, she sighed. “If it makes you feel better, you can take Anna all next week. I’m behind on inventory as it is, and that would give me a chance to catch up.”

“You’re sure?” I reached to brush her cheek with my fingers. Her skin was so incredibly soft.

She caught my hand, kissing my fingers. “I’m sure. Go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you still have to go shopping for your mother.”

“I’m off tomorrow. Anna and I can spend all day finding a birthday present for Grandma.”

“If those storms move in as they’re predicting . . .”

“Then we’ll improvise.” I kissed her nose when she stood up. “Thanks.”

She smiled and shook her head at me. “If I ever collect on all the things you owe me . . .”

“I looooove you,” I called down the hallway, heading to call the guys back.

“I love you, too, Jess. Goddess only knows why.”

Amidst making arrangements to meet Marty and Will, Mira and Anna slipped out the door and headed to the shop. I was a little hurt that they didn’t even tell me good-bye, but it kept me from having to distract Mira from my limping again.

Once I was sure they weren’t coming back for any forgotten items, I dialed the phone again, flopping onto the couch to get the weight off my sore leg.

“Dr. Smith’s office, how can I help you?”

“That you, Bridget?”

The doc sighed. “Yeah, Kim’s still out sick. That’s what happens when you have children in daycare, you know.”

“If you’re busy, I can call back.”

“Nah, you caught me before my first appointment. What’s up?”

“Well, what if . . . and this is hypothetical, mind you. . . . What if some guy slipped and fell on a wet floor, and then his leg hurt really bad? What might that be?”

I could picture the incredulous look on her face. “You slipped and fell? I just saw you yesterday!”

“No no! Just . . . hypothetically.” There was no way I was going to see her again, barring visible bone or spurting blood.

“Well . . . it could be a sprain. Is there swelling at the knee or ankle?”

I eyed my offending appendage thoughtfully. “No, no swelling. And it would be mostly the calf that hurt, not the joints.”

“Your right calf, Jess? You need to come in and let me have a look at it.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it was me. I said hypothetically.”

“Yes, and you’re a shitty liar.” There it was, that gritting-the-teeth voice. “It sounds as if it could be something as simple as a badly pulled muscle. Or you—no, no, your hypothetical klutz—could have torn a muscle, or a ligament, or something else that may require surgery. Only a doctor’s examination could tell for sure.”

“So what treatment do you recommend for a pulled calf muscle?”

“Well, rest of course. Occasional ice packs for the first forty-eight hours. Then you can start trying moist heat and gentle exercise. The key is to stop if it hurts.”

I made agreeing noises as if I were taking careful notes.

“Hey, Jess? Did you happen to send a new patient my way?” Papers shuffled in the background, the good doctor multitasking up a storm.

“Um . . . no?”

“I didn’t think so.” There was a definite grumble in her voice.

“Why, what’s up?” I eyed my offending leg, idly wondering if I should skip the ice packs and go straight to moist heat. I was a fast healer, usually. That should count for something, right?

“Had a guy in here yesterday afternoon. Said he was new in town and that you’d recommended me as a doc. He started off asking questions about the practice and all, but it turned into asking more questions about you. I finally got pissed and threw him out.”

She had my total attention, suddenly, leg be damned. “Let me guess. Young looking, suit and tie, clean-cut, slimy?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Did I do wrong?” She suddenly sounded uncertain.

“Oh hell no. He comes back, you call Cole and get his ass arrested for trespassing. He’s just . . . a jerk giving me some trouble.”

“Oh good. I didn’t think he seemed like the kinda guy you’d be friends with.”

“As usual, your instincts are spot-on, Doc.” I managed a smile, hoping Bridget wouldn’t hear the barely contained anger in my voice. Verelli had officially stepped over the line. “Did you tell him anything? About me?”

She snorted into the phone. “What do you take me for, Jess, a rookie? Patient information is privileged.”

There was a small bit of relief there. I don’t know what Skippy the Chihuahua could have learned from her, but I didn’t want to chance it. He was being a bit too persistent.

“Jesse, you know I’m going to tell Mira about your leg, right?”

Aw crap. Distract and evade. “No, you’re not. Doctor-patient privilege, remember?”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“You love me; you know it.”

“Please come in and see me?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not hurt.”

“Argh! You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m incredible.” I grinned as I hung up the phone. Bridget was so going to make me suffer at my next appointment. The smile faded, though, as I pondered the latest developments.

Verelli had to have followed me. I wondered briefly if he was the culprit in the blue Escort, but I dismissed that quickly. Men like Verelli didn’t drive Escorts, and even if he was going to kill me, he’d hire someone professional to do it. I’d worked with professionals, and the guy in the car wasn’t one.

Dear God and Buddha, how many people did I have tailing me? I was going to need a parade permit if this kept up.

And if Verelli had followed me to my doctor’s appointment, had he also followed me to Seventh Sense? I toyed with the phone, debating whether or not to call Mira and warn her. I finally decided against it. Mira was a she-wolf in a den, fierce when provoked, and Dee . . . Well, rumor had it that Dee had played middle linebacker on her high school football team. I don’t know if it was true, but I believe she could have if she wanted. The ladies could take care of themselves. If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have even felt sorry for Verelli.

In fact, I had gone past mildly annoyed and straight into freaking livid. It was one thing to be a pain in my ass, but it was entirely another to start accosting my friends and associates—especially those who had no idea what I did in my secret life. Mr. Verelli and I were going to have a long and intimate conversation about boundaries and personal space.

The only outlet for my anger at the moment was exercise, and I headed out to the backyard for my usual morning workout. I wasn’t sure if my katas counted as “gentle exercise,” and you will notice that I didn’t ask the good doctor. Ignorance is bliss. I went through them as best I could while favoring my right leg, and I convinced myself it did feel a bit better. I just needed to limber up some. That was it.

I attempted to meditate afterward, but my mind kept wandering in other directions. I lingered under the nagging suspicion that I was in the doghouse with Mira, and even if I wasn’t, I probably ought to be. She should be home resting, not chasing Anna around the store. Not for the first time, I wondered if I should so easily take her at her word.

Maybe I’d get her something, too, while I was out shopping tomorrow. I had no idea what, though, and asking her seemed counter to my purpose. The puzzle of that, on top of my sheer pissed-off-edness at Verelli, kept me from concentrating, and in the end I gave up, frustrated.

Thankfully, Axel was a no-show for our usual morning discussion. I didn’t think I could stand his smug jibes, and I’d probably end up doing or saying something rash. I wasn’t sure if I was more pissed at him for . . . well, for being himself . . . or at myself, for being surprised by it.

I burned off the last of my anger in a rather enthusiastic mopping of the kitchen floor, erasing the last traces of grape jelly, and I even hummed a little as I made my way toward Marty’s house to meet the guys at the agreed-upon hour.

As much as I love my truck, she’s only a two-seater, and until I could get the rear-end damage assessed, I didn’t want to drive her too much, anyway. So we piled into Will’s brand-new cherry red PT Cruiser for the ride to the ball game. Being the shortest, Marty got stuffed into the back and didn’t even complain.

The highway was jammed with carloads of fans, and I had to wonder that none of those people had to be at work on a weekday afternoon. Somewhere, there were a lot of businesses with employees playing hooky. But that was the great thing about summer; the great thing about baseball. Everyone was a kid again, and it was okay.

The parking lot shimmered with reflected heat, and the truly hot days wouldn’t even hit for months yet. The smell of baked asphalt mingled with the aroma of grease from the deep fryers, and I inhaled deeply, grinning ear to ear despite myself.

A few years ago, someone had come up with the brilliant idea of making ballpark food healthier. They tried offering veggie burgers, salads, and fresh fruit. It was a spectacular failure. People came to ball games for the hot dogs, the cotton candy, the popcorn, grease-coated French fries and nachos with reconstituted cheese, huge cups of lukewarm beer—sweet bliss. I was a firm believer that all food consumed inside a stadium was automatically absolved of all caloric sin.

My buddies and I made an interesting trio: short, stocky Marty with his shaved head and ragged jean shorts (no kilt today) and the white tank top that displayed his fully tattooed arms; lanky me in my cargo shorts and a T-shirt (witty saying of the day: IF YOU WERE ME, YOU’D BE THIS COOL, TOO), ponytail hanging out from under my ball cap; Will, whose brown hair was as thick and curly as Mira’s and twice as long, slightly overweight and squinting at the world behind his glasses.

If we looked strange, no one noticed. We walked into the stadium next to men and women in business suits who had obviously come straight from their nine-to-five office jobs. There were families with kids, couples on dates, and elderly men with a Little Leaguer in their hearts. Variety was the spice of life, and the game was the great unifier.

It didn’t matter that none of us knew any of the others. It wasn’t important that our hometown boys had a really poor showing last year. We were here to cheer them on regardless. That’s baseball.

Although it was early, and a weekday, the stadium filled up nicely. I waved and grinned to a few people I knew in our section, fellow season-ticket holders. After a while, you got to know the people in your section, like neighbors from down the block. You may not know their names, but their faces were familiar and welcome sights, friendships renewed each spring and missed come fall.

I flopped into my seat and propped my sore leg up on the one in front of me. If someone came to sit there, I’d take it down, of course, but until then it felt better up. If the guys noticed I’d been limping my way up the concourse, they hadn’t said anything. That meant they either hadn’t noticed at all, or they had, and they were worried. I wasn’t sure which I preferred.

Kansas City was just heading back to the dugout after their warm-up, and the buzz in the crowd escalated when Arizona took the field. I could see people craning their necks to see if Nelson Kidd was in the bull pen. He would be, of course. Any coach would be insane not to play him when he was so hot.

It was almost physically painful to watch the excited faces around me. If they only knew what their hero had done. Ah well, it wasn’t their fault, and even if anyone would have believed me, I wouldn’t have told them. Sometimes, people just need heroes.

“Dude, you okay?” Will nudged my arm, frowning. “You look constipated.”

“Shut up, asshole.” I swatted him and did my best to drag my brain out of work thoughts. “Get me a beer.”