Dead on Arrival

by R. J. Patterson

  “Are you Chase Dollinger?” the boy asked.

  Dollinger nodded. “In the flesh.”

  The boy smiled and held out a baseball with a pen.

  “You’re my favorite baseball player. I want to be just like you when I grow up. Can I have your autograph?”

  “Why sure, little buddy,” Dollinger said as he knelt and signed the ball.

  He handed the ball and pen back to the kid before tugging on his cap.

  “Why don’t you do me a favor and be better than me?” Dollinger said.

  “Why? Because you’re afraid to fly, Mr. Dollinger?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s okay to be afraid,” the boy said. “Just don’t be afraid of those Yankees.”

  Dollinger watched the kid smile before turning and walking away.

  “Chase? Hello? Chase?” came a voice from Dollinger’s phone. He looked at it and furrowed his brow, almost forgetting the reason he’d called. But the young fan had melted Dollinger’s resistance.

  “Oh, hey, Nick.”

  “What do you need, buddy? Having fun on your cross country trip?”

  “I don’t need anything now. I’m good.”

  “All right. Well, good luck against those Yankees this week.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dollinger hung up looked at Tad. “Okay, I’ll take the bus. Where do we get a ticket?”

  * * *

  THE GREYHOUND STATION in Bismarck was just over a mile off I-94 on the east side of town. Dollinger and Tad had checked into a nearby hotel to get some rest while awaiting the 2:00 a.m. departure. However, Dollinger was going alone. Tad had to stay behind and wait with the RV while it was repaired before driving it back to Seattle.

  While Dollinger had considered just driving himself, team officials rejected the idea on the grounds that he would be too tired by the time he arrived. He needed to rest and relax on the trip in order to be fresh enough to pitch. While the idea to zip down the open road through some interesting scenery appealed to Dollinger, he knew the Mariners were right: He wouldn’t be sharp when he played.

  An hour before his scheduled trip, Dollinger called a cab to take him to the bus terminal. Tad offered to go with him, but Dollinger declined.

  “You need to get some rest, too. There’s no need in you sitting around with me to get on the bus.”

  Tad smiled. “I’ve got nothing to do but sit around for the next week.”

  “Seriously, it’s all right. I appreciate all you’ve done in getting me this far. Maybe our paths will cross again sometime soon.”

  Tad shook Dollinger’s hand and wished him luck.

  “I’ll be rooting for you against the Yankees, maybe from even right here inside this hotel room.”

  Dollinger chuckled. “I’ll think about you as I take the mound.”

  After hustling downstairs, Dollinger shoved his gear into the trunk of the cab and took the short ride to the bus station. He got his ticket before sitting down in the waiting area. Scanning the area, he noticed an interesting assortment of passengers assembling for the trip. Several Hispanic families, a few guys with multiple gold chains draped around their necks, a young couple with a crying baby, a man dressed in a suit clutching a briefcase against his chest, several kids that couldn’t have been much older than eighteen nodding rhythmically to the music playing on their headphones, an elderly gentleman with a cane, and what appeared to be some sort of girls athletic team. Based on the height of the players, Dollinger guessed either volleyball or basketball.

  A balding man with glasses settled into the empty seat next to Dollinger and nudged him with an elbow.

  “Terrifying that we’re going to be trapped with these people for the next day or two, isn’t it?” the man said.

  Dollinger shrugged. “It could be worse.”

  “Trust me. Nothing’s worse than a crying baby in a bus.”

  “What about three crying babies on a plane because I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing that before,” Dollinger said.

  “Eh, bus, plane—they’re all the same. People who fly say that a plane is just a bus with wings. But I say a bus is just an airplane without wings, except no one is cruising through the aisles providing you with drinks. So in some ways, it’s a little easier to deal with. Plus, we don’t have to wait an hour in line to be checked for any bombs we might be carrying.”

  Dollinger chuckled. “You seem like you’ve learned to look on the bright side of things, Mr.—”

  “Pete Goodman,” the man said as he offered his hand.

  “I’m Chase.”

  “Nice to meet you. You afraid of flying too?”

  Dollinger nodded. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Well, that’s a legitimate fear, at least according to my therapist. I hate being stuck up in the sky without a way to get out. Not that I necessarily want to get out immediately, but the idea that I’m at the mercy of the pilots while being strapped into a seat some thirty thousand feet above the ground is not a pleasant thought.”

  “Exactly. I’m right there with you. So, what do you do that requires you to travel so much?”

  “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Sales mostly. And yourself?”

  “I play baseball.”

  “Ah, trying to catch on with one of those big league teams?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, if you do ever make it to one of those major league teams, you’re gonna have to fly. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Do I ever.”

  “At some point, you’re going to have to get over that fear. If I were in your shoes, I’d get over it in a heartbeat. If I got paid millions of dollars to play baseball, I’m sure I would find some way to get from one city to the next in an airplane without going into full meltdown mode.”

  Dollinger nodded. “What suggestions do you have?”

  “I’d get really drunk and pass out. I mean, I’d do that now, but I can’t afford to smell like a brewery before a business deal. You, on the other hand—nobody would care. If you’re a star, you can pretty much do whatever you want.”

  “I don’t think it works like that.”

  Goodman leaned forward in his chair. “Look, athletes are rich people. And rich people can act however they please without the consequences the little people like you and me have to suffer. It’s not a fair system, but that’s just how it is. All the crazy sports fans I know still seem to think everybody has to play by the same rules, especially those athletes on rival teams. They have to follow the letter of the law or else they’re cheaters or thugs or whatever. But if it’s an athlete on your team? That person can do anything they want. It’s a double standard even in the minds of everyday Joes. There’s really no way around it. It’s just how it is.”

  The baby of the young couple interrupted their conversation with an ear-splitting scream.

  Dollinger turned and looked sympathetically at the family. He then noticed most of those seated nearby were brow beating the couple.

  “Those poor parents,” he said. “They’re going to be anxious about their baby crying for the entire trip.”

  “What did you say?” Goodman said, removing a pair of plugs from his ears.

  “Ah, never mind. You sure did come prepared though.”

  Goodman nodded. “Always. Want a pair?”

  He held out a small box of earplugs for Dollinger.

  “Why not,” Dollinger said as he reached into the box.

  “Cheaper than getting drunk—and no side effects of a headache afterward.”

  Dollinger pocketed the earplugs and then glanced at his watch. It was less than a half hour before the bus was scheduled to arrive. He listened to some music on his headphones for a few minutes before the boarding process began.

  Promptly at 2:00 a.m., the bus doors closed and a man’s gravely voice came over the sound system. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Don Milner, and I’m going to be your driver for this trip. If you have any question
s or comments, please keep them to yourself. I’m not interested in what you think about my driving or in your helpful suggestions on how I can be a better one. Greyhound has a comment box near the front here where you can leave all such advice. Now, if you haven’t already, buckle up then kick back and relax. I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting here while you can read a book or surf the internet on our new free wireless network. Enjoy.”

  Dollinger was wedged into the small seat next to the window near the front of the vehicle. To his left was a middle-aged man in a trench coat. He didn’t say a word as he situated his briefcase in his lap. After tipping his hat to cover his eyes, the man quickly fell asleep.

  Dollinger pulled out his Harlan Coben book and started reading. Less than half an hour later, he felt his eyes getting heavy and dozed off to sleep.

  * * *

  THE SQUEAKY BRAKES and the first beams of morning light proved to be a combination that woke up most of the bus’s sleeping passengers. Dollinger removed his earplugs and glanced around. On his left, the man in the trench coat had his laptop out and was busily pounding away on it. Two rows ahead, Dollinger saw the top of Pete Goodman’s balding head and his booming voice regaling his seatmate with a story. Four rows behind, Dollinger noticed the couple ogling over their baby, who emitted intermittent squeals of delight.

  Dollinger checked his email on his phone and noticed a note from his agent, Nick Burton. It contained an encouraging message for him as well as a link to the article Cal Murphy wrote about Dollinger. After perusing the story, he concluded that news must have leaked out on social media about the RV breakdown since Murphy mentioned it.

  Cameras are everywhere. I can’t even ride a bus in the middle of nowhere without someone finding out about it.

  An hour later, the bus pulled into the station in Minneapolis. Passengers had thirty minutes to get out, stretch their legs, and grab a bite to eat before reloading. Dollinger took advantage of the time, buying a breakfast burrito, a banana, and a bottle of orange juice. After scarfing down the food, he called Nick Burton to give him an update.

  “Would you mind posting a picture I’m about to text you on my social media?” Dollinger asked. “Caption it: I’m safe and well on my way to New York.”

  “Sure thing. Glad you’re doing well and making the best of the trip.”

  “Well, I’m surviving, but the next time you renegotiate a contract for me, you have to make sure that I won’t be required to do something like this. I’m not quite as afraid of flying as I am claustrophobic, but it’s a close second.”

  “I’ll do my best, champ. I’ll talk to you after you shut out the Yankees.”

  Dollinger hung up and sent Burton a selfie taken in front of the Minneapolis Greyhound terminal.

  Greyhound might make me their spokesperson after this.

  An announcement came over the public address system alerting passengers that it was time to return to the bus and tardiness wouldn’t be tolerated. Everyone filed back on in an orderly fashion. Dollinger noticed a few of the passengers from before had departed, including the couple with the baby, and some new riders had filled the empty seats. As Dollinger surveyed the fresh travellers, one of them stood out. Wearing a black leather jacket covered with biker patches, the man settled into the seat next to Goodman. The rough fellow slid his sunglasses on top of his head and rose in his seat while slowly scanning the bus. When the man locked eyes with Dollinger, he shivered.

  Dollinger slunk into his seat so his face couldn’t be seen. He glanced over at the trench coat guy, who had returned to tapping on his keyboard, obviously uninterested in conversation. That suited Dollinger just fine, though he still didn’t like being just inches away from the man, shoehorned between him and the window.

  The bus roared to life, and the voice of Don Milner crackled over the intercom as he repeated the same spiel he gave while leaving Bismarck.

  I wonder how many times he’s said that.

  That was the last thought Dollinger had before he drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  THE DIGITAL CLOCK at the front of the bus glowed red. It was 10:05 p.m. as the it came to a stop just outside the New York terminal. Don Milner put the vehicle in park and opened the pneumatic doors, the airbrakes hissing, and the smell of burning diesel wafting through the cool city air.

  Situated just outside the door, Milner thanked the passengers as they exited one by one. He was especially effusive in his gratefulness toward those who palmed him a tip.

  After the last passenger exited, he went inside to look for any belongings someone might have left behind and collect any trash. He had worked about a third of the way down the aisle before he noticed a passenger slumped over in his seat. He wore a fedora, which shielded his eyes and the top half of his face.

  “Sir,” Milner said, gently shaking the man. “We’ve arrived in New York. The line stops here, and everyone must unload.”

  The man didn’t move.

  “Sir,” Milner said sternly, “it’s time to get up.”

  The man remained still.

  Another drunk. At least he didn’t disrupt our trip.

  Milner attempted to wake up the passenger again, this time more forcefully. “It’s time to leave, sir.”

  Instead of waking up, the man fell on his side, his hat falling off to the floor. His eyes were closed, but he appeared pale. Milner studied the man closely and gasped as he recognized him.

  Milner felt for a pulse on the man’s neck, which was cold. Slack-jawed, Milner jumped back. He hustled toward the front of the bus and down the steps before racing inside the station to get the security guard on duty.

  “I need you right now,” Milner said, tapping the guard on the shoulder.

  “What is it?” the guard asked as he turned around.

  “We have a situation on the bus,” Milner said, attempting to be discreet as possible.

  “A situation?”

  “Yeah,” Milner said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “One of our passengers is dead, and he’s famous, too.”

  The guard walked quickly with Milner back toward the bus.

  “Would I know he is?”

  “If you watch baseball, you would. It’s the Seattle Mariners pitcher, Chase Dollinger.”

  CHAPTER 4

  FRIDAY WAS SUPPOSED to be a day for Cal Murphy to catch up on all the loose ends he’d neglected while covering the first two games between the Mariners and Yankees in Seattle. The teams had each won a game in the best-of-five series with an all-important third game looming on Saturday. But only the earthquake in San Francisco during the 1987 World Series trumped the news that Chase Dollinger was found dead on a bus when it arrived in New York late Thursday night.

  The first story Cal’s editor, Frank Buckman, wanted was an in-depth look at the questions everyone was asking: What happened? How? Why? Who? Suicide? Murder?

  Theories set social media afire with conspiracy theories. Ideas included everything from a Yankees hitman—dubbed New York’s real “designated hitter”—to a scorned lover to an outbreak of the West Nile virus identified in Minneapolis. Cal shook his head at most of them. Some heart deformity made the most sense to him, the kind that goes undetected until it’s too late. The other possibilities Cal considered were a blood clot shaking loose and killing him almost instantly or even a brain aneurysm. The idea of murder seemed like nothing but click-bait headlines by desperate journalists to get people to visit their organizations’ websites.

  The next game in the series was delayed until Monday, giving Cal plenty of time to dig into any leads that arose over the next couple days. It also put a damper on the excitement of playoff baseball for Mariners fans, all while delivering a sobering reminder that it was just a game and not the most important thing in the world.

  But for Cal, the story was more than just something to report. Chase Dollinger had been a rising star for years in Washington. Every scout Cal spoke with about the hottest new prospects always mentioned Dollinger’s name from t
he time he was fourteen until he got drafted. As a result, Cal had written several stories on the Dollinger family, spending hours with them. He once spent a day with Hugh Dollinger, who took Cal hunting on the Dollinger ranch. In a way, Cal had become friends with the family, at least as much as he could and still maintain his professional objectivity while writing about Chase and the rest of the Dollinger clan. The moment Cal heard the news, he couldn’t help but grieve for the family, especially after all they had endured.

  Chase was the only son for Hugh and his wife, Barbara. Hugh joked that he was down to his last strike when it came to having a son before Chase was born. Deciding that this was their last pregnancy no matter what after waiting five years to try again, Barbara decided not to find out Chase’s gender, keeping Hugh in suspense for nine long months. When Hugh recalled the story for Cal, there was some laughter followed by tears.

  “I really wish Barb could see the kind of man Chase has become,” Hugh had said.

  The Dollinger family story took a gut-wrenching turn when Barbara and her three daughters were killed by a drunk driver while returning from a Christmas shopping spree in Seattle one night. Chase was seven years old at the time.

  All Cal could think about now was how alone Hugh must’ve felt. The rancher had lost his entire immediate family along with his brother, who died in an accident while working on a combine tractor just a couple years prior. Despite all the heartache Hugh had endured, he had his pride and joy in Chase. But now he, too, was gone.

  Cal waited until Friday afternoon to call Hugh to offer condolences.

  “I’m so sorry, Hugh,” Cal said. “I know Chase meant the world to you.”

  Hugh was silent for a moment before he responded, his voice quaking as he did.

  “I’m at the Seattle airport, waiting to board my flight for New York,” he said. “I thought I was going out there to see my son pitch in Yankee Stadium, but I’m only going out there now to get his body.”

  “It’s not fair, is it?”

  “I’d like to think that I’m the poster child for a life that isn’t fair, but there are people in far worse situations than I’m in. Last time I checked, I still have running water, a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and money in the bank.”