The Whistle Blower

by Robin Merrill

  Sandra put her head down and ran.

  Chapter 27

  Sandra thought she might be having a heart attack. She couldn’t catch her breath and was embarrassed by how her chest was heaving up and down. Her calves were on fire, and she stretched them every time the action stopped, but it made no difference. Perhaps the most difficult portion of the ordeal, however, was the inadequacy of her sports bra. It just wasn’t doing its job, and she was enduring the pain that proved it. She had never been so excited to go bra shopping in her life. In fact, she wasn’t going home until she had the best sports bra money could buy. Maybe they made one out of metal. Maybe they could weld one onto her, a custom fit. Anything but this. She considered running with one arm across her chest, but the potential embarrassment trumped the pain, and she suffered through it.

  Through all this, she tried to pay attention to the game. She really did. She tried to watch for fouls, tried to understand why Birch blew his whistle, and tried to pay attention to his hand signals—but all she could think about was surviving the next step. She ran and ran. Up and down. She’d sprint with all her might in order to reach the eighteen just as some giant eighth grader pounded it back to his striker. And she would turn and sprint again, her inner chest burning and her outer chest aching. And when the buzzer signaled the end of the first half, she almost fell to her knees and wept with relief.

  Unfortunately, neither Moose nor Birch collapsed into the grass, so she felt a little too conspicuous to do so. So, hands on her hips, and breathing so deeply her chest made a rasping sound, she strode across the field, to where Birch was already conferring with Moose. To her dismay, she saw there were only five minutes on the clock. Five minutes? A five-minute half-time? That was no half-time at all! She fondly recalled those days when she’d only been a soccer mom, those days when half-time had seemed to stretch on forever, those days that were only yesterday. How she missed those days.

  She decided then that this had been a fool’s errand. They would have to find a different way to infiltrate the officials’ inner circle. She wasn’t even ashamed. She’d tried. She’d given it her best shot. She reached the referees and opened her mouth to resign, but Moose cut her off.

  “Go get your trainee a bottle of water.” It came out like an order, giving Birch no opportunity to decline, and he ran off toward the snack shack.

  Moose put a hand on her shoulder, and she was embarrassed, realizing how sweaty that shoulder must be. He didn’t seem to notice, though. “Sandra, right?”

  She nodded. She couldn’t speak.

  “Sandra, you are running too much.”

  Surprised, she tried to laugh, but she sounded like a bloodhound with laryngitis.

  “If you spend that much time running, you can’t see any of the game. You rarely have to go all the way to the goal line, and you definitely don’t have to go to the goal line on my end of the field. You can stop at the eighteen down there.”

  She stared up into his eyes, trying to convey her confusion. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t even running as much as Birch was running.

  “I know, I know. Birch is an idiot and runs too much.” He’d read her mind. “He’s running even more today than usual. I think he’s just trying to impress you. Or maybe he’s got so much nervous energy that he can’t help it. But anyone who runs that much is going to miss stuff. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for a hundred years.”

  A hundred years. There. There was her opening. She had to say something. But could she speak? She glanced toward the snack shack, and Birch was already on his way back. She opened her mouth to try. “A hundred years?” she managed. Now she sounded like an old lady who’d just inhaled helium, but at least the bloodhound was gone. For now. “So you must have known Frank?” With each word, she started to sound more like a normal person.

  Moose’s face fell. “Of course. We’ve reffed together for years. He was the best.” Moose chuckled. “I kept telling him to retire, and he’d always tell me he’d die on the field. Guess he knew what he was doing.”

  “But someone killed him,” Sandra said quickly, knowing she was out of time.

  Moose studied her face as Birch appeared beside her, handing her a water bottle.

  “Thanks.” She told her arm to move to grab the bottle, and it sluggishly obeyed. Then, she was almost too weak to unscrew the cap.

  “Who killed someone?” Birch asked.

  Moose shook his head slowly, and Sandra regretted upsetting him. She was terrible at this. Why had she spoken so crassly? Usually, she had more class than that.

  “We were just talking about ole Frank.” Moose reached out and grabbed the only remaining water bottle from Birch’s hand, unscrewed the cap, and chugged half the bottle.

  Though Sandra was certain that Birch had meant that water for himself, as he hadn’t made any indication of handing it off to his partner, he didn’t even seem to notice the bottle was missing from his hand. He just stared at Sandra awkwardly. “What about him?”

  Whoa. Birch looked guilty. She searched her brain for words. The buzzer sounded. She was out of time, and she hadn’t even resigned yet. “I was just saying how weird it is that he was murdered in the middle of a soccer game.”

  With the goofy smile wiped off his face, several deep wrinkles made Birch look much older than she’d originally thought he was. “I have a hard time believing he was even murdered.” He glanced at Moose and gave a cheesy fake laugh. “I mean, who would kill Frank?”

  Moose polished off the water and tossed the bottle toward a duffel bag on the sideline, where another empty bottle already lay. “I don’t know, but I hope they catch the guy and string him up.” Then Moose headed across the field, to the side Sandra and Birch had trod during the first half. Sandra assumed then that officials switched sides after halftime. Or maybe Moose just wanted a change of scenery.

  Birch gave her one more long, cryptic look and then blew the whistle. A tiny child with orange hair kicked the ball, and the clock started again. Birch took off like his pants were on fire. Sandra quickly drank half the water in her bottle and then threw it toward the duffel bag that was apparently collecting them. Then she turned toward Birch and gave chase. But she did a lot less running in the second half, and after only a few minutes, decided that Moose was her new favorite person in the world.

  Chapter 28

  Sandra’s legs felt as though they’d been put through the wringer. Twice. Yet, as she lay awake beside her snoring husband, she felt an odd euphoria. While she hadn’t actually reffed a soccer game, she had survived one, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so good about herself.

  Nowhere near sleep, she wasn’t sure which was keeping her awake: the incessant pain in her legs or the nagging feeling that she’d found a clue during that soccer game and didn’t know what it was. On the way home, Bob the angel had asked her what she’d learned, and she’d said, “Moose is an innocent gem of a man, and Birch is likable but suspicious.” But wasn’t there more than that? Hadn’t she seen, heard, or smelled something else? Like a word on the tip of her tongue, she knew it was there, but she couldn’t quite spit it out. Unlike a word on the tip of her tongue, she feared she really needed this clue. She couldn’t just use another word. She was truly missing something.

  She went over the details of her day, trying to summon up something relevant, but couldn’t force her way into an epiphany. She prayed about it, but there was no return mail via the supernatural express. Maybe she should stop thinking about it. Then maybe it would come to her? She dug through the stack of books on the bottom shelf of her nightstand until she found her e-reader. She hadn’t opened the thing in months, but if she turned on a light to read, Nate was sure to wake up and be irritated. So she flipped open the small technological miracle in her hands and flipped through the books she’d downloaded over the few years she’d owned the device. Nothing really excited her, and she was beginning to think the e-reader had been a bad idea when a new thought excited her.

&n
bsp; Mystery novels! Wasn’t she acting just like one of those amateur sleuths in those novels? She was like Harry without the Corgi. Or Sookie without the vampires. She hadn’t read a mystery in years, but it was now high time. Surely reading about other small-town sleuths would help. Or maybe she should read the soccer rule book. Nah, that wasn’t available in ebook. Mystery for the win!

  She browsed the bookstore until she found one that looked intriguing and then hit download. That’s the way to shop, she thought. Especially when my legs are broken.

  She read herself to sleep, dropping the e-reader beside her pillow as the dreams took over. She dreamed she was reffing a soccer game where all the players seemed too tiny to be in middle school. In the dream, she agonized over whether to make sure the kids were old enough to play. Should she ask the coach? How embarrassed she’d be if, of course, they were certainly old enough, but they were just small, and she’d just insulted the whole lot of them. Deep under layers of blankets and sleep, she hemmed and hawed. Ask the coach or start the game? Finally, she decided she had to ask the coach, but when she turned to do so, the coach had turned into a giant panda bear.

  It sat there looking at her, chomping on some bamboo. She turned to look at the other coach, almost certain that she too, had become a panda.

  She had. Both coaches were pandas. And then all the players were pandas too, only they were no longer tiny. They were giant pandas, all over the field, and she could no longer see the ball because it blended in so well with all the pandas.

  She sat bolt upright in bed, her movement so sudden that a long stab of pain reached down her back and into her legs. “Ow!” she cried out, but whether from the pain or the sudden fear of giant pandas, she didn’t know.

  “What is it?” Nate asked. He reached over and started to rub her back. “Bad dream?”

  She lay back down and tried to catch her breath. Now that reality was coming into focus, the dream became more ridiculous and less scary, and she began to giggle—a nervous giggle that still quivered with fear. “Yeah, just a stupid dream. Sorry I woke you up.”

  “No problemo,” he said, and she could tell from the thickness of his voice that he was already falling back asleep.

  Pandas. Of all the weirdness she’d encountered in the last few days, that might take the cake. She picked up her sleeping e-reader and went back into her mystery. Her legs still hurt, and her euphoria remained. In no hurry for morning, she found herself immensely enjoying the company her new book gave her as the minutes ticked by.

  Chapter 29

  Nate’s alarm jerked her out of a deep panda-free sleep. She opened one eye to peer at the clock. Seven o’clock. The latest she’d slept in ages.

  Nate pounded the snooze button, rolled over, and pulled the covers over his head.

  Without the blaring alarm, the house was far too quiet. Why couldn’t she hear Sammy? Trying not to panic, she tried to leap out of bed to check on him, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her muscles had turned to hard, unyielding sticks of lumber, and when her feet hit the floor, they screamed in protest. As she stood up straight, her lower back let out a crack that sounded like a nearby clap of thunder. It felt glorious. Encouraged by that odd feeling of release, she dragged her bare feet toward Sammy’s room.

  His crib was empty. Her heart started to thump. Had Mike White stolen her baby?! Sorry, God. It was stupid to think I was some sort of sleuth. I’ll stop, I promise. Just help me find Sammy. When she stepped back out into the hallway, she heard the television. That was weird. Joanna must be up.

  But it wasn’t Joanna. As the couch came into view, she saw the back of Peter’s head.

  “Peter!” she cried and then winced at the panic in her voice. “Do you know where Sammy is?”

  Oblivious to her panic, he mumbled, “Yeah, he’s right here.”

  She came around the corner of the couch to see Sammy perched in Peter’s lap, chewing on his thumb, and staring at the Minecraft video playing on YouTube. Air rushed out of Sandra’s lungs as she collapsed onto the couch beside them. Instinct told her to yank her youngest from Peter’s arms, but she stopped herself. This was unusual behavior on Peter’s part, but she wanted to encourage it. “Why do you have him?”

  At first, Peter ignored her. He was so engrossed in whatever was happening on the screen.

  She gently elbowed him.

  “What? Oh. He was crying, and I figured you needed your sleep after your big game.” He smirked at her, and she didn’t know if he was making fun of her.

  “Well, thank you. I did need some sleep, and I didn’t get much last night. You got him for another minute? I need coffee.”

  “Sure. Until he cries or poops, we’re good.”

  She laughed and tousled Peter’s hair, her heart swelling with pride and affection. He was such a great young man, and she would think that even if he wasn’t her kid.

  Her brain told her body to stand up, and nothing happened. Oh no. She was stuck on the couch. She leaned back. There were worse things. Maybe she could just stay home today and recuperate. But first, she needed coffee, and she didn’t trust Peter to make it correctly. She tried again, pushing back into the couch cushions this time to try to gain some rebound power.

  She almost made it, but then fell back into the worn leather.

  Maybe it was time to quit coffee. Or maybe she should hail an angel and have him supernaturally heave her off the sofa.

  Peter looked at her. “Are you okay?”

  She laughed. “I’m not sure. I think I’m too old for soccer.” An image of Frank appeared in her head, and she realized the absurdity of what she’d just said. Not too old. Just too out of shape.

  She needed a different plan. She allowed herself to topple over sideways so that the top half of her was horizontal. This position felt lovely, so she lingered there for a bit. Then she twisted her upper half so her hands were under her, and did a push-up as she dragged her feet under her.

  Oh good. This was working. Almost there. With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet and then slowly straightened up. Disappointingly, her back did not crack this time.

  “That was graceful.”

  Sammy made a gurgling sound that sounded like agreement.

  “Zip it, both of you.” Feeling accomplished, she headed for the coffee pot. When she reached the counter, she heard her husband stirring and was glad she’d made it off the couch before he too had witnessed the struggle.

  Chapter 30

  Sandra left adult Sunday school under the pretense of using a restroom. She didn’t actually announce this, of course, but she knew that’s what everyone assumed she was doing. Why else would she leave in the middle of class? Well, to snoop around and make sure no one was picking on her son—that’s why.

  Trying to be invisible, she peeked through the small window in Peter’s classroom door. Unfortunately, Peter sat facing the window, and she jerked her face out of his view. Though her body had loosened up immensely, this sudden change of motion caused muscles she didn’t even know she had to cry out in protest.

  Deep breath. He hadn’t seen her. But she hadn’t seen anything.

  She couldn’t resist the temptation of a second look. She slid one eye toward the glass and immediately made eye contact with her son. She jerked her face away from the pane again. This was silly. She still hadn’t seen anything. And there was no need to be sneaky, now that she’d been caught, as Peter appeared to be the only one facing the window. So she just blatantly looked inside.

  It was evident that her son was furious with her. She didn’t care. He sat alone on one side of the table, with his tablet in front of him. Two girls sat on an adjacent side, pressed so closely together they seemed to be wearing the same outfit. And there were Jack and Ethan, on the opposite side of the table. The scene looked amicable enough, but Sandra’s stomach was unsettled. Something was amiss, whether she could see it or not.

  She heard a familiar noise, but by the time she placed it, it was too late. The door swung open, and t
he bottom ridge of the window smashed her in the face. She cried out, more in surprise than in pain, though it had certainly hurt, and staggered backward. The teacher appeared in the doorway. Where had she been lurking? And why was Jack’s mother teaching Peter’s Sunday school class?

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Casey said, sounding sincere enough.

  “Tis okay,” Sandra said through her nose, sounding like she’d suddenly come down with a terrible head cold.

  Casey motioned toward the open doorway, as if Sandra had been trying to come inside, maybe even preparing to knock like a normal, polite person would, before the collision had occurred.

  “No, thank you,” Sandra said, pulling her hand away from her face, hoping that would take away some of the new overpowering nasal quality. “I just needed to talk to Peter.”

  He looked surprised, but unbothered by this news. He grabbed his tablet and was standing beside her outside of the classroom in less than a second. She smiled at him and turned to walk away. As expected, he followed. She opened the door to the stairwell, and they both stepped inside.

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Peter whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “I was just checking on you!”

  “I don’t need checking on. I’m not a baby!”