Payback Time

by Carl Deuker

  That touchdown made the score 28–23 and made a two-point conversion attempt a no-brainer. Horst took the snap, faked a quick pass to Westwood on the left, and then spun and handed the ball to Warner coming the other way. The Ferris defenders had gone for the fake. Warner could have walked in, but he fumbled the handoff. He ran, hands down, trying to scoop it up, but it kept bounding away. Finally a Ferris guy hit him and another Ferris guy fell on the ball, and the score stayed 28–23.

  I looked at the clock. Four minutes and four seconds left, and now a field goal would be meaningless; Lincoln had to get the ball back and score a touchdown.

  Ferris had seven guys up expecting an onside kick, but Kenstowicz knuckled an in-between sort of kick that landed at the thirty-five, bounced left, and then kicked right. Angel was one of the guys racing down trying to recover it. I thought he'd do it, too; I'd seen him make so many great plays, but at the bottom of the pile was a Ferris guy.

  Horst had burned one time-out early in the third quarter, so Lincoln had two left. The math was pretty simple. If Ferris got a first down, they'd be able to run out the clock. Horst had done his job; now it was the defense's turn, Angel's turn. Everyone in the stadium was up, and everyone knew what was coming.

  Micah Pengilly.

  The Ferris quarterback took the snap and made a quick pitch. Pengilly took it wide left, then cut back. Angel swatted at the ball, trying to force a fumble, but Pengilly hung on, falling forward for a three-yard gain. McNulty used his second time-out. Three forty-seven left.

  On second down Ferris came right up the middle. All game their offensive line had blown our defensive line back, but this time the line held. Pengilly squeezed forward for one paltry yard before he was hauled down. Immediately McNulty burned his final time-out. Three thirty-eight.

  Third down and six yards for a first down. Would Ferris pass? If they did, they'd have a good chance for a completion since both safeties were cheating forward. But an incompletion would stop the clock, and that was the last thing Ferris wanted to do.

  Angel was hopping up and backing away, trying to confuse the quarterback. The quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass. Our defensive line broke past the blockers—and then I saw it. A screen pass—a safe pass—to Pengilly. He caught it with two blockers in front. He looked certain to gain enough for the first down. Angel had shed the first blocker, but the second guy hit him from the side. As Angel went down, he reached out his hand and caught Pengilly's foot. Pengilly staggered, almost regained his balance, but then one knee touched the ground—two yards short of a first down. Lincoln would get the ball back.

  McNulty had no time-outs left, so Ferris let the play clock wind down to one before snapping the ball. Their punter got off a great kick, a high booming spiral. Stein turned left, then turned right, and then just got out of the way. The ball rolled and rolled, inside the thirty, inside the twenty-five, eating seconds off the clock. Finally it rolled dead on the twenty-three.

  Two minutes and forty-four seconds remained. Lincoln was seventy-seven yards from the end zone and had no time-outs left.

  Horst brought the offense out onto the field. Ferris was in their prevent defense again, making it impossible for Horst to go long with anything, forcing him to dump the ball over the middle.

  The receivers tried to make the catch and then fight their way out of bounds to stop the clock, but the Ferris guys would keep them in bounds and so keep the clock moving. We were driving, but even though Horst was running a no-huddle offense, it was all happening too slowly. A first down on our thirty-five with 1:50 on the clock. A first down at our forty-seven with 0:59 left on the clock. A first down at their forty-six with 0:37 left.

  That's when we got lucky. A Ferris player went down clutching his leg, his head bobbing from left to right in pain. The crowd, which had been screaming with every play, went quiet. The Ferris trainer came out and starting working on his calf. A cramp—painful, but not serious. And in the time that the trainer took to get him up and off the field, McNulty had huddled with his offense. There was time for three or four plays, but no more. Five yards a crack wasn't going to make it; something big had to happen.

  When play resumed, Horst was in the shotgun. He took the snap, faked a quick outlet pass to Westwood on the right, and then went for the long bomb to Price streaking down the left side toward the end zone. For an instant it seemed he was in the clear, but then Ferris's safety rotated over to knock the ball away.

  Second down and ten. Twenty-nine seconds left.

  Again Horst was in the shotgun; again he used play-action, this time a fake draw to Shawn Warner. He was looking for Westwood on a post pattern, but the Ferris middle linebacker had dropped into coverage. He put his big hand up and deflected the pass, nearly pulling off the interception. The Ferris side went wild with joy; on Lincoln's side, everyone groaned.

  Third and ten. Twenty-one seconds remaining.

  Horst took the snap, pump-faked another long pass, and then fired a bullet to a wide receiver running an out pattern. The receiver caught the ball at the thirty-five but backtracked to get out of bounds to stop the clock. The refs brought the chains out and measured—he was short of a first down by six inches.

  Fourth down. Twelve seconds on the clock. Thirty-seven yards from the end zone.

  What do you do? Go for the quick first down on another out pattern and then take a final shot at the end zone? Or take the final shot right now?

  I was so tense that I almost didn't see Angel come in at wide receiver. When I did spot him, I sensed what was coming, and my breathing stopped, and I didn't hear the roar around me.

  Horst took the snap and stepped back. He turned and quickly fired a pass to Angel in the flat. Only it wasn't a pass. Angel had retreated three steps from the line of scrimmage, turning Horst's bullet into a lateral. The cornerback was closing on Angel, lining him up for the game-ending tackle. But Angel cocked his right arm, and it was as if I were back on Gilman Field in August watching him for the first time. The ball was out of his hand in a split second, a laser beam down the sideline for the streaking Lenny Westwood.

  Ferris's safety was just a yard behind Westwood, but Angel's pass was so pure that all Westwood needed was a foot. For the briefest instant, Westwood bobbled the ball, but then he pulled it in, and a moment later he was crossing the goal line, Angel was being swarmed by his teammates, Lincoln was the state champion, the people around me were going crazy with joy and I was going crazy too.

  13

  THE LINCOLN BAND MARCHED onto the field as the players jumped on one another and then raced over to the Lincoln side of the dome and jumped up and down in front of their parents and their classmates.

  The PA announcer directed everyone's attention to midfield, where the trophy was presented to Coach McNulty. Kimi snapped pictures as McNulty raised the trophy over his head and then handed it to Horst, who did the same. People cheered each time, but each time the volume decreased. Ten minutes after the game ended, barely half of Lincoln's fans remained in the stands, and with every second more were leaving. Ten minutes later the team was leaving, heading to the locker room. They'd celebrate among themselves for a while, but soon Angel would take the long walk to the parking lot, bright lights overhead, concrete on all sides.

  I headed out into the night. Instead of going down the ramps to the parking lot, I went to the railing and looked out. The rain had stopped, yet the night had grown colder. Cars were jammed up at the exits, but even as I watched, traffic started to loosen. Soon there'd be no line at all.

  I turned my eyes to the back fence—still too dark to know for sure. And then I saw a sudden flash of light in the darkness. What was it? I looked harder. A match—it had to be a match. A moment later it went out, but then another one was lit, and now I could see the red glow of the lit end of two cigarettes.

  They were there, right where I thought they'd be. Two of them sitting in the Civic, smoking, waiting for the parking lot to empty, waiting for their chance.
r />   I took out my cell phone and called Kimi. "Where are you?"

  "By the players' gate."

  "Are there any police cars there or security guys?"

  "Let me look." A pause, and then she came back on the line. "I don't see any."

  "Kimi, if I don't call you back within the next fifteen minutes, get away from there."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Get away from there."

  "Is the Civic here? Did you find it? I could call the police."

  "Do it. Call the police. Tell them to get somebody at the players' gate."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "If I don't call back," I repeated, "get away from there. Even if the police show up. You've got to promise."

  "Okay. I promise. What are you going to do now?"

  "There's no time to explain." Before she could reply, I closed up my phone and turned it off.

  I'd reached this moment in my mind many times. Each time I'd wondered if I'd have the necessary courage. Now that I was finally here in the flesh, it was as if I were somehow out of my own body, as if the real me were watching this other me—this brave me—watching him in amazement, because even though the other me was afraid, he didn't let the fear stop him.

  I walked to where the Focus was parked. I put the laptop in the trunk, and took the hunting knife out from the pouch. I had to be fast, and yet not rush.

  I zigzagged through the parking lot until I reached a spot by the back fence that was one hundred yards east of the Civic. I crouched low and slowly moved toward it, retracing the steps I'd taken hours earlier. Seventy-five yards ... fifty yards ... forty ... thirty.

  At about twenty yards I could both hear and feel the deep bass of a super-loud sound system. The guys in the car were listening to some rap CD, probably psyching themselves up for the craziness they were planning. It was a break for me—they wouldn't hear my footsteps on the gravel. At fifteen yards, I dropped to my knees and inched along, careful to stay low. Ten yards ... five yards, and then, finally, I was there.

  All I'd done was creep along a fence for one hundred yards, but I was drenched in sweat. I stayed still for a minute, letting my heart slow, before reaching into my back pocket and pulling out the knife. I unsheathed it and fingered the razor-sharp blade.

  That's when the passenger door of the Civic opened.

  Music spilled out, and so did a thin layer of light. I sprawled face-down into the gravel. The driver's door opened next. I slithered under the car, the gravel biting into my hands and arms and face. I was sure I was making noise, but the crazy-loud volume of the car stereo saved me.

  I couldn't see them, but I could see their feet. They'd moved to the front of the car and were looking toward the Tacoma Dome. Were they going to move now? Was I too late?

  They were talking, but I couldn't make out anything they were saying. Then one of them dropped a cigarette to the ground right by his foot and started walking toward the back of the car. I pressed myself deeper into the ground; my breathing stopped.

  I watched his feet until he drew even with my face, but I didn't dare turn my head to follow his progress after that. Instead, I lay perfectly still. The footsteps stopped and a moment later I heard the hatchback door open, heard the guy fumbling around for something. He must have found it—whatever it was—because a second later he slammed the hatchback door shut. I flinched—it had sounded like a gunshot. But now the guy was moving again. He moved away from the back of the Civic up to the passenger door, opened it, and sat down. The driver got back in the car as well, and I listened to one door slam shut and then the other.

  The added weight caused the carriage of the car to drop down an inch or two. That doesn't sound like much, but I had hardly any clearance before. I was terrified; I had a knife in my hand, two killers sitting not five feet from me. I wriggled like an eel to get out from under the Civic, the whole time thanking God that I'd lost weight. If I hadn't, I might have been stuck there, helpless.

  Gravel was embedding itself into my forearms, and my pant legs were riding up, but finally I cleared the bumper. It was time. From a kneeling position, I ran my hand over the back passenger tire, feeling for a spot between the knobby tread. I found one, and pushed with the knife. The rubber didn't give. I fought down the panic. I pushed again. Still the rubber didn't give. I'd come this far—I couldn't fail. I brought the knife back one more time and then shoved the blade as hard as I could into the tire. For an instant the rubber resisted, but then it gave way.

  The blade was in.

  I left it there for a long moment before slowly working it out, rocking the blade back and forth to increase the size of the puncture. When the blade came clear, I heard a loud hissing sound. It sounded like a jet taking off to me. I expected the car doors to open and the guys to jump out and start beating on me, but then I felt the deep bass of the CD player, and I knew they'd heard nothing.

  I listened to the escaping air until I was certain the tire was going flat. Only then did I start back along the fence line, first creeping on my hands and knees and then later crouching low as I walked. When I was one hundred yards away, I wiped the dirt off my hands and my shirt and my pants as best I could, and headed back toward the T-Dome.

  I was sky-high as I walked out of the dark and into the light, so high I wanted to scream for pure joy. By the time I reached the dome the tire would be down on the rim. The moment those guys started the car up and tried to drive forward, they'd feel it for sure. The flat tire ended everything. No way were they flying up to the players' gate and firing shots and then racing off on Interstate 5. When Angel came down the walkway, they'd have the trunk up and they'd be looking at their silly undersize spare tire. After they changed the tire—if they knew how—they'd be poking along the frontage road at thirty-five miles an hour while Angel was headed ... where?

  It didn't matter where.

  He'd be long gone, off to some place that only McNulty would know.

  I tossed the knife into a garbage can, took out my cell phone, turned it back on, and called Kimi.

  "The police haven't come," she said, frantic. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing to worry about anymore. I'll be there in a few minutes."

  14

  BY THE TIME I REACHED HER, the first players were coming out of the locker room and were heading down the walkway leading into the parking lot. They came in groups of five and six, and they were quieter than I thought they'd be. The game and the trophy presentation and the time in the locker room had worn them out. Kimi took pictures as they passed, and Horst stopped and posed. "Did you get me holding the trophy?" he asked, and when Kimi said she had, he smiled. The last two out were McNulty and Angel. Kimi had her camera up to her eye, but when she recognized them, she put the lens cap on and let the camera hang around her neck.

  I nodded as they reached us. McNulty looked at me, but he made no acknowledgment. Angel didn't even look. As they passed, I saw the cousin waiting at the end of the chute. McNulty and Angel shook hands, a handshake of goodbye. Angel got in his cousin's car, and they drove off.

  "So that's that," Kimi said.

  "Yeah," I said. "That's that."

  We walked to the other side of the dome where the Focus was parked. I had an odd feeling that it wouldn't start, but it did. I followed the orange cones to the exit. As I left the parking lot, I looked over to the back fence. The hatchback of the Civic was up, the light just bright enough for me to see two guys staring down into it.

  "So the Civic wasn't there?" Kimi said when we were out on the freeway.

  "It was there," I said.

  "Then why were you so sure everything was so safe?"

  I looked over at her. "Because I slashed their tire."

  "What?"

  I grinned. "I slashed their tire. Rear passenger tire, to be precise. Rocked the knife back and forth until I was sure I'd put a huge hole in it."

  Her eyes were wide in disbelief. "You're making this up."

  "No, I'm not."

  "Show
me the knife."

  "I threw it away."

  "Why?"

  "Why not? I'm not going to make a career of slashing tires."

  When we reached Seattle, we went to the Fremont Peet's. We sat upstairs and Kimi asked me over and over to describe how I'd slashed the tire of the Civic. It was the scrapes and cuts I'd gotten from the gravel that finally convinced her.

  "That was really brave," she said, but then a little smile came to her face.

  "What?" I said.

  "Nothing."

  "Tell me."

  She shrugged. "We never saw a gun or anything, so we'll never know for sure that they were coming after Angel. They might have been there for some completely normal reason." She paused, and then reached over and put her hand on top of mine. "Don't get me wrong, Mitch. You were really, really courageous. But you see what I mean, don't you?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

  I drove her home. "Are you going to take photos during basketball season?" I asked when I pulled up in front of her house.

  "I don't know. I've got AP tests to study for."

  "AP tests aren't until May."

  She opened the car door and stepped out. "I'll probably take photos," she said, and I knew right then that she wouldn't. I waited until she was inside her house before pulling away from the curb and heading home.

  We'll never know for sure that they were coming after Angel.

  As I'd been crawling along the fence, as I'd been hiding under the car, as I'd been plunging the knife into the tire—the whole time I'd known deep down that the guys in the Civic might be there for any of a thousand reasons. Maybe I'd been a hero, but maybe I'd been a vandal.

  I turned onto my block and eased the Focus into the driveway. After I switched off the engine, I stayed in the car for a moment, too tired even to open the door, every muscle sapped of strength. After a minute I stepped out, locked the Focus, and started toward my house.