“V-vestigating?” moaned Swift.
“Yes. Look, just don’t say anything. I’ll handle it. Just pretend you’re comatose.”
“W-won’t be pr-pretending,” whimpered Swift as he slumped flat to the floor.
The police were professional and appropriately suspicious of North’s admittedly unusual story. He had settled on his and Swift’s visit here being about selling booster tickets, but he could not account for his not possessing any tickets, or a list of people they were visiting.
“We were just going sort of ad hoc,” explained North. “We would have the tickets mailed out later,” he added lamely, while Swift, still prostrate on the floor, turned his head to the side and threw up on the other cop’s shoes.
With all that, it helped matters immeasurably that the sergeant who arrived two minutes later was a longtime Mighty Johns booster.
He shook North’s hand so hard North felt his shoulder stretched uncomfortably. Swift was still unable to stand, so the sergeant merely patted him on the head as he sat there on his haunches.
“What a run,” said the sergeant. “Now, my father was at the game where Ruggles set the record, and he said it was beyond belief. Well, you beat that record, didn’t you, son?” he said to Swift, slapping him hard on the back. “How does that feel, son, huh?”
Swift turned green and puked on North’s shoes.
North glanced down at his doused sneakers before looking back up at the sergeant and said, “It apparently made him sick, with joy.”
They soon found themselves free to go, but they were told there would be follow-up questions. They went off with another slap on the back each and a big grin from the sergeant, who couldn’t stop talking about Swift’s earth-shattering run. North had to half carry Swift out. The fastest Mighty John was currently neither mighty nor mobile.
For his part, North was beginning to wish they had never broken the damn record.
As they drove away Swift rolled down the window, leaned out, and sucked in air. “I have never smelled anything that bad in all my life,” he moaned.
“Get over it,” said North, who was in no mood for Swift’s complaints. “And you ruined my brand-new shoes.” North was driving in his bare feet; his socks and sneakers had gone into the trash can.
Swift continued, “Not since I fed my basset hound five cans of Vienna sausage and a quart of chocolate milk have I ever smelled anything so disgusting.”
“Knock it off, Jimmy. A woman is dead. And maybe she’s dead because of my questions about that stupid wig. Think how I feel.”
Scientists were supposed to be immune to such emotional misgivings. Facts and accompanying results were wonderfully benign and uncomplicated that way. When an experiment failed, you simply recorded the result and moved on to another test. There was no grief, there was no shock, no feeling of personal loss. North the human being was ill-prepared to deal with the death of a stranger over a mildewed wig.
“Gee, I didn’t mean to offend you, Merl! But come on, I mean el primo stinko. I’ve never barfed like that in my life. My gut’s still jumping.”
North pulled the car over, grabbed Swift by the coat collar, and jerked him so close they were almost nose to nose. “If you don’t shut up right this minute, I will tell you in exacting detail precisely how the human body decomposes. And when I get to the subtopic of maggot infestation, I will be so incredibly graphic in my description that it will leave an indelible impression on that pea-sized brain of yours, and I swear to God you will puke your guts out at least once a day for the rest of your entire life. Got it?”
North let him go, put the car in gear, and drove off. For the record, Jimmy Swift didn’t say a single word all the way back, although North did hear him whimper once or twice, the pathetic, record-breaking Mighty John son of a bitch.
After he dropped Swift off, North went back to his dorm room and lay on his bed, staring at a ceiling he had painted in galactic star clusters that represented his unique vision of what actually could be out there. He craved perfect knowledge, exact data. North wanted to see everything as precisely as it actually existed, free of error and devoid of the inane synthesis and self-pitying psychosis of a collective, bleating world of fools ignorant of all that was truly worthwhile and valuable.
The fact that there had been so much misinformation surrounding Herschel Ruggles and his disappearance rankled North mightily. And yet there was a gnawing fear dwelling in some unexplored region of his magnificent brain that was actually nudging North into an acceptance of a lesser truth, a reductive conclusion of half-assed proportion, a sorry compromise of sorts.
At the epicenter of his dilemma was this: When confronted with an unwelcome truth, what did one do? Did one let sleeping dogs lie, as Herman Bowles had suggested? Most people would, and yet North never had. But here he was not so confident.
The buzzing sound confused him for a moment, until he realized it was only his phone. He pulled it from his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number calling him.
“Hello?”
“Merl North, is that you?” said the familiar voice.
“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Is that you, Mr. Bowles?”
“Yep. You and that feller Jimmy Swift came to see me earlier.”
North sat up so fast he became dizzy. “Did you remember the name of the player?”
“I sure did. Come to me out of the blue. I was sitting on the can taking a dump, in fact, just thinking of nothing, and there he was.”
“Right,” said North, trying not to visualize any of that. “And his name?”
“Ed Belichek. Called him Little Eddie, that was a joke. He was six-five and about three hundred pounds. Only had one other player who was close to his beef. Had to have special jerseys made up for him and he still stretched the suckers out.”
“You’re sure it was Belichek in the training room that day?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Once I remembered his name, I recalled pretty much everything about that day like it was yesterday. Belichek got the stinger at the start of the fourth quarter. Couldn’t move his dang arm, useless for blocking, couldn’t push off the defensive linemen. So I sent him in to ice it. I would’ve gone in with him or sent somebody, but we were shorthanded that day and I had my hands full with ankle wrapping, and we had two linebackers with dislocated fingers and a cornerback we really needed in there to cover their best wideout. We had to keep stretching him out on the sidelines because his hammy kept tightening. Not like I had dozens of assistant trainers back then. So I told Belichek to ice his shoulder and arm in the whirlpool and get back quick as he could.”
“So he was a lineman?”
“Left tackle, most important man on the O-line. Our QB back then wasn’t the best. He’d mostly hand off to Ruggles. But he had no pocket awareness. When he got blindsided, the boy got blindsided, if you know what I mean.”
“And the police interviewed Belichek, and he saw nothing while he was in the locker room?”
“Far as I know, yeah. I asked him about it later. He didn’t have much to say. I think he fell asleep in the ice whirlpool myself. That does happen. Boys get out looking like a prune with balls the size of peanuts.”
“But I looked at the police records. There was never any mention of Belichek.”
“Maybe that’s because he didn’t see nothing.”
“Do you know where he is now? Belichek, I mean.”
“He played for the New York Giants for about nine years, did okay, as I recall. Never an All-Pro or anything, but he hung in there. Then I heard he bought a bar over in Covington, you know where that is?”
“About forty miles from here, near the state line.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you remember the name of the bar?”
“Keep in mind this was a long time ago.”
“Still, if you can remember.”
“Lemme see. Okay, yeah, um, no, son, I sure don’t.”
“Okay, well, thanks for this, it really helps.”
<
br /> “You bet. And you tell that Jimmy Swift next game, go for a hundred-and-five-yard return.”
“I will.”
North put the phone down and looked up at his intergalactic ceiling.
It was clear what he had to do.
To move forward, he had to go backward.
In time.
Chapter 14
I JUST DON’T WANT to find another body, okay?” said Swift firmly.
They were riding in North’s car on their way to Covington.
“And you think I do?”
“Hey, dude, you didn’t puke, I did.”
“That wasn’t because of finding the body. That was because you downed a fifth of Wild Turkey, you idiot!”
“Come on, guys, knock it off. You’re acting like two-year-olds.”
In the back seat was Molly McIntyre. She gave both of them a look of contempt.
North had invited her because he thought she might be able to get Ed Belichek—who, North had discovered, still owned the Redneck Bar and Grill in Covington—to open up to them about the events from four decades ago.
Swift shot her a glance, running his gaze admiringly over her. “It’s nice having you along, Molly. Merl can get a little—”
“—overly focused,” she said helpfully.
Swift grinned. “Something like that.”
They arrived in Covington, which was a lot like Crucifix, PA, only without a college or a college football team.
They parked in front of the bar and got out. Inside, the place was decked out as a shrine to professional and collegiate football. Banners and helmets and signed memorabilia lined the walls and the tables. The bar spanned one entire wall, and alongside the bottles were framed, autographed photos of football stars from over the years. The place was three-quarters full on a Tuesday evening, evenly split between men and women. The three of them got stares from all over when they walked in. The men’s gazes went to McIntyre first, checking her out, then to North and Swift, probably sizing them up as former or current players.
The women glanced past North and focused on the handsome Swift, who grinned back and did a little salute for their pleasure.
McIntyre put her arm through his and said, “Down, boy, or you might find yourself in trouble.”
North walked up to the bar and motioned to the bartender, a woman in her thirties with dark hair tied back with a Steelers bandana. She had on faded jeans, a black tank top that showed off ropy muscles, and a suspicious expression.
“Let me see some ID,” she said automatically.
“I’m not here to drink,” said North, as McIntyre and Swift joined him. “I’m here for information.”
“Then I’ve got no time for you.”
Swift pulled out his ID and held it up; McIntyre did likewise.
She said to North, “Okay, they’re good to go, and you?”
North took out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license. “Now can I ask some questions?” he said.
“Sure, if you buy drinks. If not, get lost.”
“Three Coronas,” said Swift. He pulled out his credit card. “On me.”
The woman brought up the bottles, uncapped them, stuffed them with lime wedges, and slid them across, at the same time taking Swift’s card and running it through the machine.
She glanced down at the name. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who broke Herschel Ruggles’s record?”
“He is,” said McIntyre. She patted North on his broad back. “With this man’s help.”
“Cool,” said the woman. “My old man was from Crucifix. He was there when Ruggles played his last game. That touchdown run? Said it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.”
North nodded. “I believe the owner of this bar was at the game too. He played left tackle on the team back then. Ed Belichek?”
“Really?” said the woman. “I knew he played for the Giants, but Ed never mentioned playing with Ruggles.”
“So he’s still around?”
“Yeah, as in he owns the place.”
“Can we speak to him?”
“Why?”
McIntyre stepped in. “I’m head of the Draven University yearbook committee. We’re doing a special anniversary edition and part of it highlights the year that Ruggles scored that amazing touchdown and then vanished. We’ve been interviewing Mr. Belichek’s teammates and wanted to speak to him as well.”
The woman nodded in understanding. “Sounds cool. Let me check with him.”
She called a man over to take up her bartending duties and disappeared down a long hall.
Swift took a swig of his beer and said admiringly to McIntyre, “Hey, that was real quick thinking. I like that in a girl.”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Really? I thought what you liked in a girl was a little more obvious.”
When the bartender came back she said, “Ed said, okay, he’ll talk to you. It’s just this way.”
She led them down the hall.
“One thing,” she said. “Ed is…not very talkative. I think he might be suffering from too many concussions from football, you know? He’s.…well, you can see for yourself.”
They reached the end of the hall and she knocked on the door there. “Ed?” she called out.
“Yeah, okay,” said a gruff voice.
She opened the door and let them pass through. She went back to the bar while the three of them stared confusedly around the darkened room.
“Over here,” said the same gruff voice.
They moved forward and the big desk came into view. And with it the big man behind that desk.
North knew that Belichek was in his early sixties. Yet the man facing them looked to be at least twenty years older. He had gone completely to fat. He looked like he weighed close to four hundred pounds. His skin, even in the bad light, looked unhealthily pale. They could see the burning tip of a cigarette in his left hand. The room reeked of nicotine and smoke.
“Well?” he said expectantly.
North stepped forward. “Mr. Belichek, I’m—”
“I don’t need to know who you are, just why you’re here, son. Beth said something about a yearbook thing at Draven U.?”
McIntyre drew closer. “That’s right, an anniversary edition. And part of it deals with Herschel Ruggles’s vanishing.”
Belichek sat up straighter and took a puff on his smoke. “Who the hell would do an anniversary edition on that?”
“Well, it’s remained a mystery all this time,” pointed out McIntyre. “And mysteries intrigue people.”
“They don’t intrigue me.”
“We’ve interviewed other members of the team and thought you’d like to contribute to the story.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
North said, “But we talked to Herman Bowles. He said you were in the training room that day. You had a stinger. He thought you might have been in the whirlpool.”
“Yeah, well, he thought wrong.”
“You weren’t in the training room?”
Belichek started to say something and then caught himself. “I didn’t say that, buddy, did I?”
“No.”
“I was in the training room, just not in the whirlpool. I’d already done the ice route. I was in the tape room. They had some painkillers in there. I was taking some and working out the stinger.”
“And you never saw Ruggles come in?”
“You putting words in my mouth again, boy?” Belichek said menacingly.
“No, I understand that’s what you told the police when they asked.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Well, I did. Because that’s what happened.”
“So he never came back there after running into the tunnel?”
“Nope.”
“Seems odd.”
“Why?”
“Because if you run into the tunnel, you can’t help but pass the training room.”
“If he did come in there I never saw him.”
“And the only exit door would be
in the sight line of the taping room,” interjected Swift.
“How do you know that?” snapped Belichek.
“I play on the team now,” replied Swift.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I never saw him.”
McIntyre said, “This is a very nice bar. Very popular. And I guess you’ve had it for a long time.”
His gaze swiveled to her. “I have. It’s worked out real well.”
“I guess you used your money from professional football to fund it,” said North.
“Hell, the money back then was nothin—” He caught himself. “No, that’s right. Put every cent into the place. And it’s paid off.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I plan to spend some time with Jack Daniels.”
North looked at Belichek. “Did you know Linda Daughtry?” he asked.
Belichek squinted at him through the cigarette smoke as he poured out three fingers of the whiskey. “Name sounds familiar.”
“She ran the Jenkins Wig Shop in Crucifix. Or her mother did back then. She took it over.”
“Okay, what about her?”
“We were talking to her the other day.”
“Get to the point, kid, I got a drink waiting.”
“When we went back to see her again, we found her dead.”
“Is that right? Accident?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all.”
Chapter 15
IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER and North was sitting alone in the Mighty Johns’ film room. He spent many hours in here, maybe more than anyone else on the team. This was because North was not a natural athlete, not like Jimmy Swift, nor like many of the other players on the team. Studying film was a way for North to make up for that, to look for tendencies, to allow him to get a jump in reacting to a play, to make up for his average speed and agility.
But the film he was now studying had nothing to do with him.
This was the last game Herschel Ruggles would ever play for the Mighty Johns. North was breaking it down frame by frame, like the coaches did when they were using the films for teaching purposes. He did so all the way up to Ruggles’s carrying the football into that tunnel, never to be seen again. He had a roster of the team players back then on a piece of paper beside him. Ruggles had worn the number 1 on his jersey. That number had been retired after he disappeared, so no other Mighty Johns player could ever wear it.
The Final Play Page 7