Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  Burbank ran east and west, parallel to the Ventura Freeway, and Balboa ran north and south. We had begun our run north on Balboa for a mile and a half to Victory Boulevard, then east for a mile to Woodley. At Woodley, we'd turned south to pound our way down the mile-and-a-half ribbon of pavement that would lead us back to Burbank Boulevard. There we would start the home stretch.

  Inside the outline of our route were the grass and trees of the recreation area, three golf courses, and a wildlife preserve. To the east of us, as we ran down Woodley, was the Sepulveda Dam reservoir area, and ahead of us, I could see the cars racing along busy Burbank Boulevard. At Burbank, I knew we would turn west to get back to our starting point at Balboa.

  On the opposite side of our route down Burbank Boulevard was the looming structure of the Acropolis. I had learned from Sir Adam that Terranee Brisbane had been given the permits to build the Acropolis in return for his large monetary contributions to the upkeep of the Balboa Park recreational facilities.

  Brisbane certainly knew how to make his money work for him, but I had been wondering, while running, exactly how solvent Terranee Brisbane really was. How could he afford to see either of his daughters allow the professional teams they owned to go bankrupt? I would have thought that the Acropolis, like any other sports center, needed a full complement of pro teams if it were to remain a going concern.

  Sports complexes are like huge money sponges, soaking up currency like there was a never-ending supply. How Brisbane kept it all going and still had money to supply to the IRA was an interesting conundrum—one that Sir Adam or Ethan Kelso might want to attack in a search for answers.

  After the powwow at the Marriott, Bekka and I had decided there was no reason why we shouldn't go out on our training run as originally planned. I needed to work out the kinks from the game the night before, and Bekka was obsessive about her workouts.

  Now, she was running smoothly in step beside me. The moisture on the golden skin of her arms and legs glistened in the sunlight. She seemed to move with effortless feline grace in high-cut, peach-colored running shorts, a matching singlet, and white Nikes. The muscles in her legs stretched and flexed with each stride. Even though we were keeping up a good six-and-a-half-minute-mile pace, I felt she could run away from me anytime she wanted. Sticks was right. If Donovan didn't get me, age would.

  As we rounded the corner onto Burbank Boulevard, Bekka looked over and asked, "How are you doing?"

  "I was just thinking that I'm not as young as I used to be."

  She laughed, a tinkling sound that was like music to my besotted ears. "I was thinking the same thing," she said.

  "What, that I'm not as young as I used to be?"

  Bekka laughed. "No silly. I don't care what they say. This running stuff never seems to get any easier."

  "Do you want to back the pace down a notch for this final mile?" I asked, hoping for a respite.

  "Please," she said. Her next two strides slowed the pace and then she yelled, "Last one back buys the beer!" and with a loud laugh she was off like a flash, catching me flat-footed as I tried to change gears from slowing down to giving chase.

  "You little minx. I'll ..." I didn't have enough breath to finish the rude sentiment. I was going to need all the oxygen I could get if I was going to catch the pair of tan legs dashing away from me.

  The stretch of pavement we were on was flanked on the right by a six-foot chain link fence. On the other side of the fence was the golf course that I had seen from Nina Brisbane's office window. On our left was a four-foot expanse of dirt that ended in a concrete curb. Beyond the curb were the cars moving down the boulevard in a congested ribbon. The dirt area dipped in the middle to form a wide ditch with eucalyptus trees growing tall from the middle of it.

  Within a dozen strides, I found myself surrounded by a cacophony of noise comprised of speeding traffic, the blood pounding through my head, the throbbing of my missing eye, and the gasping of my lungs as they sought desperately for oxygen. Bekka had gained a good five or six yards on me and was threatening to pull further away. I tucked my elbows in and began pumping my arms like the driving rods on the outside of a steam locomotive. I lengthened my stride and went after her.

  My concentration was so intense that the noise of a motorcycle closing in on me from behind didn't register in my brain until it was almost upon me. The roar of the engine suddenly invaded my sensory department, but it was too late for me to react. Far too late.

  I tried to turn to face the threat, but a searing line of pain suddenly stung across my shoulders. I arched in agony. A split second later another whip-cut lanced across my face and I stumbled forward, momentum almost tripping me over my own feet.

  I'd thrown up my hands in an involuntary and useless gesture to cover my face when I heard Bekka scream. I dropped my hands and looked through blurred vision to see Donovan turning his motorcycle around for a second pass. Where had the bastard come from?

  I only had the width of the pavement and the four-foot stretch of dirt ditch in which to maneuver. There was no time to climb the chain link fence to my right, and no way to escape into the busy traffic on the left without being killed. Geographically, Donovan had planned his attack well. I'm sure he'd even taken into account the fact that I would be feeling the effects of the run by this point.

  With the bike stopped and both feet on the ground, Donovan revved the throttle. A second later he opened the clutch and surged forward. He removed his left hand from the handlebars and sliced an extended length of the car antenna back and forth with vicious threatening strokes. It was this ugly weapon that had cut into my shoulders and face.

  Two things occurred to me almost simultaneously. The first was the irrelevant thought that somebody might be able to check the flight schedules from Seattle to Los Angeles that morning and be able to place Donovan on one of them. He would have had to fly back to LA after murdering Sweet, in order for him to be back in town so quickly.

  My second thought was more germane to the situation. Donovan was still playing games. This attack was little more than the act of a cat playing with a mouse—painful, but not quite deadly. If he'd meant to kill me, he wouldn't be messing around with car antennae.

  My musings were cut short as my own personal madman continued to race forward. Time seemed to slow down, and I could see Donovan's ugly ferret face and protruding teeth twisted into a sadistic grin of enjoyment. I tried to duck and weave, but Donovan was too expert a rider to let me escape so easily. At the last second, I threw my arms up over my face and took the brunt of the antenna's biting slash across the soft skin on the back of my upper arms. I instantly rolled away as Donovan roared past and managed to avoid his second backhand slash.

  "Run," I yelled at Bekka, and started to sprint toward where she was standing. Behind us, I knew Donovan was readying for another run at me.

  "Where the hell did he come from?" Bekka asked.

  "The Acropolis parking lot. Just like the first time," I said. It was the same question I'd asked myself, and it was the only logical answer. My brain was racing furiously. "Who the hell is he tied to over there?" I demanded in frustration.

  I shot a look over my shoulder and saw Donovan accelerating again. The fire of the blows I had received was cutting deep into me and I felt blood running down my arms. The swelling welt on my face had split my lips, making it difficult to talk, and there was the taste of blood in my throat.

  "Over the fence," I said.

  "No way! I'm staying with you." Bekka saw what I had in mind and obviously didn't like it.

  "Don't be stupid, and don't argue. There isn't time. He'll use you to get to me. Don't become his pawn!"

  Donovan was suddenly on top of us. Bekka was on my right, closest to the chain link fence. I turned my back on Donovan and forced Bekka against the fence, trapping her there and protecting her with my body. My hands clawed a hold on the chain link on either side of her.

  I heard Donovan's high-pitched laughter as he raced by and cut two more
lashes across my exposed back.

  Other runners and bicyclists were backing up in amazement on the sidewalk as they observed the action, and there were the sounds of a fender bender on the boulevard as drivers were distracted by the action.

  "Over the fence," I repeated to Bekka. "Before he comes back again."

  This time, she didn't argue. Instead, she ducked out from under my arms, backed up a short distance, and then took two quick strides forward. She placed one foot into my cupped hands and with the boost, she sailed over the six-foot fence like a quail breaking cover. On the other side of the fence, she landed lightly on the manicured green of the sixth hole and shoulder-rolled to break her fall.

  I probably had time to zip over the fence as well, but I was angry and tired of being hunted. My mind was clear, and I could find no fear in it. I wasn't going to run from Donovan. If he wanted to play, then it was okay by me. So far, he was up on points, but the round wasn't over yet.

  As the motorcycle accelerated toward me again, I shifted down into the middle of the dirt ditch and put my back to one of the eucalyptus trees. The dip of the ditch was only about two feet deep, but it was enough to give Donovan a more difficult approach.

  When the yellow motorcycle was about four yards away from me, I crouched down and picked up a fist-sized dirt clod that had been baked as hard as a rock by the California sun. Donovan clearly saw what I was doing, and when I threw the clod at his head, he ducked and swerved. I had missed, but so had he. The swinging arc of the antenna had sliced through the air without connecting with anything that belonged to me.

  As Donovan roared past, I heard Bekka yelling my name. "Ian!"

  I looked at her in time to see her chuck a golf club, javelin style, toward me. Behind her a startled duffer was counting the clubs in his bag.

  I grabbed the club in midair and pulled it down behind my right leg. I turned back to the action and saw, as I had hoped, that Donovan was still turning his bike around. He hadn't seen Bekka toss me the nine iron. If I had my way, though, he'd see it soon enough.

  The motorcycle leapt forward toward me again, Donovan spewing forth a rebel yell at the top of his lungs. I had the feeling this was going to be his final pass. He was pulling out all the stops. His speed was faster, his expression of demented malevolence etched more deeply across his features. He would go for my face again when he cut with the car antenna.

  I stood my ground, and Donovan maneuvered to pass me on my left, swinging the car antenna with his left hand. At the last second, I brought the golf club up in my own left hand and whipped it forward with all the power I could muster. My reach was easily four inches longer than Donovan's, and the golf club was a good ten inches longer than the antenna in Donovan's grip.

  Before Donovan could start his cut at me with the antenna, I planted the flat head of the club smack in the middle of his chest and saw his body fold in around it. The antenna dropped from his grasp and he howled in pain as the motorcycle passed me.

  The momentum of Donovan's passing tore the club away from me and spun me around and to the ground. From my prone position, I watched Donovan waver atop the bike and then suddenly lay it down on its side. I tried to scramble to my feet, but nothing seemed to be working right. The air had been driven out of me when I'd landed hard, and my body was screaming for oxygen.

  Donovan couldn't have been much better off, but somehow, he got to his feet, picked up the still running motorcycle, climbed on, and threaded his way into the boulevard traffic. I wanted to race after him, but there was no way I was going to catch him on foot. I slumped back down to the ground.

  Suddenly, Bekka was beside me. She had climbed back over the fence and rushed to help me to my feet. She went to let go of me when I was standing, but I held onto her. I pulled her against me and refused to let her go. She seemed to approve of this, so I kissed her. Hard. My split lips complained, but she didn't. When our mouths parted, I kept my arms around her and kissed her again. She tasted delicious, and for the first time in ages I felt the tides of passion rising inside of me.

  The onlookers, who had been shocked by the actions of the idiot on the motorcycle, seemed to think this was appropriate behavior because they all started to applaud.

  Chapter 18

  I looked at my face in the mirror. It was a real mess. The welt raised by Donovan's backhanded antenna lash ran diagonally from the bottom of my eye patch to the small cleft in my chin. It just touched the side of my right nostril and had split open both lips. It looked red, angry, and painful. It also felt red, angry, and painful. The backs of my arms had stopped bleeding but had decided instead to ache intolerably in time with the throbbing of the lash welts on my back.

  Still naked and dripping wet from the shower, I dried my body and then used the nap side of a fresh towel to gently pat the moisture from my face. Looking in the mirror again, I peeled my lips back to check my teeth. The ivories were okay, but the movement of my mouth caused the splits in my lips to reopen. I winced and looked away.

  After Donovan had ridden off with his tail tucked between his legs, Bekka had helped me to cover the final mile back to her car. Our six-and-a-half-minute-mile pace had certainly gone up the spout, but we finally managed to get there under our own power.

  Bekka had wanted to call the police immediately, but I'd told her I would call Ethan Kelso when we got back to the hotel. It didn't make sense to involve the uniform boys when Kelso was already handling the investigation.

  While Bekka drove us back to the hotel we didn't say much, but we held hands like a couple of school kids. I felt about fourteen years old and figured I would break out in a pubescent rash of acne at any second. Either that or my voice would crack.

  "I have to go home to clean up and change," Bekka told me in the hotel's parking lot. "And then I'll come back and get you."

  "Great," I told her.

  We tried to kiss again, but by this time the split across my lips had gone from numb to agonizing and I drew back cringing after the lightest of contact.

  Bekka laughed. "I finally find a man to care about and I can't even kiss him," she said.

  I tried a weak smile. "I care about you too," I said. "In fact, I think I'm beginning to care a whole lot."

  "How long does it take lips to heal?" she asked.

  "Fingers and knuckles and eye sockets, I can tell you about. I'm not sure, however, about lips."

  "Quickly, I hope."

  I slid out of the car and she drove off with a wave. My heart thumped happily.

  Sticks was not in the room when I entered, so I didn't have to explain what had happened to my face. I snatched up a washcloth, filled it with ice from the hotel's ice machine, and kept it pressed against my face for thirty minutes while I lay on top of the bed covers. I should have been thinking about Donovan or the coming semifinal game with Seattle, but my thoughts kept being overwhelmed with erotic images of Bekka.

  Eventually, I hauled myself off the bed and dumped the remaining ice into the bathroom sink. I ran the shower and climbed under the hot, stinging spray until I felt somewhat revitalized.

  It was just before drying that I had checked my face in the mirror for the first time. Between my eye patch and the red welt, I looked more like a pirate than ever. All I needed to complete the ensemble was a gold hoop earring and a hook for a hand. Or a peg leg. It would be hell trying to play goal with a peg leg. Amused by the mental picture of a peg leg goalkeeper, I thought that things could be worse.

  And then suddenly they were.

  I walked naked out of the bathroom while trying to dry my hair without further aggravating the welts on the back of my arms. The towel was still over my head when I heard a noise and realized I wasn't alone.

  "Is that you, Sticks?" I asked, sure that it was.

  "Hardly, mate," said a strange voice.

  I snatched the towel off and saw Archer standing in front of me. I recognized him from the night at the Golden Harp. Behind him, one of his followers had pushed a large laundry basket
into the room.

  Without another word, Archer viciously swung his right foot toward my unprotected groin. I reacted, trying to twist and take the brunt of the blow on my thigh. I wasn't quite fast enough, though, and my testicles suddenly felt like they had been jammed up around my armpits. Nausea hit me like a freight train, and I doubled over.

  I tried to make the best of a bad situation by rolling to the floor and then continuing to roll, like a bowling ball, until I knocked Archer over for a strike. If the fight had simply been between the two of us, I would have eventually come out on top. Archer was a good street fighter, but I had been trained by some of the best instructors in the SAS. However, Archer had brought his backup with him, and they fell on me like a pack of wild dogs.

  I tried to fight back, but the wealth of numbers overwhelmed me. They kicked and punched me until I thought I was destined to suffer the same death as Maddox. Before that happened, though, a sweet-smelling cloth was slapped over my nose and mouth. I tried to hold my breath, but it was a losing prospect. In seconds I was off on a trip to oblivion city.

  Gradually, I discovered that inhaling chloroform produces a hangover from hell. I didn't have the nerve to open my eye. Things were bad enough while I was still in the dark. I could feel the world spinning around and my whole body was wracked with cold and nausea. My head pounded to the beat of an internal jackhammer, and my mouth was as dry as a sawdust sandwich. Every muscle was throbbing to its own discordant rhythm of pain and agony.

  I don't think I've ever felt so sick. Not even when I came back to consciousness in the hospital after losing my eye. Then I had simply felt like I wanted to die. Now I felt like I had died and was already in hell paying for my sins.

  I was on my side with my arms stretched out in front of me. I groaned and tried to roll over, but I couldn't. My arms wouldn't cooperate. They were wrapped around something and I couldn't pull them free.

  I must have passed out again because I came awake for a second time with a jolt. I still felt deathly ill, but at least the room seemed to have stopped spinning. I tried to open my good eye and panicked when it would not respond. Frantically, I rubbed the orb against my bare shoulder and felt dried blood peeling away. When I tried next, the eyelid slit partially open and I peered out into a blur of light. When my vision cleared, I closed the eye again. The effort hadn't been worth it. I hadn't liked what I'd seen.