by Paul Bishop
I hightailed it diagonally across the parking lot, making one of the attendants jump clear. As I approached the entrance, I was more than surprised to see Donovan idling, waiting for me. He gave me a rude two-fingered salute, twisted his throttle, and zoomed away, daring me to follow.
He still had a good lead on me, but I was the better rider, and he was unable to make use of his bike's extra power due to the wet streets.
From the Acropolis, I turned onto Burbank Boulevard and raced eastward after the fleeing Donovan. Traffic was light. There were only two passenger sedans separating us. I blew past them to close the distance. I figured Donovan was heading for the freeway on-ramp, but as he approached the entrance, he turned off the road and dropped down the other side of the dirt shoulder.
This was an area I was familiar with. I had crawled out of it under similar weather conditions a few days past. I followed my quarry, standing up on the pegs as the Laverda's wheels spun through the mud. Ahead of me, Donovan was sprinting for the base of the dam. I poured on the speed and went after him.
The cracked and weed-riddled concrete that formed the dam's basin was a wet and dangerous surface to be fooling around on. However, it was showdown time and Donovan had chosen the site without consulting me.
As he reached the base of the dam wall, he turned his bike around to face me. I slowed and came to a stop fifty yards from him. We faced each other as the rain became a little heavier and the lights of the freeway cars made constantly changing shadows across the killing ground.
"I've lusted after this moment," Donovan yelled at me. "And don't think that your girlfriend is safe. After I'm done with you, I'm still going to have my fun with her. I wanted it to be the other way around. Make you suffer. But you can't have everything in this world."
"It's going to end here, Donovan," I yelled back over the rain. "You can go down easy or hard. It's up to you."
Donovan laughed at me. I knew it was useless to expect anything else.
"It's dying time, Chapel!" Donovan hit his throttle and roared towards me.
I gave the Laverda gas and leaned down over the gas tank. If Donovan wanted to play chicken, he was in for a surprise. When we met twenty-five yards later, the bikes were up to fifty miles an hour. Donovan broke first, cutting to my left, but as he flew by me, I felt a horrible stinging across my back. I had forgotten about Donovan's knife, the one he had been planning to use on Bekka's fingers but had now used to slash down my back instead. He'd kept it hidden until the last moment.
I turned the Laverda around to find Donovan coming at me again. I accelerated straight at him. He cut to my left again and I tried to kick out at him, but my timing was off. He'd reversed the knife blade and the flat of it caught me across the base of my neck. My head snapped back, and I felt myself losing control of the Laverda.
Trying to save something out of the situation, I sought to lay the bike down with some manner of form. I was only half successful. I went down straight, the concrete below me tearing up my left leg, but the bike got completely away from me. It slid straight for a few feet and then the front wheel twisted, and the bike jumped into the air in a somersault, smashed down again, and tumbled across the wet concrete.
I lay with the rain falling into my open mouth. I was gasping for breath, my head feeling like it had been cut off by a blunt guillotine. My left side was a mass of agony, and I couldn't move my left arm. I tried for feeling in my legs, but it was tough.
From a long distance away, I heard the roar of Donovan's motorcycle. He was coming back to finish the job. From somewhere, I found the preservation instinct to roll out of the way as Donovan raced his bike over the spot where I had been lying. His high-pitched laugh echoed over the sound of the rain and the bike's exhaust. The bastard was really feeling his oats.
I was able to roll out of the way twice more, but I realized Donovan was only playing with me like a cat with a mouse. He could kill me anytime he wanted, but savoring the experience was half the fun. I had to do something, or I was going to die.
Dragging myself to my knees, I groped around on the ground for anything I could use as a weapon. I found a fist-sized chunk of concrete that had cracked away from the basin floor. Standing, I waited for Donovan to come at me again. Vision in my good eye was almost obscured. I wiped the back of my hand across the socket and cleared away a thick warm substance. Blood.
Donovan sprinted forward on the black bike, and I threw the rock with ali the strength I could muster. It was a wasted effort. The rock was way off target, and Donovan's booted foot kicked out and drove into my stomach. I went down again.
I tried to roll out of the way of Donovan's next pass, but this time the rear tire of his motorcycle crunched over my left ankle. I screamed. An eye and an ankle. I was becoming a hopeless cripple in bits and pieces.
Anger welled up within me. I knew the rage Nina Brisbane felt. I knew the rage that had driven her actions, pushed her over the edge into madness. It lived within me like a caged beast. It was a rage screaming to be released, a rage that wanted to destroy everything with indiscriminate hatred. It flowed out of me now in waves, unstoppable after being repressed for so long. I would not die here. I would not let Donovan destroy me a piece at a time.
The rage propelled me up onto all fours like a wild beast. I scrabbled around on the cracked concrete basin, blindly searching for anything, anything. There were small concrete chips and paper trash. Odds and ends of miscellaneous nothingness. Nothing I could use as a weapon.
As Donovan zoomed by again, his booted foot kicked out into my midsection and tumbled me over and over. My hands hit something hard. I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled it toward me. It resisted at first and then pulled free. I looked down through the blood curtain in my eye and found I was holding a splintered wooden spar broken off from a loading pallet. How the pallet came to be abandoned in the basin was beyond my reasoning, but how does any debris get anywhere? I didn't question providence. I only blessed it.
The spar was a good two feet long. It was roughly pointed at one end, about three inches wide at the other, and about three quarters of an inch thick. I liked the feel of it in my hand. It was a primitive weapon suitable for a primitive rage.
I dug deep and found some reserves of strength and prepared myself for Donovan's next pass. He approached at about thirty miles an hour, and I lay doggo, waiting for my chance.
Moving with a speed I didn't know I had left inside me, I whipped my body around and thrust the spar out toward the motorcycle's front wheel. It jammed into the spokes and tore out of my hand, slicing off a layer of flesh and snapping two fingers.
I rolled away as the spar jammed behind the motorcycle's front forks without snapping. The front wheel locked up and there was a screeching and rending sound as the motorcycle swerved uncontrollably. It hit a crack in the basin floor and bounced up. Donovan went over the top of the handlebars, sailing through the rain and night air like an arrow in flight. He howled my name, "Chapellllll!" like a banshee screaming in the jungle.
The motorcycle's gas tank ruptured as the bike spun wheel over wheel into the darkness, and burst into a fireball with a physical whummnunphl
But the sound of Donovan's neck snapping when he hit the ground cut through all other noises like the loud, clear ringing of a bell.
I rolled over on my back and let the rain wash down on my face. The anger seemed to be flowing out of my every extremity, fingers and toes, like electricity. It dissipated with a crackle into the night. I cradled my crippled hand.
The flames from the bike died down quickly.
I closed my eye.
There was the sound of sirens in the distance.
I wondered how Bekka was doing in goal.
And then, feeling peaceful, I didn't wonder anything anymore.
Epilogue
I hate hospitals, but as hospitals go, this one was better than most. The private room assigned to me was nicely decorated and featured a picture window overlooking the hospital's ros
e garden. The nurses and orderlies bustled with polite efficiency, and the doctors complemented their top-notch surgical skills with compassionate bedside manners. It all must have cost a bomb. I was sure my VIP treatment was due far more to Sir Adam's money than to my American celebrity status.
There were several sprays of flowers and clusters of helium-filled balloons brightening up the ambience. But the best thing about the room was the figure of Bekka standing next to my bed holding my uninjured hand. Sticks, Gerald, Zoe, Sid Doyle, Sir Adam, Wagstaff, Ethan, and a host of others had all been through earlier, and would be returning, but right now Bekka and I had the room to ourselves.
The Monday papers were spread all over the bed covers, and Bekka's photos were spread all over the sports pages. Everyone loves a winner. The headlines of the Los Angeles Tribune sports page read: La Gata Blanca Wows ‘Em At The Acropolis! And in smaller bold print: LA's Ravens put out New York's Lights 3-Zip.
The accompanying prose glowed off the page.... Bekka Ducatte, known to her fans and teammates as La Gata Blanca, was called into action for only the second time this season, due to the injury sustained just prior to halftime by starting goalkeeper Ian Chapel. Ducatte is the first woman ever to play in a men's professional soccer league, and she gave the crowd a fireworks show of skill that had them on their feet cheering!
Ducatte's appearance in the third period sent the New York team into an explosion of offense. Ducatte, however, proved herself to be more than up for the challenge as she continued the shutout begun in the first half by starting keeper Ian Chapel. Backing up Ducatte's efforts was a dynamic trio of goals by forward Kurt Wagstaff. The feat was Wagstaff's first hat trick of the season and paced the way for the Ravens' 3-0 victory...
"You're certainly the Ravens' star now," I said with a big smile on my face. "And you've set yourself a high standard to maintain."
"Don't be silly," Bekka said, giving my hand a squeeze. "You're still the Ravens' starting keeper."
Still smiling, I shook my head. "Not anymore. My contract has run out, and nobody is going to want a slow, one-eyed goalkeeper with a limp." I raised my ankle slightly under the hospital bed's light covers. According to the doctors there was a hairline fracture and some bad bruising. The ankle was wrapped tightly in about a mile of stretch bandage. It still hurt like hell.
My other injuries included two splinted fingers, an ounce of gravel picked out of various road-rash sites, eighteen stitches to close the gash on my back from Donovan's knife, an assortment of bruises and aches, and a possible concussion.
However, I was still luckier than Donovan. He was dead.
Donovan made the newspapers as well. There was a small article buried on page six. The story was two paragraphs long, covering the fatal accident of a man who lost control of his motorcycle on the wet streets and crashed down into the Sepulveda Dam basin. There was no mention of my involvement. I had wondered briefly what had happened to my Laverda, but I was sure it had become another victim of Sir Adam's and Ethan's manipulation of the facts. Damage control was the term they used. Cover-up was closer to the truth.
"If it's true that you're putting your playing days behind you, and I don't believe that for a New York second, then why are you smiling?"
I thought about that for a minute and then realized something. "The anger is gone," I said. "After losing my eye, I thought I'd never play again, but I did. I played the best I could, and I came away a winner. The ankle will heal, but between it and my eye, my moment in the soccer spotlight has come and gone. It's time to move on. Somehow, though, I don't feel cheated like I did when I first lost my eye. The things that have happened to me in the last few weeks—confronting Wagstaff, playing in goal again, meeting you—have changed me. When I was lying in the ran last night, after it was all over with, it was like letting go. I felt...free."
We were both quiet for a moment, Bekka still holding my hand gently.
"What will you do instead?" she asked. I knew the question was loaded with much more than curiosity.
"I'm not sure. There's still Sporting Press to run, but I don't think I need to bury myself in that kind of nine-to-five world again to escape from the past. I might still write for Gerald occasionally, but I don't think I want the full editor status again." I put my head back on the pillow. "Now that Sir Adam is taking over as full owner of the Ravens, maybe he'll offer me a job in the head office."
At that Bekka's eyes lighted up, making me laugh. I pulled her down to the bed on top of me. She fought halfheartedly. "Whatever I do," I told her when she stopped struggling and lay against me, "I want it to involve you. You're not going to escape me that easily." Bekka laughed and squirmed her way up to kiss me.
There was a "harrumph" from the doorway, and we both looked over to see Sir Adam and Sticks standing there.
"We're sorry to interrupt," Sir Adam said.
"In that case come back in an hour," I told him.
"I'm not that sorry," he retorted.
Bekka pushed herself off my chest and modestly smoothed down the material of her dress. I caught Sir Adam checking out her legs.
"Do you have any news about Nina Brisbane?" I asked.
"She's been placed in a secured private sanitarium. She'll be taken care of far better there than in any prison or state institution," Sir Adam stated bluntly.
"Plus, it keeps the situation out of the newspapers," I said, rustling the papers on the bed. ' 'You also did a nice job covering up Donovan's murderous intentions."
"Thank you," Sir Adam replied, choosing to ignore the slight sarcasm in my voice. "By the way, you were correct about the placement of the explosives in the score cube. Ethan's bomb squad defused the set-up after the Acropolis was cleared last night."
"And Terranee Brisbane?"
"I'm not sure yet," Sir Adam said. "I hate drug smugglers. And I especially hate drug smugglers who are putting their profits into terrorism. Stavoros and Nick Kronos are back in custody again, and this time they're singing their little heads off. We've also rounded up Miles Norton and several of the team's other support staff who were in on the drug running.
"Brisbane has turned all of the Acropolis business affairs and team management over to Caitlin." Sir Adam shook his head at the irony of that situation. "He's also been cooperating by giving us names and contact points connected with running down the IRA-drug network. However, there's no way he's going to get out of doing jail time."
"What about fancy lawyer antics?"
Sir Adam gave me a cocked eye. "Brisbane is far bigger than some smalltime punk with a public defender and a cause, but he's a lot smaller than a Richard Nixon or an Oliver North. Nobody is going to give a damn about him. Between Ethan's contacts and mine, he'll go down without a fight."
I shook my head in wonderment at it all.
"You've done soccer a great service through your actions, Ian," Sir Adam continued. "Don't think for a moment that any of this could have been accomplished without you."
"I got the best end of the deal," I said, and reached out to take Bekka's hand back in mine. She blushed furiously.
"Yes, well..." Sir Adam trailed off. I love it when I can fluster him. "Actually, I didn't do too badly either," he said. "Caitlin has agreed to sell me the other half of the Ravens, and Sticks has agreed to remain as head coach."
I looked at Sticks in amusement. "Switching from coaching goalkeepers to running the whole show, huh? I thought you said you were too old a dog to be learning new tricks?"
"And you said you'd never play in goal again," Sticks retorted sharply.
He had me there.
"Tell me, how long will it be before you're going to quit lying around at my expense?" Sir Adam inquired suddenly.
"The doctor tells me I'll be released from the hospital tomorrow. I should be hobbling around in a week or so. Why?"
"Well, I have a friend who needs to talk with you."
"A friend?"
"Yes. He's a sports agent. It seems he's lost one of his clients. An
American player in the Japanese baseball leagues."
"He's lost him? How do you lose a baseball player?"
Sir Adam had a smug smile on his face. "I told him I thought you could find him."
"What!" I sat almost upright in the bed.
Bekka laughed at my expression and held my hand to her face.
Suddenly, I could feel the wheels of my fate beginning to turn again.
A Look at: Lie Catchers
By Paul Bishop
With her special abilities, top LAPD Robbery-Homicide detective Calamity Jane Randall thought she knew all about interrogation until she was partnered with detective Ray Pagan. Wielding a suspect’s vocal intonations, emotions, and physical gestures like a scalpel, Pagan’s empathetic lie catching abilities are legendary.
Both detectives are scarred by past tragedies, but together they threaten to tear the city apart searching for a duo of missing children – a search where the right answer to the wrong question can mean sudden death.
Ripped from the experiences of thirty-five year veteran LAPD detective and nationally recognized interrogator, Paul Bishop, Lie Catchers takes the reader inside the dark and dangerous mind games of the men and women for whom truth is an obsession.
AVAILABLE NOW
Books By Paul Bishop
Fey Croaker Series
Croaker: Kill Me Again
Croaker: Grave Sins
Croaker: Tequila Mockingbird
Croaker: Chalk Whispers
Hot Pursuit
Deep Water
A Bucketful of Bullets
Lie Catchers
Nothing But The Truth (Almost)
Fightcard: Felony Fists
Fightcard: Swamp Walloper
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