Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  They lay me on a training table. Irus stays with me. Snippets of hushed conversation reach my ears. Disembodied mouthpieces. Voices I have no faces for as my vision blurs. I stare at the ceiling.

  “Is this because of the concussion?”

  “Can he play on Sunday?”

  “He’s not ready. This is a major setback.”

  “Yes, I believe this is directly linked to his severe concussion. I told you before I felt he was hiding symptoms from me.”

  “Is he delusional?”

  “He might be.”

  “What do we have to do?”

  “I want another CT. MRI. PET scan. I want everything. Possibly a psych evaluation too.”

  “Whoa, whoa, are you saying Jacks is crazy?” I know Irus’s voice.

  “Where’s the kid?” I ask.

  Irus comes into my field of vision. “Haines took the kid home. Just like you asked.”

  “I want to go home too.” I’m shaking. I stare at the ceiling so I don’t have to see the concern in Irus’s dark eyes.

  “I don’t think you’ll be going home soon. Doc wants a lot of tests run. He’ll get his way, believe you me.”

  * * * *

  It’s after midnight when Irus gets me in bed. We’re at my house, thank God. I’m exhausted. Doc ran all his tests. Found not one goddamned thing. Looks like I may just be crazy, but I know I’m not. They’re calling this a setback. I don’t get to play on Sunday.

  At least the kid got home safe. The thought of Paul in the shower with that little boy turns my stomach. Fucking ballsy son of a bitch. I lean over my bed and vomit into the bowl Irus set on the floor. His warm hand rubs my back. So comforting.

  Irus hasn’t asked me a damned thing. He’s been quiet. I think he suspects the truth. How do I explain to him why I couldn’t let Paul take Kiernan into the showers? I don’t know if I can ever say anything adequately enough for Irus to understand.

  The bed shifts. Irus pads into the bathroom. He comes back with a towel and mouthwash. I rinse and spit, wiping my mouth. Irus takes the bowl and flushes it, bringing it back when he’s done.

  “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  He shakes out a pill. “You can have one.”

  I swallow it dry, hoping to avoid puking it up.

  Irus climbs back in bed with me. His arms slide around my body as he warms my backside. “Secrets are killing you, Jacks.”

  “Secrets are secrets for a reason.”

  “I think this is one you should tell, for everyone’s sake.”

  “No. It’ll go to my grave.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, babe.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jackson McCoy’s House

  Irus Beaumont

  The sound of voices wakes me. Ugh. Monday morning after a 17–3 loss at home. Sore from the game last night, I lie in bed, listening, without even enough energy to climb out of the warm blankets. The conversation drifts up from the living room. Jackson’s voice is recognizable and so is his agitation. The strains of tension are subtle, but I can hear the precariousness in his voice.

  “Investigators? Who are you investigating?”

  A woman’s voice answers. “Paul Phelps.”

  “Paul? Why Paul?” This is where Jacks’s tone changes. There’s fear in his voice.

  “You were a foster child in his home on several occasions. What can you tell us about him?” This is a new voice. A man. He speaks in an authoritative manner. Police? Feds? I’m clueless as to what agency these people are from, but I don’t want to crash the party.

  “Paul does a lot of charity work. Fosters kids. Works in his community. Everyone loves Paul,” Jacks says.

  Jesus, baby, even I can tell that answer’s canned. What’s going on? I sit up on the edge of the bed quietly and rub my eyes. Should I be eavesdropping?

  “We understand he’s a pillar of his community,” the man says, with a dry emphasis on pillar.

  “Well, sounds like you don’t need me to tell you what you already know, so if you’ll please—”

  “Allegations have been made by one of his foster kids,” the woman says, interrupting Jacks.

  “Allegations of sexual abuse.” The man sounds stoic.

  Christ. Oh God. Jacks, is that why you smashed the showerheads? I’m sick to my stomach. I suspected, but prayed I was wrong.

  “Not Paul. No way.”

  No, baby. Tell the truth. Stop lying.

  “Mr. McCoy, this boy is credible,” the man states.

  The woman speaks up on the boy’s behalf. “This child has been severely abused for years by Paul Phelps. I’ve worked with this kid. He’s a mess. Phelps sexually assaulted him from the time he was ten until now. The boy’s fourteen years old, Mr. McCoy. For four years this man has been—”

  “No! Not Paul! I want you to leave.” There’s panic in my lover’s voice. Jacks is losing it, and after the night of the shower incident, I wonder if I should go rescue him.

  “Mr. McCoy, we can’t go to a grand jury with just this young man’s testimony. His powerful friends and substantial wealth make him difficult to prosecute. This child isn’t the only one Paul Phelps has hurt. The man is not going to stop. We’ve tried once before and were unsuccessful. The first boy changed his mind. Phelps threatened to hurt the child’s mother, who just wanted to put the whole thing behind them. Phelps terrified them. Is he a man you want to be responsible for allowing to roam free?” They’re double-teaming him, backing him into a corner. Jesus, they’re not going to get anywhere with him by attacking him.

  “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “We’ve been searching for more victims and finding them. Problem is, most either don’t want to admit to the abuse, or they admit it but refuse to help us. Which category do you fall into, Mr. McCoy?” The woman goes right for Jacks’s heart.

  “Get the fuck out!”

  “Please help us put a serial pedophile in prison. Mr. McCoy, I’m afraid this child is going to kill himself. I fear for his life if we don’t get Phelps put away. You must know something. You lived in his house.”

  Come on, Jacks. Spill it. You’ll feel better. Let it all out now. God, help him. Come on, Jacks. Let it go, man. Somehow he hears me—a little, but it’s something.

  “I can’t help you. My career—”

  “He’s still hurting children. Still working around them every day. Do you remember what it was like living with him?”

  She’s wearing Jacks down. I can hear it in his voice as he wavers. “I can’t go public. I’ve just been outed.”

  “Please, Mr. McCoy, we just want you to do what’s right.” The man moves in for the kill. “We need to protect these kids and any future victims from Phelps. We need to protect them the way you should have been protected.”

  “I—I don’t want to talk about this. Please leave.”

  This is killing me. I move to the railing and look down at Jacks. He’s in faded jeans and a thin undershirt. His arms are wrapped around himself, and he’s looking out the window at the rain. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Make him talk, I’m begging you.

  The woman crosses the room to stand beside Jacks. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “The fuck he can’t. I work with him, lady. Paul can fuck up my entire world. Don’t you get it?”

  “He hurt you, didn’t he?” She uses a gentle voice. A therapist’s voice. Jacks nods. “Did he touch you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he touch you?”

  “Do you really need to know the details?” He takes a step back.

  “I’m afraid we do, Mr. McCoy.”

  Jacks licks his lips and nods, turning back to the window. I can’t see his face now, but his voice is clear, sort of flat. “I can’t believe I’m doing this shit…um. Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he says, “The first time was in the shower. Paul took me to work with him, when he was coaching high school.
It was the end of the day. I’d watched practice. Got to sit on the benches with the team. It was great. Took my mind off my mom for a while. It was after everyone had left, when he did it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McCoy, but I need you to tell me what he did that night.”

  “Call me Jackson.” He turns to give her a wavering smile. His charm thing isn’t gonna get him out of this one.

  “Okay, Jackson, what did Paul do in the shower?”

  “You got to understand. My mom was sick. My grandpa, who taught me to obey my elders, just died. I was feeling all alone. Suddenly Paul was there to make it all okay. He took me to professional football games, took me to meet the players, got me autographs. Fuck! He paid for my mom’s surgery and my grandfather’s funeral. I owed him. He said I could repay him in love.”

  “What he did wasn’t love, Jackson. Is that what you still think?”

  “Lady, you don’t know shit. You wanna know the last time he fucked me? The night of my mother’s funeral. He comforted me and then—”

  “Took advantage of you, Jackson.”

  “I was nineteen. Perfectly legal. What’re you gonna do about it?”

  “Let’s get back to that first time in the shower.”

  Jacks takes a swipe at his cheeks. “I—he washed me.”

  “Washed your genitals?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Physically, it felt good. In my stomach, I was sort of sick, you know? Like it didn’t feel quite right.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Can’t you figure it out? You have the testimony of the others. I’m sure I’m not much different than them.”

  “You are different than the others. He still has a relationship with you.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “None of the other boys were molested after the age of twelve, with the exception of you and this fourteen-year-old boy.”

  “You do realize he’s working with me now. He’s my new receivers’ coach. I see him every day.”

  The woman looks to the man sitting on the couch and back to Jacks. The man clears his throat. “Mr. McCoy, would you be willing to work with us to get Phelps on tape, confessing to molestation?”

  “Paul’s not that dumb. No. I won’t do it.”

  “Jackson, would you at least tell us your story? Help us put him away? What did he do to you in the shower?”

  “No, I’m done. I want you people out of my house.”

  I pull on my sweatpants. I’ve got to get down there before he kicks them out. This isn’t resolved. It won’t be resolved if he sweeps it all under the carpet. I’m down the stairs, taking them two at a time until I’m facing Jacks. He stares at me in shock. Tears streak his face and his eyes are bloodshot.

  “You gotta tell them, babe. Everything.”

  Jacks shakes his head. Tears spill down his cheeks, hanging heavy on his beautiful lashes, and I yank him into my arms. My face feels wet. I’m crying without realizing until it’s too late. “You can’t keep this inside. It’s ruining your life. Plus, it’s costing you more money every time you break a showerhead.”

  He laughs into my shoulder, his face buried in the crook of my neck, and I lead him to the sofa. The man scoots over to make room for us. Once I have Jacks settled, I introduce myself and find out their names.

  “Irus, my name’s Olivia DeWalt. I specialize in crimes against children. We’re the federal investigators in charge of this case. This is Special Agent Cole Maddox from the FBI’s Seattle field office.”

  “So, you’re both Feds?” I ask.

  “In a way, yes,” Olivia responds. “I work more with the kids.”

  “She’s a shrink. Mr. Beaumont, you look familiar. Have we met?”

  “No, sir. I don’t believe so.”

  The man takes a hard look at me, but shrugs his shoulders, prepared to let it go.

  “Agent Maddox and I believe you’re the key to putting Paul Phelps behind bars. You’ve lived with him the longest and have had the most contact with him.”

  Jacks is shivering next to me, so I pull the blanket off the back of the couch to wrap around him.

  “Jackson?” Olivia questions.

  “He’s had a concussion. Put him out of the last game. Night before last was hard for him. He had a meltdown, I guess.”

  “Paul has another little boy,” Jackson says. “I couldn’t let him take the kid into the showers.”

  Olivia sits on the coffee table and makes eye contact with Jacks. “What did he do to you, Jackson? What does he do to little boys in the showers?”

  “Like I said, he washed me, playing with my, you know, tackle. Equipment.”

  “Your genitals?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  “He made me play with his tac—genitals, washing him. This is crazy. I can’t be talking to you people about this—”

  “After you washed him, what happened?”

  “He sort of put… No.” Jacks jumps up. He crosses to the fireplace, throwing a log on the fire, stoking it so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. He’s crouched with his back to us, poking at the fire. “Oral. He forced oral on me.”

  I’m gonna kill this bastard. How the hell will I be able to look at Paul and pretend I don’t know this shit? “You better get this guy put away fast, or I’ll kill him.”

  “Irus, we need for the two of you to pretend nothing’s changed. Once we gather all the depositions and file the paperwork, it’s going to hit the media. We have to keep a lid on this until that happens. Paul Phelps can’t know we’re on to him. He’s a flight risk. The man is wealthy. He has the means and the desire to leave the country at a moment’s notice,” Agent Maddox says.

  “I can’t do this,” Jackson says. “I can’t testify.”

  “We need you, Mr. McCoy,” Agent Maddox says. “We need you to provide us with detailed depositions concerning all your interactions with Paul Phelps.”

  “All my interactions? You want to know all my interactions? You want to know the first time he fucked me?” Jacks flies out of control, brandishing a fireplace poker, jabbing it into the air between us for emphasis. I knew it was coming. His leash has been short since the concussion, which has me worried, but if this has been preying on his mind lately, it could explain his mood changes. Hard to tell what’s concussion and what’s pent-up aggression toward Paul.

  “Jackson, please calm down.” Olivia’s voice is firm.

  “No, you want this, right? You want to know how old I was when he first held me down and fucked me? I was eleven!” he screams. “Goddamn eleven, what the fuck? Who the fuck does that to a kid? What the fuck am I missing here?” Jackson chucks the fire poker through the big picture window. Shards of glass fly into the yard. Birds on the feeders out back flutter away to the trees, watching for any other signs of disturbance.

  I cross the room to get him under control before he hurts himself, or someone else. Jacks breaks free of my hold and is out the back door into the rain. I let him go. There’s no way I’m going to find him in the woods.

  “I think you should come back later,” I say.

  “Is he going to be okay out there?” Olivia asks.

  “It’s his mountain. He grew up in these woods. He’ll be fine.” I hope he’ll be fine.

  Agent Maddox pulls out his wallet. He passes over his card. “Please, call us if he doesn’t come back. Shit, just call us if he does comes back, or needs anything at all. Just call us.”

  “He’s got a lot on his mind right now. He didn’t get to play in the game last night, and we lost. Down to the wire, and he feels like he’s not doing his team any favors sitting on the sidelines. Being outed doesn’t help any either. Jacks never wanted to be the first openly gay player in the league. He’s afraid I’m gonna be outed too.”

  “Mr. Beaumont, I’m actually a big fan of the Highlanders. I thought he was supposed to be cleared to play. What happened?”

 
“Why didn’t you recognize me?”

  “Oh, I recognized you, but you remind me of someone I know. It’s weird. Don’t worry about it. Now, what happened?”

  “Phelps happened.” I tell them about the showerheads and Doc’s refusal to sign off on Jacks.

  “You got to get him back in the game. We can’t afford any more losses if we want home field advantage in the play-offs.” Maddox says.

  “Are you guys really going to talk football while Jackson is out there in the pouring-down rain, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans?” Olivia asks, the incredulity making her voice rise in pitch.

  Maddox shakes his head. “Women don’t get it, do they?”

  “I’ll take care of Jacks. Don’t worry. He knows these woods, and he knows I love him. He’ll be all right. I promise. I’ll call you when he’s ready to talk more, I swear, but you also gotta understand him. Football is his joy, and until now, the only thing he could control.”

  “And he’s that fucking good,” Maddox interjects.

  “Neanderthals.” Olivia starts to walk out, but turns back to us. “If anything happens to him. I’m blaming you two knuckleheads. I’ll have your balls roasting on a spit.”

  Maddox follows Olivia out of the room. I trail behind to close the door. “She’s a mother bear,” Maddox says by way of an excuse before leaving.

  I close the door. Good. Means Olivia isn’t going to rest until she has Paul Phelps’s balls on a platter. I like her, a lot. She’s good with Jacks. Now, all I have to do is figure out how to win all the rest of our games, have Phelps gift wrapped for Olivia, and get Jacks back into the game. Life will be grand.

  I think about Kane married and happy. My chest hurts with the realization I want that for Jacks and me.

  I want Jackson McCoy to marry my ass. The first gay marriage in football? It could happen, right? It’d shake up the league for sure. The thought has merit. Right now, I have to cover the broken window.

  * * * *

  It’s dark. The glaziers just left. Cost me a pretty penny and a few game tickets, but I got Jacks’s window repaired. There still hasn’t been any sign of Jacks. I’m scared. What if he fell off that cliff? Finally, I can’t take any more of this waiting. I know I can’t go out into the woods, but I’ve got to do something. I pick up my phone and hit the speed dial for Assistant Coach Daily.