by J. C. Gatlin
It was another KYGL radio contest: The thirty-fifth caller would win $3,500. She was caller number seventeen, then caller number forty-six. Frustrated she slammed down the receiver.
When the doorbell rang, her mood seemed suddenly buoyant again. Leaping off the bed, she yelled, “Just a minute!” and scrambled downstairs.
Mallory signed for the UPS package at the door, then tore it open. Beneath sheets of bubble wrap, she found a black sniper rifle, and a red polished DM13, and a shiny, black Tippmann X7 Phenum Electropneumatic paintball marker. She reached in the box and lifted out a red and pink assault matrix.
There was a note attached that read,
“Mallory,
I picked out these DAM’s especially for you. Please share these with Kimberly and I’m looking forward to seeing you both this weekend.
– Dr. Alec Whitman.
P.S. I’ve included two tickets to the game this afternoon. Hope you both can make it.”
Mallory put down the handwritten note and peered back into the box. She found an envelope with two tickets for this evening's charity exhibition game with the Tampa Yankees--- a solid two months before Spring Training. It was the majors versus the minors in a winter game benefitting St. Jude’s Children’s Cancer Center.
Her smile broadened with approval. Gunz Gonzales would be there. Now she had to get Kim there.
From her upstairs bedroom window, Mallory watched for her best friend. When she finally saw Kim walk through the security gates and cross the parking lot, she glanced back at the box of paint guns.
With the sense of conviction that was part of her character, she stood and backed away from the window. It was time for her to go to work.
* * * * * * *
Zeus greeted Kim at the front door when she stepped inside and walked through the living room. She threw her literature books on the kitchen table. She held the poetry book for a moment, then threw that down as well and moved back to the living room. Zeus followed.
Picking up the phone on the end table next to the recliner, Kim dialed Ross’ mother.
“Mrs. McGuire,” she said, when a woman answered on the other end. It was Ross’ mother. “This is Kimberly. Have you seen Ross?”
“Not in the last few hours.” The woman’s voice chuckled, as if she was joking. Kim knew though that if she read between the lines, she’d find his mother was deadly serious.
“So is he there?” Kim asked impatiently. “Did he go home?”
“He’s not here. I haven’t seen either of you since Christmas, you know. You’d think a boy would visit or at least call his Mama once in a while.”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“I told you --- last Christmas. And even then it was just a phone call. No card or visit, just a quick phone call,” she rambled. A twinge of anger rose in her voice, then she broke off midsentence. Her tone changed. “Is something the matter?”
“He quit his job.”
“Well he’s always quitting something. Am I right?”
“But did he tell you that we broke up?”
The mother laughed. “Again, he’s always quitting something. He gets that from his father’s side, you know.”
Kim thanked her, hung up the phone then plopped down onto the old recliner. She picked up the scrapbook and flipped through the pages. Not really looking at any specific picture, she just retreated into the memories. Finally, she read Ross' poem again.
“Oh, Love rips the heart in pieces,
When distance fills the empty creases
Of time
And days become long stretches
Of pain and wretches
Of torment
When our love ceases.”
That little pang deep in her temple returned, and instinctively she knew something was wrong.
Something was terribly wrong, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
A clang at the front door startled her, as the door swung open and Mallory bound into the living room, dressed in fatigues and carrying the large box of plastic guns. The exhibition ticket were in her pocket.
“Taaaaa - daaa!” she exclaimed, posing in the doorway. Setting down the box, she held up the pink rifle. “Come on, make my day!”
“You look like you've been drafted,” Kim laughed. The green-black-brown fatigues drooped on her like an ill-fitting sweat suit and the combat boots made her feet look three times larger. It was certainly a fashion statement. “What's going on?”
“It's for our paintball weekend.” She put down the pink gun and opened the box. “There’s a Tippmann X7 Phenum Electropneumatic paintball marker. That's yours.”
Kim moved toward her. “What are these?”
“Paint ball guns,” she explained. “They shoot paint balls, or pellets really. They’re for our warrior weekend on Saturday.”
“I’m not going,” Kim said flatly and turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll be busy.”
“Doing what?” Mallory followed her with interest. Pausing, she glanced at the scrapbook in Kim's hands. Setting down the box of plastic guns, she walked over to Kim and took the black scrapbook from her hands. “I thought you got rid of everything that belonged to him.”
“Not everything,” Kim said quietly. She watched Mallory flip through the pages, her eyes widening.
“These are love letters...” Mallory turned another page and found the poem Kim most treasured. She read it out loud. “Oh, love rips the heart in pieces and distance fills the empty creases. Ross wrote this?”
“Yes, for me.” Kim walked over to the table and picked up the Pablo Neruda poetry book. She handed it to Mallory. It was time she told her everything. “And he gave me this.”
Mallory took the poetry book and opened the cover. She read the inscription out loud.
“For my Darling Bonnie. You will always be my angel. Love, Daddy.” Mallory flipped through the pages, glancing at the poems. “Who's Bonnie?”
“I don't know.”
“And Ross gave this to you?”
“Yes, earlier this week...” Kim said.
Mallory shut the book. “He gave you this book, this week?”
“Yes... along with a note to meet him on Friday night,” she said quietly. Zeus whimpered at her feet. She glanced at him, then back at Mallory. “I was going to tell you.”
“Oh, sweetie. Something isn't right here,” Mallory's tone was chiding as she studied the invitation. A look of alarm flushed over her face, but Kim ignored it.
“It’s romantic,” she insisted.
“Yeah, real romantic.” Mallory flipped the invitation over to see if anything was written on the back. “Why’s he being so elusive? Why not just call you and say, hey, we need to talk?”
“It’s his way. He’s poetic and passionate and quiet,” she said, then thought back to what Michael had said in class earlier. “Still waters run deep.”
“Deadly still waters,” Mallory added. “I just don’t like this.”
Tossing the invitation aside, she showed Kim the tickets to the charity baseball game. She was deliberately changing the subject from Ross, which Kim didn't particularly like.
“I don't know.” Kim took the two tickets from Mallory's hand and studied them. “A baseball game in the winter?”
“For little sick kids,” Mallory explained. “It's a good cause.”
“But baseball, in January?” Kim asked again, trying to get her head wrapped around the idea. “Only in Florida…”
“Come on. Besides, Gunz Gonzales is playing in it,” Mallory gushed.
Upstairs in Kim's bedroom loft, Mallory slipped out of the fatigues and found the white chiffon cocktail dress still hanging in the small, organized closet. It looked more like a slip really, and Mallory smiled when she saw it. Kim shook her head.
“You can’t wear that to a baseball game.”
“I’m not wearing it for the game; I’m wearing it for Gunz.” Mallory slipped into the skimpy white dress. Practically see-through, it clung provocati
vely to her body and left nothing to the imagination. “I want him to see me in this dress.”
“Everyone’s going to see you in that dress,” Kim said with a not-so-subtle hint of disapproval. “There’s going to be families and sick kids there.”
“It’s Chanel.”
“It’s a charity afternoon baseball game.” Kim took a pair of jeans from a middle drawer in her dresser and handed them toward her.
Mallory scoffed at this, but relented. She flipped the straps off her shoulders and let the dress fall to her ankles. She then lovingly picked it back up and returned it to the hanger in the closet. She sighed. Stepping into tight jeans and white tennis shoes, Mallory finally wrapped a checkered scarf over her red hair.
“You know we’re not going to watch baseball, don’t you?” Mallory asked.
“I hate it when you do this to me. I don’t want to be set-up.”
“A set-up?” Mallory asked with a slight smile of smug delight. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Am I going to run into the old head shrink at this charity exhibition game?”
“He’s a psychiatrist and he’s a rich doctor.” Mallory’s eyes sharpened as she quite openly appraised Kim, perhaps wondering if all the energy and effort was actually worth it. “Who do you think gave me the tickets?”
“I’m going, but just so you know, this doesn't change anything,” Kim said. “Absolutely nothing will happen between the old shrink and me. I'm still meeting Ross on Friday night.”
“I know,” Mallory said. “Even if it kills you...”
Shaking her head and resigning to her fate, Kimberly followed Mallory into the parking lot and into her freshly waxed Miata. A moment later, they pulled out and sped down the street.
Behind them, the headlights of a red BMW flipped on. The driver revved the engine, then tore down the street after them.
10
Field of Prey
Driving south on Interstate 75, the girls headed toward Tampa. It was a good hour on the road, and Mallory punched up KYGL, got Ricky Martin playing “Livin' la Vida Loca.” She adjusted the bass to just where she could see the dashboard vibrate, and drummed on the steering wheel.
“I’m so excited that you’re finally going to meet the rich doctor,” she said.
“The old shrink?” Kim asked, sitting beside her. Reaching out, she turned the radio knob, lowering the volume. “And you know this isn’t going to go anywhere.”
“The doctor’s a catch,” Mallory insisted. “And I hope after meeting him, you’ll see that and blow off meeting Ross tomorrow night.”
“Not going to happen,” Kim didn't care if Mallory approved or not, and made that very clear in her voice. “I just think this is the first step in the right direction.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know what to think,” Mallory said slowly, as if taken back by Kim's sudden forcefulness. Pausing, she glanced at Kim then added, “But I do know that Ross shouldn't have been at the New Year's Eve party that night and now, in light of everything that's happened, you need to put as much distance between you and him as possible.”
“Mal, you're one to talk.”
Coming to an exit ramp, Mallory turned her Miata off the Interstate. She pulled into the Flying J Truck Stop and up to a gas pump. Both girls climbed out of the car, and Mallory continued the conversation outside.
“Are you even certain it's Ross who set this up?” she asked. She swiped her credit card at the pump, selected a grade of gas and then removed the hose and nozzle.
“Of course it was. Who else would it be?” Kim glanced at the convenience store, and the small phone booth just beyond the parking lot. There was yellow police tape barricading it from the public. Behind it, along the dirt road running behind the store through the miles of woodlands and cow pastures, two police cars were parked with their lights flashing. Kim wondered what was going on.
Mallory shook her head. “If it's Ross, then why all the theatrics? Why is he sending you a book of morbid poetry? Why pass you cryptic notes?”
Kim wasn’t listening. She was focused on the murky woods, and then the empty phone booth. Several police officers appeared to be combing the area. Then a semi truck pulled into the parking lot, grumbling loudly as it rolled past, blocking her view.
Mallory finished pumping gas and replaced the lever in the pump. She was still talking, apparently unaware that Kim wasn’t even listening. “So, why meet you on Friday? Why not tonight? Or last night?” she asked, getting back into the car. “Or at the New Year's Eve party?”
The questions remained unanswered as the girls left the gas station and headed back to the Interstate.
Three thousand people filled Steinbrenner Field in Tampa. The crowd paraded from the parking lot to the ticket booths to the stadium entrance gates, with flags rippling in a chilly northern wind. Among children’s sneaker feet running, the crunch of nacho chewing, the monotonous calling of a program vendor, the collective chuckling of people standing in hot dog lines, Mallory led Kim to the outfield seats.
“There he is,” she said, pointing. Dr. Alec Whitman was hanging over the outfield railing before batting practice. Behind him on the field, the players were out limbering up. Mallory gushed. “Doesn’t he look dreamy?”
Turning to them, the doctor smiled. He was average height, just under six feet, wearing a turquoise and black bowling shirt and tan shorts. His hair was an odd shade of orangey-brown, with a little twinge of gray.
“Kimberly Bradford,” he said, approaching them with his hand extended. “Pleased to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Alec Whitman.”
“Good to meet you too.” Kim took his hand and lightly shook it, staring at his hair.
Mallory was staring at it too, as if trying to figure out exactly what to say. He held up his arms, offering a hug. She embraced him and pecked his cheek, then stepped back.
“What's going on here?” she asked, motioning to his head.
Dr. Whitman smiled. He ran a hand through his full head of orangey-brown hair. “It's called Indian Summer,” he said. “You like it?”
“You colored your hair,” she said through clenched teeth. “Don't you just look delicious.”
As Mallory quietly apologized to Kim, they found their seats in the bleachers. Kim glared at Mallory then moved to the seat beside the psychiatrist. Mallory sat to her right. After a short ceremony with a giant cardboard check for the St. Jude’s Children’s Cancer Research Center, and a rendition of The Star Spangled Banner sung by the local high school choir, the first pitch was thrown.
Mallory searched for Gunz, and found him warming up, in the on deck circle, rotating his shoulders, twisting his torso. She called out to him and he looked over his shoulder at Mallory and Kim in the stands for a moment. He tipped his cap, then returned to his practice swing.
Mallory grabbed Kim and waved.
The crowd cheered each hitter, especially Gunz Gonzales, who hammed it up in his bright white jersey. A group of fanatical middle-aged women held up signs reading “Grease it Gunz!” and “Gunz Got Game!” A lone voice in the outfield, faraway but still booming, cried out, “Guunnnnzzzoooo!”
Dr. Whitman paid no attention to the batter, seemingly focused on the girls. Leaning over Kim to address Mallory, he said, “I trust that you received my gift.”
Mallory laughed. “The box of red and pink assault rifles? I love them!”
A sigh of relief broke from his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair again. It left a streak of orange on his palm “They shoot pink paint pellets, so our adversaries are going to look mighty pretty all splattered up in dye.” He laughed as if he had just made a joke, then noticed the orange stain on his right hand. He quickly moved it to his lap and hid it under his left hand. Then he turned his head to speak into Kim’s ear.
“Me and these college kids, we do this kind of thing all the time,” he bragged, almost as if he was trying to prove his youth. “So feel free to pick anything out.”
Kim glared at Mallory. “We have
n’t decided whether or not we’re going.”
“I decided for both of us,” Mallory corrected her. “We’re going.”
“I have to check my calendar.”
Mallory wasn’t listening. “I’ve already RSVP’d.”
“Mal, this is infuriating. You know how important Friday night is to me. And if everything goes well, I should be preoccupied for the entire weekend…”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”
Kim glanced at him a moment then started to get up, saying she was getting a hot dog. Mallory grabbed her arm and forced her back into her seat.
“You’re going to miss the game,” she said.
On the field, a fastball ignited like a flash toward Gunz’s bat. He swung. The ball cracked wood, skidding hard toward third. Mallory’s body tensed. Kim moved toward the edge of her seat, as did the doctor next to her. They watched Gunz run to first. It looked as though the shortstop would get to the ball on third. Seconds later, the ball slid under his glove, into the outfield. Gunz scored, bringing in two runners. The crowd cheered.
“That’s my lover boy!” Mallory screamed, rising from her seat.
New York scored another in the first inning, but so did Tampa. And Tampa scored again in the third with bloop singles and an error by the pitcher.
Despite the excitement, things didn’t seem to be going the way Mallory had planned between Kim and the Doctor. She grimaced at this. Finally stretching over Kim, Mallory placed a hand on the Doctor’s knee. “So tell Kim about your practice,” she said. “I bet you have some interesting stories to tell.”
“A few.” He was obviously trying not to sound too pretentious. “But I have been on manic depressive overloads lately.”
Mallory threw her head back, laughing at his joke. Then she tagged Kim’s shoulder. “Did you hear that, Kim?”