by B K Stevens
He had a gun, and he was worried about my plastic flashlight? But I did it.
“Point it toward yourself,” he said, “so I can see you. Now put your hands back up. Good. I don’t want to hurt you kids. I don’t. But we’ve got a situation here. I have to figure out how to handle it.”
Move in, I thought. If Graciana can’t get the gun away from him, I’ll have to, and I can’t unless I’m closer.
“We didn’t come here to make trouble, Mr. Quinn,” I said, without much hope he’d fall for it. “We heard Nina Ramsey had a special place, we thought it might be here, and we were curious. We just wanted to have a look. We’ll go home now.” I took one step forward.
“Stop!” Mr. Quinn raised the gun another inch. “Stay where you are. Let me think this through. And don’t lie to me. I’ve been standing in the hall for ten minutes, listening to you. I know why you’re here. I know what you think.”
Yeah, I thought. I think you’re a murderer. I think you killed Nina Ramsey because she pissed you off, and then you had Bobby Davis murder Coach because he was figuring things out. I tried another step. “I don’t know what you mean. We don’t—”
“Shut up!” he said. “And stay where you are! Maybe there’s still a way out of this.”
Graciana kept her eyes locked on mine. I didn’t dare move. I should keep him talking, I thought. I should distract him, so she can take him by surprise. “Did Coach Colson come talk to you?” I asked. “Marie told him she thought Paul killed her sister, and you’re so close with Paul—it’d be natural for Coach to ask you if Paul was involved with Nina.”
“Yes, he asked me,” Mr. Quinn said. “I said I’d talk to Paul. And I did.”
I bet you did, I thought. You told him Coach was suspicious, and that’s why Paul acted weird every time Coach’s name was mentioned. And Paul felt more indebted to you than ever, because you knew he’d been with Nina that afternoon but promised to keep quiet. He never dreamed you’d killed her—he thought you were protecting him. “So you told Coach there was nothing between Paul and Nina,” I said. “But he wouldn’t believe you?”
Mr. Quinn shook his head. “He said he’d found some evidence—but it’d created more questions in his mind. I was afraid he’d start having questions about me. I said I’d talk to Paul again, and Randy agreed to wait a few days before going to the police.”
So you decided to have him killed before he got the chance, I thought. I strained to keep the disgust out of my voice, to try to sound sympathetic. “That put you under a lot of pressure,” I said.
“It did. I had to do something. If he kept poking around, who knows what he might’ve found? And it was all over nothing. She was nothing. Paul had a moment of weakness, I lost my temper, and she never would’ve amounted to anything anyway. If Randy had just let it go, it would’ve all been over. But he wouldn’t. He—”
Graciana made her move. She twisted her body to the side, grabbing the barrel of the gun with her left hand, forcing it down. Then she swung her right fist up, striking Mr. Quinn’s wrist, and wrenched the gun away from him, twisting her body again to get away from his arm. But when she tried to shove him off, he punched her in the face, really hard. The gun went flying into the darkness, and Graciana fell, hitting her head on the floor. She lay there, not moving, her hair covering her face.
Mr. Quinn jumped back. “Check on her, Matt. Make sure she’s okay.”
I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to. I couldn’t let myself. If I crouched down to check on Graciana, he’d knock me out, and then he could kill us both. He could drag our bodies to the basement, and it might be decades before anyone found what was left of us. Or he could set the place on fire, and people would think we’d come here to make out and knocked over a candle or something. He’d get away with it.
Keeping my hands up, I took one more step forward. “Let’s figure this out together, Mr. Quinn.” If I could get close enough to kick him—
“Stay back!” he shouted, and lifted his right leg, leaning his body back for a spin. Roundhouse kick, I thought.
Before he could finish his spin, I got him with a quick front kick to the stomach. He doubled over, gasping, and I came at him again, trying to grab his shoulders so I could pull him down and knee him in the face. But he straightened up, landing a solid punch to my eye.
The pain nearly knocked me out. I staggered back, leaning against the wall, holding my eye, trying to shake off the dizziness. Already, he was moving toward me. This time, he got me with a side kick to the stomach, knocking the air out of me.
As I struggled for breath, I saw Graciana on her hands and knees, feeling around on the floor in the darkness. The gun, I thought. She’s searching for the gun.
It gave me hope, and my strength surged back. He was coming for me again.
“Kadima!” I shouted, and twisted my body around, bringing my right hand up. Just as he reached for me, I rammed my open palm against his chin as hard as I could. One grunt of surprise, and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Graciana was standing now, holding the gun in both hands, pointing it at him. “You okay?”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
We didn’t look back at him. We got outside as fast as we could, stumbling, helping each other. Then I slammed the piece of plywood back in place and stood with my back braced against it, both arms outstretched, breathing hard, while Graciana called 911.
Thirty-six
Graciana didn’t get the Outstanding Senior award. Paul Ericson didn’t, either. For a while, people thought he might face charges, since he’d lied to the police when, weeks ago, Lieutenant Hill reluctantly followed up on Marie’s questions and asked Paul if he’d been with Nina on the day she died. But Paul’s parents got that smoothed out, and Paul never had any legal problems. He didn’t lose his scholarship, either, and Carolyn fussed a while but forgave him after he gave her a sapphire promise ring.
But his reputation was tarnished. So at graduation, Dr. Lombardo called up Don Webster, the student council president, and gave him the award. Don’s a nice enough guy, but he doesn’t compare to Graciana. Of course, in my opinion, nobody does.
The members of the martial arts club came up on stage next, to hand out the first Randolph Colson Memorial Award for Excellence in the Study of History. Somebody had taken the tired yellow-and-black banner that’d hung in the gym all year and strung it across the stage, and we all stood in front of it—Derrick, Joseph, Berk, and I in the suits our parents made us wear; Graciana in her cap and gown, with the gold honor society cord draped around her shoulders; Suzette in a frilly spring dress, smiling and waving like she’d done all the work singlehandedly. I hear she’s been dating Rick Jenson. Some people say he might be captain of the golf team next year.
I looked out into the audience and saw Mrs. Dolby dabbing at her eyes with a big pink handkerchief, saw Ms. Nguyen sitting next to her, grim-faced, keeping a hand on her arm. Aaron sat in a back row, looking straight at me, eyes steady and, I thought, proud. Ms. Quinn was in the audience, too, but she wasn’t looking at anyone. Her jaw was set, her face expressionless. Lots of people thought she wouldn’t show up for graduation, but I wasn’t surprised to see her. After her husband was arrested, after he’d confessed to killing Nina and asking Bobby Davis to kill Coach, Ms. Quinn stayed out of school for exactly one week. Then she came back, looking exhausted, looking older, but acting as if nothing had happened. As far as I know, she never talked to anyone about it. When I pass her in the hall, she still says hello to me. She never makes eye contact, though, and I don’t blame her. I hope she’ll be okay.
I made a three-sentence speech, announced the name of the senior who’d won the award, gave her an envelope, and shook her hand. Graciana went back to her chair on stage, and I went back into the audience to sit with my parents. They’d been mad about me going to Twin Dogwoods Manor without telling them, but eventually they’d gotten
over it, and I’d made fresh promises about being more open. So far, I’ve kept them.
Cassie had decided to sit with Anita, not us. Those two are both taking tae kwon do at Aaron’s school now, and they’ve gotten close. I looked over at them, their faces intent as Dr. Lombardo came to the podium. That’s all it took to stop the gossip, I thought. Cassie just needed somebody at her school to stand up for her. If someone at Ridgecrest High had stood up for Nina Ramsey years ago, would any of this have happened?
Dr. Lombardo began her speech. As always, she was dressed extra-formal, from pearl earrings to slim black suit to three-inch heels; as usual, her speech was confident and smooth, full of references to the school’s accomplishments and of hints she was personally responsible for them. She kept it short, though, and she looked tired. The last few weeks couldn’t have been easy for her—the man she’d supported as her successor arrested for two murders, front-page stories about his crimes in the newspaper every day, editorials saying the next principal should work harder to crack down on gossip. One editorial even brought up the incident from ten years ago, saying it wouldn’t have happened if Lombardo hadn’t looked the other way when Jefferson Davis Roberts was bullied. She hadn’t lost her new job as superintendant, but she wouldn’t be starting it with a glowing, spotless record, and this somber graduation couldn’t be the sendoff she’d imagined. It felt like she just wanted to get it over with and go home.
She finished her speech, and Mr. Carver brought up the box of diplomas. When Graciana’s name was called, I clapped and cheered and stamped my feet. Mom frowned, and Dad shook his head. They always do that at graduation. In their day, they’ve said a million times, graduations were more dignified. People waited until all the graduates had their diplomas and then gave everyone a polite round of applause. Maybe that had been more dignified. But today, I didn’t feel like holding back.
We all stood to sing the school song, the minister from the Methodist Church gave a benediction, and it was over. People started pushing programs into purses and collecting their kids. I turned to my parents. “I gotta find Graciana. See you back at the house?”
“Fine,” Mom said. “Tell her I’m making profiteroles for her party tonight.”
God. What are those? But I’d try one. These days, I always try one. I nodded and took off.
I found Graciana as she was walking out into the parking lot. She had her graduation gown draped over her arm, her cap clutched in her hand. She was wearing a new sleeveless white dress, her dark hair shining down over her shoulders. God, I thought. She’s beautiful.
I handed her a small blue box. “Happy graduation,” I said.
“I told you not to get me a present.” She opened the box, lifting out the ivory and gold bracelet. “Oh, Matt! It’s so lovely, so delicate! White roses—like the ones in the corsage you gave me for prom. But it looks expensive.”
We’ve had this discussion before. She always fusses when I spend money on her—or on anything, actually. I’ve started a savings account for college, and she thinks every penny I get should go straight there. “It wasn’t much,” I said. “And you know my dad’s business is picking up. He can use me almost full time this summer, and he pays pretty well. Plus Aaron spoke to me before graduation. He’s starting a Self-Defense for Teens class, and he wants me to help teach it. He pays pretty well, too.”
She looked skeptical. “He could hire a black belt for that.”
“He says he’d rather have someone with real-life self-defense experience.” I grinned. “He says I’ve got more of that than almost anyone else he knows.”
“I can believe it.” She smiled at me wistfully. “Don’t line up too many jobs, Matt. Leave some summer for me. Fall will be here so soon.”
“Charlottesville’s not far away. We play Charlottesville. So I’ll be coming up for games. And for other reasons.” I took her hand. “And you’ll come home some weekends, right?”
“So many my parents will get sick of seeing me.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “They’re waiting out front. My dad’s taking pictures, and I want you in them.”
“I’ll come in a minute. I should say hi to Berk.”
She squeezed my hand again and ran off. I looked for Berk but couldn’t spot him. No wonder. The parking lot was clogged with people—families hugging, parents chasing after little kids, seniors giving each other high fives. Glancing at the far side of the lot, I caught a glimpse of a man’s back as he walked toward a car. Not tall, but a muscular build. And he was limping.
My body went tense. Bobby Davis, I thought.
Someone called, “Dad!” He turned around, and my shoulders sagged. Forties, glasses, big smile. Somebody’s father. Not Bobby Davis.
Damn, I thought. I’ve got to get over this. I’ve got to stop watching for him.
I hate being so paranoid. The day he disappeared, that one cop had spotted him in Delaware. Since then, nothing. Lieutenant Hill says the police are still looking, but I don’t know how hard. I can’t get past thinking Davis will come back to finish things.
Shake it off, I told myself, and scanned the parking lot again. The girl who’d won the Randolph Colson Award was showing her check to her parents, so happy she was grinning, bouncing in place. That’s one thing we did for you, Coach, I thought, and turned away.
I finally caught sight of Berk, but he and Derrick were already getting into Joseph’s car. When I called out, they didn’t hear me. Joseph backed out of his parking space too fast, at an angle, nearly grazing a girl wearing a black skirt and a gray hooded jacket. She jumped out of his path, and her hood fell back. Marie Ramsey.
I walked over to her. When she’d first come back to school, her face had still been bruised, and she’d walked like every step hurt. She’d seemed much better lately. “Hi,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
She looked up at me. I’d noticed that she doesn’t stare at the floor as much as she used to, and she pushes her hair back more, so it doesn’t hide her face all the time. “Nina would’ve graduated today,” she said. “I didn’t go inside, but I felt like I should be here. And I was hoping I’d see you. We’re leaving town next week. My mom and I are moving to Buffalo. We’ll live with her sister until Mom finds a job.”
“That sounds great,” I said. Maybe Marie would be happier at a big-city school; maybe she’d fit in better. “Will your father join you there—well, eventually?”
“I hope not.” She smiled—I think it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile. “He hates cold weather. So does Ted. That’s why we’re going to Mom’s sister in Buffalo, instead of her sister in Atlanta. And the counselor Mr. Carver sent us to is pretty good. Mom’s joined AA.”
“That’s fantastic, Marie. I’m really glad.”
She shrugged. “She’s joined before, three times. It never lasts more than a few months. As long as it gets us to Buffalo, that’s good enough. Anyway, I wanted to say goodbye, and to give you this.” She reached into her purse, took out a small, flat package wrapped in white paper, and pressed it into my hand. “Thank you,” she said, and hurried away.
I unwrapped the package. It was a framed drawing of Coach Colson in his tae kwon do uniform, grinning, both arms lifted in the air. He looked like he did at the tournament, like he couldn’t wait to get started.
I looked at the drawing more closely. No, I thought. Not like he couldn’t wait to get started. Like he’d just won his match.
I stood there another minute, looking at it, then rewrapped it carefully and walked off to find Graciana.
Acknowledgments
In Fighting Chance, Matt Foley gains important insights into many things, including friendship and courage. This book is dedicated to the memory of my friend Eloise Gershone, the most courageous person I’ve ever known. Even when locked in a long, painful battle with cancer, she stayed cheerful and determined, fighting as hard as she could against an opponent she
knew she couldn’t defeat. Her generosity of spirit never faltered. Always, she thought first of others, not of herself; always, she focused on trying to make things easier for the rest of us. She was a gifted and dedicated teacher, a loving wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. Eloise left this world better than she found it. Her memory is a blessing to everyone whose life she touched.
So many people have contributed to this novel, either directly or indirectly. I can’t possibly list them all, but I’ll mention a few.
I’m grateful to many people at Poisoned Pen Press /The Poisoned Pencil, including Jacqueline Cooper, Beth Deveny, Diane DiBiase, Ellen Larson, Robert Rosenwald, Tiffany White, and Pete Zrioka. I appreciate every effort they’ve devoted to this book, every perceptive comment and piece of good advice they’ve offered me. It’s an honor to have Fighting Chance published by such a distinguished and exciting press.
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine gave me my start as a mystery writer and continues to provide a home for the short stories that mean so much to me. Editor Linda Landrigan always treats writers with respect, and her insights and high standards spur me to do my best. I also owe an enduring debt to my first editor at Hitchcock’s, the late Cathleen Jordan.
Many people in the mystery community have helped by reading and critiquing drafts, by encouraging me through every disappointment, and by joyfully applauding even the smallest success. I especially want to thank the infallibly supportive Sisters in Crime Guppies, my good friends at the Mid-Atlantic chapter of Mystery Writers of America, and the enthusiastic, inspiring Malice Domestic family.
Two writers who are not part of the mystery community, Miriam Greystone and Julia Palmer, read and commented on early drafts of Fighting Chance. Their perspectives and suggestions were tremendously helpful.
I’m not a martial artist, but I’ve learned a lot about martial arts from the people who have taught and studied with my husband and our daughters. My husband began his study of krav maga at FEKS Martial Arts in Lynchburg, Virginia, where he was taught by David and Bruce Rubinberg. Their school was the inspiration for the Eye of the Tiger School in Fighting Chance, and their knowledge of krav maga informs all the lessons Matt learns there. And of course I have to mention the martial artists who were such an important part of our family’s life for so many years back in Sioux Falls, South Dakota: Charlie Azzara (always first and foremost, and not just alphabetically), Doug Blomker, Chuck and Shelly Johnson, Master Al Pepin, Steve Sinning, and Laurie Soldake.