Dead Line

by Jack Patterson

  Rivera didn’t want to tie Jake’s feet together; they looked about the same size as his son Juan’s feet. He didn’t want to tie Jake’s hands together either. But he tied them both. This kid wasn’t going anywhere, but Rivera knew it was best to heed instruction. Mr. Hernandez’s compound was no place for compassion. Not even a moment of kindness could inch through the door. Mr. Hernandez was always watching.

  “When am I going to see my mom and dad again?” Jake finally asked.

  “Hopefully soon,” Rivera said.

  Rivera finished tying the last knot and swung Jake’s feet onto the bed so his prisoner could relax a bit. Jake’s initial terror had worn off and he felt comfortable with Rivera. Then Morales entered the room, storming in with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a Glock 19 in the other. He sneered at Jake before crashing on top of a wooden folding chair near Jake’s bed. It was far too early to be drinking, but Morales’ love affair with alcohol was nothing he tried to hide. Rivera worried something bad could happen to Jake if he left him alone with Morales. But it was time for a shift change, another directive from Mr. Hernandez that could not be usurped. However, Rivera felt obliged to give Morales a fair warning about his behavior.

  “What are you doing?” Rivera said in a hushed voice. “It’s not a good idea to be drinking like this, especially in front of the kid.”

  Morales bristled at the rebuke.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” Morales roared. “If I want to smack this little kid around, I will.”

  And with his bold statement, Morales backhanded Jake, catching him just below his right cheekbone. Jake’s entire body lurched toward the wall and only stopped when Jake’s head smacked it hard. He started crying as a wave of terror washed over his face. Rivera thought Jake was begging him to stay with his eyes. But those sad eyes reminded Rivera that he had his own family waiting for him at home—and he didn’t need to waste any more time here.

  “Go easy on the kid,” Rivera said. As he left the room and walked down the hall, Rivera heard another sound of a head slapping up against the wooden wall. He cringed … and hoped Jake would still be alive when he returned later that evening.

  CHAPTER 6

  CAL’S ALARM BUZZED, and he rolled over to look at the clock. Six a.m. It was too early for the sun to be up, much less Cal. It was the worst thing about traveling east while living on the west coast. Hours of sleep were lost that could never be regained. At least, not if you believed in Murphy’s law of sleep deprivation: if you lose an hour of sleep, it’s gone forever. He told everyone about his rule, even though it was ridiculous. He figured he could get away with such a corny joke since his last name was indeed Murphy. He even invented a story to tell about Captain Ed Murphy, his great uncle. It always garnered a good laugh from his audience.

  It felt like four a.m. to Cal. But on this Tuesday morning, he figured it was well worth losing both hours. He had an exclusive interview with Noah Larson before the circus that’s called Super Bowl Media Day commenced. Answering the bastion of goofy questions by TV personalities and comedians masquerading as journalists was enough to turn anyone’s brain to mush. But Cal was going to get Noah at his finest; at least that’s what Cal had heard.

  Among NFL circles, Noah was renowned for his diligent work ethic, a regimen that started at 5 a.m. each day. He studied game film like there was going to be a comprehensive test about it later that afternoon. He would fill up half a yellow legal pad during a film session, dissecting his opponents’ weaknesses and strengths. And he would do it all without one drop of coffee. Noah hated the side effects of coffee.

  Yet when Cal wandered down to the Four Seasons restaurant at 7 a.m., he saw Noah sitting alone at a table, cradling a cup of coffee. Cal wondered if his sources were accurate. Noah seemed to be lost in thought as he stared blankly at the table. The who’s-who in the NFL sat at tables surrounding Noah and all were too lost in their conversations to notice the star quarterback. Cal thought it was a surreal scene.

  “Good morning, Noah,” Cal said, offering his hand to shake.

  “Morning, Cal,” Noah mumbled, ignoring Cal’s hand.

  “How are you feeling about the game on Sunday?”

  “Good.”

  Noah’s terse answer took Cal by surprise. After covering the Seahawks all season, Cal felt he had developed a good rapport with the quarterback. They had exchanged stories of playing football when they were kids. They traded restaurant recommendations when out of town for a game, and shared their favorite spots in the Pacific Northwest to get away from the hustle and bustle of life in the big city. But to Cal, that suddenly felt like a distant memory. What was wrong with Noah?

  Cal pulled out his recorder and his notebook with questions for Noah. Small talk was apparently not in order today.

  “So, Noah, as a veteran quarterback in this league who has never made it to the Super Bowl, what does this post-season experience mean to you … to finally make it to this game?”

  “Getting here is a big deal, but nobody remembers you if you lose. We still have some unfinished business.”

  Score one for the clichéd response. Noah usually offered a more original quote, but Cal realized he was in for a fight to pry something out of the unusually grumpy quarterback.

  “What do you think was different about this season, compared to year’s past, that enabled you to get to this point?”

  Noah stared at his cup for a quiet moment before answering. “We played better as a team. The front office made some great moves and helped us shore up a few weak areas. And if truth be told, we got a few lucky breaks in the NFC championship game.”

  Noah’s admission of luck referred to a play that set the sports world buzzing. In Seattle’s upset win over Super Bowl favorite San Francisco, Noah’s touchdown pass was a highlight for the ages. With Seattle trailing by four points with less than 30 seconds remaining, Noah threw a pass that was tipped by a defender and deflected into the waiting arms of his favorite wide receiver Telvin Hayes, who raced into the end zone for the game-winning score. Instead of being the goat by throwing an interception, Noah escaped a hero. SportsCenter replayed the catch ad nauseum. Sports writers dubbed the play, “The Immaculate Reception II.”

  Cal continued with his pre-determined line of questioning. He asked Noah about his favorite Super Bowl, if he was approaching this game any differently, and if he felt extra pressure to since Seattle was favored heavily to win.

  Noah answered the questions, but he appeared distant to Cal. The responses were bland, even canned—far from the originality Cal expected out of Noah.

  “Excuse me, Cal. I need some more coffee.” Noah had drained the pitcher on the table and went in search of a server for a fresh one.

  Cal began flipping the pages in his notebook, wondering how he was going to turn this lifeless interview into the compelling article his editors expected.

  Then Noah’s phone buzzed. A new message appeared on the screen along with a small picture.

  Normally, Cal would ignore the phone out of respect for the quarterback’s privacy. But he couldn’t, not with the picture that flashed in front of his eyes and the threatening message that accompanied it.

  Noah returned to the table with a fresh pitcher.

  “What else you got for me, Cal?” Noah asked as he sat down.

  “Well, I didn’t have this one written down and it’s personal.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is everything OK, Noah?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is there something you want to tell me but can’t?”

  Noah began to shift in his chair. He avoided eye contact with Cal. Then his phone’s screen flashed on, reminding him of the unread message. He snatched the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

  “I promise I wasn’t being nosy, Noah, but I saw the message and that picture. I can’t ignore it.”

  Noah grabbed Cal’s recorder and turned it off.

  “You have to, Cal!” Noah pleaded
in a hushed whisper. “They said if I told anyone they would kill my son.”

  “When did this happen?” Cal asked.

  “Look, I can’t tell you anything. Just pretend like you didn’t see it.”

  “I can’t, Noah. Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”

  “It’s for my son, Cal! If I don’t do what they ask, he’s going to die! Do you want his blood on your hands? Do you know what that would do to my wife?”

  “I’ve got a friend at the FBI. He can help.”

  “No, Cal. I’ve just got to handle this on my own.”

  “Noah, you can’t throw the game.”

  “After the way we got here, I don’t think it will surprise anyone if I make a few poor throws that cost our team a couple of touchdowns.”

  “I have to report on this.”

  “You have no proof and your editor will never allow it. Cal, please, I’m begging you. I’ll make it worth your while to keep quiet.”

  “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “My son’s life depends on me losing this game. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were me?”

  “I don’t want your money, Noah. But I’ll think about holding this. Does anyone else know?”

  “Only Ellen. Please, Cal. Please don’t say anything to anyone.”

  “OK, Noah. I’ll think about it. I understand the situation you’re in, but this is wrong. You should let some people help you get your son back before the game.”

  “I can’t take that risk, Cal. Thanks for trying to understand.”

  “All right. I’ll see you at media day. Take care, and I’m sorry someone is doing this awful thing to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cal gathered his pen and pad as Noah slid the recorder across the table. He got up and left Noah alone again. Pondering the dramatic information he had just learned, Cal walked back to his hotel room.

  It all made sense now. Noah’s depressed demeanor as well as his caffeine binge. The terse responses. Who wouldn’t react like that?

  Rumors swirled all season long that Noah would retire at season’s end. And here he was, poised to go out on top and cap his career with a Super Bowl victory. It would have been a storybook ending. Instead, it was every dad’s worst nightmare, a true horror story in the making.

  Cal held information to what would undoubtedly be one of the biggest sports stories of his life. But he would have to betray Noah’s trust to write it. It would forever tarnish the reputation of one of the most well-liked quarterbacks in the league; or worse, cost him Jake’s life. Was any story worth that? Suddenly, Cal wished he was covering a high school basketball game in Seattle rather than wrestling over such a huge decision. He needed more time to mull over what to do.

  * * *

  NOAH RE-READ THE MESSAGE on his phone and stared at the chilling photo of Jake. His son didn’t appear to have any bruises on him, but maybe the gag was covering them up. Either way, the image haunted Noah. This wasn’t a bad dream. This was life at its worst.

  “Lose by a touchdown if you want to see your son alive again.”

  The message mocked him. His chance at finishing his career as a Super Bowl champion derailed by some random lowlifes trying to make some money. Noah wondered how he could get through the day without breaking down. How could he face the media and pretend like he was serious about trying to win? It would require his best acting job, something he wasn’t good at anyway. His scant commercial endorsements proved this fact.

  But he would have to manage. He had no choice.

  CHAPTER 7

  CAL BEGAN POUNDING OUT THE OUTLINE of his story on Noah, leaving some spaces to fill in the predictable quotes his teammates would make about him. In a couple of hours, reporters from all over the world would descend upon Reliant Stadium to try and get a newsworthy comment or reaction from a player. To Cal, it was a reminder of all things that were wrong with journalism, if you could even call it that. At least ten reporters would try to upstage the players with some ridiculous stunt or line of questioning. Cal wanted no part of it, but it was required for finishing his extensive feature story on Seattle’s beloved quarterback.

  Cal’s phone buzzed. It was one of his college fraternity brothers, Jarrett Anderson.

  “Agent Anderson, to what do I owe this great honor?” Cal said.

  “Well, I have a fellow agent in Miami who wants to place a little wager on the game and I thought I would check with the expert first on whether it was safe for me to do that.”

  Cal laughed nervously. “It’s going to be a good one.”

  “Seriously?” Anderson asked. “I thought Seattle was supposed to blow them out.”

  “It could happen but you just never know.”

  Anderson paused.

  “Actually, Cal. That’s not the real reason I called. I really wish it was, believe me. But we’ve got a serious situation here and I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about rumors of a fix being on.”

  Cal didn’t say a word.

  “Cal? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. What kind of fix are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about someone fixing Sunday’s game. We’ve received a few reports of suspicious betting activity going on from some of the sports books and I thought you might have heard something.”

  “Heard something? Like what?”

  “You know, a player or coach trying to throw the game. Something of that nature.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve heard anything like that.” Cal was a terrible liar.

  “Cal, are you sure? You’re acting kind of funny and vague here. This is me. Jarrett. If you’ve heard something I need to know.”

  Cal paused. He could ponder all the scenarios of telling Anderson and the likely outcomes for 20 years and never be sure of the right thing. But he had already concluded that Noah was naïve if he thought he would see his son alive again, regardless of what he did. So Cal relied on his instincts.

  “OK, look. If I tell you this, you’ve got to promise to help this guy.”

  “I’m not making any promises, Cal.”

  “Well, it’s complicated and if you don’t promise to help, I don’t feel right about divulging this information.”

  “All right. I’ll do my best to help if I can. Just tell me what you know.”

  “Someone has kidnapped Noah Larson’s son, Jake. The ransom is that he has to ensure that Seattle loses or else they’re going to kill the boy.”

  Anderson let out a string of expletives.

  “What kind of animal would do such a thing?”

  “Don’t you deal with people like this every day?”

  “Sure, but a little kid? Come on! We’re gonna find this guy and string him up.”

  “Let me know what I can do to help.”

  “For starters, tell Noah we need to speak with him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. He’s going to hate me though because I told you.”

  “You can tell him that we do have a lead on a sports memorabilia shop owner. And trust me. He’s going to thank you by the time this is all over.”

  “OK, I’ll pass that along and give him your cell number. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks, Cal. Don’t worry. We’ll find this monster wherever he is.”

  * * *

  RIVERA LOOKED AT JAKE with pity. The innocent kid stuck in the middle of a despicable money grab.

  Jake sat on the bed reading through some of the comic books given to him as a way to assuage his boredom.

  Rivera could see the fear in the boy’s eyes. And who could blame him? Two strange men forcibly took him and put him on an airplane, flying him to some unknown location. He probably wondered why he was there and not getting ready for recess.

  “You like Spiderman?” Rivera muttered in his best English.

  “Yeah, he’s all right,” Jake answered. “I like Batman better.”

  “How come?”

  “Because Batman doesn’t have any super powers. He
just beats up the bad guys and saves everyone. He’s a real hero.”

  “I like Batman, too.”

  “Well, Batman wouldn’t like you. He’d beat you up if he were here.”

  Rivera said nothing. He didn’t like being called a bad guy. He wasn’t bad; he was good. He just worked for a bad man.

  “Look, Jake. I have a son too, and I know he would be scared if something like this happened to him.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “It’s OK to be scared. But don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “That’s what that other guy said before he hit me.”

  “I’m not like that guy.”

  “You’re helping him out, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but …” Rivera knew a nuanced response would not work with a kid, so he stopped. “Look, I want to help you.”

  “Then take me back to my dad.”

  “I can’t right now, but I will. I promise.”

  Jake eyed Rivera closely before turning his attention back to his comic book in silence.

  Rivera knew Jake was an innocent victim of circumstance. He felt the same way, too.

  CHAPTER 8

  JUST AFTER 10 a.m., Cal headed downstairs for Media Day. Reporters jammed into every available space on one of six charter buses destined for Reliant Stadium. The scene entertained Cal more than any Super Bowl ever could. Veteran sports writers engaged in a game of one-upmanship. Television reporters bragging about the hottest celebrity’s party they attended. Cameramen boasting about their clients. Photographers detailing how they landed their latest magazine cover shot. The egos contained in this 45-foot metal box would have given Freud a lifetime of research.

  Cal enjoyed listening to the banter for a few moments. But he snapped back to the reality once he saw a missing child billboard anchored along the side of Highway 59. How would Noah react when he told him? What would he say? Would Noah instruct other players to not grant him any interviews? It would be out of character for Noah to get enraged, especially publicly. But this situation would test anyone.