Dead Line

by Jack Patterson

  “Yeah, it’s quite shocking.”

  “What other questions do you have for me?”

  Cal knew every detail of the case, but he needed to get Solterbeck to say it on record so he could write it. It felt strange to Cal, but it needed to be done so his editors wouldn’t nix anything about this story. He knew it intimately but needed to do his due diligence as a journalist, a lost art among the majority of his peers.

  After the interview, Cal didn’t leave his room. He called Noah and got a few comments from him and his perspective on the story. He gathered a handful of other sources and commenced writing the piece.

  In the past, Cal wrote a few articles that earned him national writing awards. There was no doubt this one would land him in the public spotlight for breaking the biggest sports story of the past century. But none of the accolades would compare to the moment he reunited Gio with his father or saw Noah with Jake for the first time after the kidnapping.

  * * *

  EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, Cal finished writing his story and emailed it to his editors. What he uncovered in further research and talking with sources was an unlikely and convoluted plot that nearly cost two kids their lives. One of the biggest questions Cal wanted to know was how in the world did Trent Newton meet up with a drug cartel lord? Newton had no record to speak of, according to FBI sources. It wasn’t like he could’ve just looked him up in the phone book under “Extortionist for Hire.” Then Cal discovered that Trent ran a food distribution business, one that had a contract to provide various restaurants and grocery store chains with Buenisimo! coffee. With that piece of information, Cal connected all the dots and wrote another award-winning investigative piece. It was a story that people would talk about for years to come.

  It didn’t take long for Fink to write him back.

  Wow! This is incredible reporting!

  Cal smiled. He would have preferred to simply write about an unlikely fake that won the Seahawks the Super Bowl. But he’d settle for a compliment like that from Fink, something that was tougher to get than a Pulitzer Prize.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Cal went downstairs early to the lobby for breakfast with Kelly. He arrived well before she did so he could watch television. He mostly wanted to hear if his name was being tossed around on SportsCenter like it was familiar to everyone.

  “The Seattle Times’ Cal Murphy broke one of the biggest stories in the last century today when he revealed the details behind a plot to have the outcome of the Super Bowl manipulated by kidnapping two players’ sons. In his piece published today, Murphy revealed that the players who were involved were indeed Seattle quarterback Noah Larson and kicker Brandon Gomez. However, both players’ sons were rescued by FBI initiatives before the game was over, ensuring that the integrity of the outcome remained intact.

  Cal chuckled. He knew that last bit was only technically true. Regardless of the way others in the media were relating his story, it was still fun to hear him talked about on his favorite ESPN show.

  “What are you laughing at, Mr. Famous Sportswriter?” Kelly asked as she slid out her chair and joined Cal.

  “Oh, just how people like to misconstrue facts to make a better story.”

  “Really? People do that?”

  Cal sensed Kelly’s sarcastic wit right away.

  He played along. “Yeah. Can you believe it?”

  “Well, congratulations, Cal. You deserve every award you get for this story.”

  “Too bad you can’t get one too.”

  “True. But I think we both know that stuff isn’t really important, is it?”

  Cal paused. He took a deep breath. If Noah Larson could fake a field goal to win a Super Bowl surely he could grit his teeth and say what needed to be said.

  “About that, Kelly. I think you’re right and this whole ordeal really got me thinking about what is most important to me.”

  Cal’s words hung in the air as Kelly patiently waited for more.

  “And when I thought about what is most important to me, my mind kept coming back to you. If anything would’ve happened to you down there in Mexico, I don’t know what I would’ve done. The truth is I feel more courageous when I’m with you, like I can do anything no matter what the circumstances.”

  He paused, hoping Kelly would say something—anything—to help him ease his discomfort at the moment. But she said nothing, so he continued.

  “I know I’ve told you before that I really care about you. And I really do. I really really care about you. More so than just being adventure buddies, if you know what I mean?”

  Kelly finally spoke. “What do you mean, Cal?”

  “What I mean is that I think we ought to give this thing a chance, you know—us.”

  Kelly reached across the table and grabbed one of Cal’s trembling hands.

  “Cal, I felt the same way when you didn’t make it out with me and Jake. All I could think about was how horrible it would be if I never saw you again.”

  Cal smiled and sighed. He could relax. The chance of rejection had vanished.

  “Well, maybe we’ll have to find jobs in the same city this time and figure this thing out. What do you say?”

  “I did just get an offer to move to San Francisco to be the bureau’s assistant photo editor.”

  “San Francisco, huh?”

  “Yeah, San Francisco. I bet they might have room on staff for an award-winning sports writer there.”

  Cal turned red. He didn’t mind compliments from most people, but for some reason, Kelly heaping praise on him always felt a little awkward.

  “I’ll have to look into that,” he said.

  They finished their breakfast as news of the story Cal broke served as the looping background noise on every cable news and sports television station. Cal helped save Seattle’s Super Bowl, but he was confident now that he wouldn’t be there for much longer.

  CHAPTER 53

  NOAH SQUINTED AS HE looked up at the sky. Confetti mixed with rain pelted him as the Seahawks’ parade rolled through downtown Seattle on a nasty Wednesday morning. Fans cheered and chanted his name. It was as if the entire parade was for him. By now, they all knew the story. Not just that he had gambled the Super Bowl title on that one play, but that he spent an entire week worrying about his son.

  Every media outlet already wanted the renegade quarterback on their shows that week—then Cal’s story hit the newsstands and Internet two days after the Super Bowl. Noah preferred to stay at home with his family. But at their urging, he decided to appear on a few shows that wanted to fly him out with the stipulation that his whole family’s flights must be covered as well. Those interviews were still a couple of days away.

  But none of that fame mattered much to Noah. He hugged his son tightly and soaked in the final moment of adulation over his career. Noah didn’t feel like he thought he would a week ago if Seattle achieved a victory. He felt sorry for breaking the city’s budget because of the parade, though he knew no one would care. Noah didn’t want this moment to be vindictive in any way. He wanted it to be cherished. So cherish it he did with Jake.

  As the motorcade reached 12th Street, the Seahawks’ 12th Man club chanted Noah’s name. One member of the club took a microphone and recited a special poem he wrote to honor Noah and his short touchdown run. Noah smiled at the gesture and waved to the 12th Man club.

  With the parade winding down, Jake looked up at Noah and asked, “Dad, do you think we can go to a few Sounders games this year now that you’re retired?”

  “I doubt it, Jake.”

  He paused and watched the grin vanish off Jake’s face.

  “I don’t think we can go to a few Sounders game,” Noah said. “I think we should go to all of their games.”

  Jake hugged Noah and started jumping up and down.

  “You want to get season tickets?” Noah asked.

  “Yes! Oh, daddy, I love you so much!”

  Noah smiled. He would miss the touchdowns, the roar of the crowd, the cam
araderie with his teammates. But none of that compared to the moment he just experienced—a great big hug from his son and realizing that he was his hero. Noah no longer felt the need to convert Jake into a football fan. Jake was his No. 1 fan and that’s all that mattered.

  * * *

  CAL WATCHED THE PARADE on the newsroom television. Someone else could write that sappy feel-good parade story.

  “Good work, Cal,” Fink said, joining Cal in watching a parade they both never thought they would see.

  “Thanks.”

  “You did good. I know you saw some crazy stuff down there, but you’re a bigger man than I am. And you won’t be here long if other editors think you’ll go to any extremes to get a good story.”

  Cal smiled. “Well, it wasn’t supposed to be that extreme. I’ll tell you that much. I would’ve never gone if I thought any of that stuff was going to happen.”

  “Yeah, you would’ve. Cal, you’re a real newsman. Your nose for a story is something special.”

  Fink never praised his writers like this and Cal knew it. Another compliment from Fink? Now this one was almost as good as a five-figure Christmas bonus.

  Fink patted Cal on the back and walked off without another word.

  Cal turned his attention back to the television. He smiled as the camera zoomed in on Noah sharing a hug with his son. The past few days made him question his own judgment. Who thinks they can waltz into the home of one of the most dangerous cartel members in the world and it not be a big deal? Cal began to wonder if he was crazy. Had he lost his mind? Was his nose for news going to be the death of him? Life was about moments like the one he was witnessing on television—a father and a son connecting. It wasn’t about some adrenaline rush that accompanied bringing down the bad guys.

  Cal needed to be careful. He wanted some of those father-son moments in his future, the kind he hardly had a chance to have with his own dad. As a seven-year-old kid, Cal endured some of the worst pain in his life when his dad died. His mom remarried a few years later, but it wasn’t the same. No stepdad could replace his dad. His dad had been a reporter too—and later Cal learned that his dad’s editor suspected that his death had something to do with a story he had been working on. According to the editor, it wasn’t a story Cal’s dad had been assigned either.

  Cal knew the same fate awaited him if he didn’t change the reckless way he lived. So what if Fink just gave him the rarest of compliments. Cal had to stop charging to the rescue, even if it was to help somebody who needed his help. He had to realize he couldn’t save everyone. And now there was Kelly to think about. She might be a bigger part of his future than he ever imagined. Just stick to covering games and writing features on famous sports athletes and you can have a life like Noah’s. It was a nice thought.

  The rain whipped against the newsroom office, a thousand raindrops fated to crash into an office window with no idea of what their future held.

  THE END

  Keep reading to catch a sneak peek of the next book in the Cal Murphy Thriller series, Better Off Dead

  Sample of "BETTER OFF DEAD"

  CHAPTER 1

  AARON BANKS KNELT DOWN and looked into little Ethan’s eyes. The joy plastered over Ethan’s face reminded Aaron that his day off was his favorite day of the week. Not Sundays with thousands of fans worshipping him with each touchdown. Not the light practice days or the weekly Thursday afternoon hot tub soak with his teammates on the offensive line. Not even the days he went clubbing where gorgeous women threw themselves at him. Nope. The day that had nothing to do with football; yet it had everything to do with it. It was his day off, the day he visited the children’s cancer ward of St. Mark’s Hospital.

  “You coming back to see me next week?” Ethan McCollister asked.

  Aaron placed his palm on the top of the nine-year-old boy’s bald head. He rubbed the top of Ethan’s scalp and made a squeaky noise with his mouth. It always led to Ethan giggling.

  “Sure thing, little buddy,” Aaron said. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  Aaron stood his strapping 6-foot-3, 240-pound frame upright and announced his intention to exit the room as he waved good-bye. Suddenly, a group of about ten kids rushed Aaron, waving and telling him they couldn’t wait to see him next week. Aaron gently loosened the grip of Grace Blackwell, who viewed his leg as a mode of transportation more for her than him. Every week he considered how much easier it would be to slip out without a word, but he even enjoyed it when the kids swarmed him as he left. Aaron managed to create enough space between him and the kids with his best stiff arm as he walked backward to the door. He winked at Cindy Lassiter, his favorite pediatric nurse, and flashed her his multi-million dollar endorsement smile. He finally made it out of the room and secured the door behind him.

  Aaron always noted how his problems disappeared during the two hours each week when he visited the hospital. But the moment he walked through the hospital’s automatic doors and back into the warm L.A. sun, those problems hit him harder than a lead pipe to the head. He often lamented the loss of simpler times, those periods where football, friends, and family filled his life. Friends who he enjoyed. Family who cherished him simply because they were family. Football that was fun. But those days were a distant memory. Now life consisted of determining if his so-called friends cared about him or his money, and family who only came around when they wanted a handout. Football was about playing just well enough to stay on a roster and avoid getting overtaken by the latest new rookie star. His dream of playing pro football devolved into an inescapable nightmare.

  Aaron dug into his pocket and fished out the twelfth picture Ethan had drawn of him scoring a touchdown. After Ethan heard Aaron donated $10,000 to the hospital for every touchdown he scored, the young cancer patient struck a deal with his favorite player: A hand-drawn picture of every touchdown he scored. Aaron smiled at the way Ethan had depicted him leaping into the end zone. Everything looked accurate, except the addition of a cape. Ethan always added a special touch. The art would hang in Aaron’s defacto hallway art gallery, a daily reminder of what really made his life count.

  With the rest of Aaron’s life seeming more burdensome, he knew he could simply quit, walk away from the millions and disappear from public life. But then he wouldn’t have the game he loved—or those two inspirational hours every week. In the previous season, Aaron missed four games with complications from an ankle injury. Instead of being annoyed at having to sit out, he used that extra time to visit St. Mark’s every day for a month. It was heaven. But he knew after he left football, the next group of kids in the cancer ward would have no idea who he was and wonder why he came to visit them. So he would tolerate the other 166 hours of his week for these two. No cost was too high for two hours of such delight, for two hours of meaningful living.

  Aaron sank into the leather driver’s seat of his black McLaren F1. He turned the ignition as the engine roared to life. The F1 was his one guilty pleasure in an otherwise modest lifestyle. He stomached the city’s glorified celebrity culture, but he didn’t embrace it like some of his other teammates. Starved for a pro football team for far too long, L.A. begged, bribed and cajoled the NFL to expand and add the L.A. Stars to the league. The expansion draft resulted in a team comprised of rookies and former superstars. L.A. sports fans cared about winning, but more people just cared about having a new subset of celebrities to adore. Aaron liked to think of himself as one of the younger stars on the team, but at age 30, who was he kidding? He was a long-toothed veteran. He knew his prime years were likely behind him. Another year or two worth of incredible off days and then it would end. It was an end that should have arrived already. He wanted to fight it, but not the way they made him do it. It was on their terms. He had no choice.

  He glanced at the Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year edition behind him in one of the car’s two passenger seats. He was on the cover two years ago. He kept the magazine with him to remind him of who he was, who he wanted to be—not who he had beco
me. Winning the league’s rushing crown made him a hot commodity in charity circles a few years ago. Everyone wanted him to lend his name to their cause. So he did. It made him feel good to do something more than just regularly visit a hospital. His good looks and winning smile made his face synonymous with a cause, any cause. But being a do-gooder wore him out. He wanted to help, but it cluttered his life and made his weekly visits to St. Mark’s feel like just another appointment in his busy schedule. So like a desperate addict trying to break free, he quit cold turkey. No more lending his name to charities or his picture. He just wanted to work with kids and have fun, not become an icon for raising money for starving children in Africa. He caught himself staring at L.A.’s smoggy skyline, wondering to himself, “If those kids ever found out who I really am …”

  His phone rang, snapping him back to the present. It was his agent, Bobby Franklin.

  “What’s up, big man?” Aaron answered.

  “Just ready to destroy some ribs at Jackson’s and talk some business,” Bobby said.

  Aaron recognized the tactic right away—use his favorite barbecue restaurant to soften the blow of some difficult news. “Business? What kind of business?”

  “Oh, you know. The kind that you don’t want to talk about.”

  Aaron grew agitated at Bobby’s shroud of secrecy. “Out with it, Bobby. What is it?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

  “Just say it, Bobby. You know I hate it when you do this.”

  “OK, I got a call from your general manager and he gave me a heads up that you aren’t going to fit in the Stars’ plans next year. They’re going to release you at the end of the season.”

  “What? Why? I’ve got two years left on my contract. They can’t do that.”

  “Yes, they can, Aaron. And they’re going to. Before you get mad, you should appreciate the courtesy they gave us with this heads up. It will help us get you positioned for the best situation with another team next season.”