For Sharon, the misgivings she’d felt in the Safeway the day they’d run into Charlotte LaConner had retreated to the back of her mind, and when she’d seen Charlotte at the football games—noting that despite Charlotte’s words that day, Jeff was still quarterbacking the team—she decided that perhaps Elaine Harris had been right when she’d said that Charlotte had a tendency to overreact to things.
Now, on the second Thursday in October, Mark glanced at his watch, scraped the last mouthful of potatoes off his plate, and slid his chair back. “Got to go,” he announced.
Kelly’s face creased into a scowl. “How come I can’t go to the pep rallies?” she demanded. “I go to the games, don’t I?”
Mark grinned at his little sister. “You wouldn’t like them,” he told her. “It’s a bunch of people jumping up and down and yelling all the time.”
“Then how come you like them?” Kelly countered.
“ ’Cause they’re kind of fun,” Mark admitted. “And besides,” he added, “I’m taking pictures for the annual tonight.”
Kelly cocked her head. “I bet Linda Harris is going to be in every one of them, isn’t she?”
“Maybe,” Mark said, a faint blush spreading over his face.
“Mark’s got a girlfriend, Mark’s got a girlfriend,” Kelly chanted.
Mark rolled his eyes and turned his back on his sister. “We’re gonna go out and get a hamburger after the rally,” he told his mother. “What time do I have to be home?”
“Eleven,” Sharon replied. Then, as Mark started toward the front door, she called after him, “And if you’re going to be late, call!”
“I will,” he called back. A moment later the door slammed behind him.
The pep rally was just beginning when Mark got to the school. As he came into the stadium, he saw Linda waving to him from the field. He smiled, waved back, then broke into an easy run. Until tonight he’d watched the pep rallies from the stands with the rest of the kids, but now he, too, would be on the field. Finding a spot on the bench, he opened his camera bag and quickly selected a zoom lens for his Nikon. He screwed on the flashgun, checked his film supply, then moved out to the field itself. By now he knew the routines by heart, and last week he’d decided which would be the best shots. By the time the band started to play the Silverdale alma mater and the drill team was marching onto the field, he was ready. He grinned to himself as he realized that he’d just proved Kelly wrong. Linda Harris wasn’t on the drill team, so he’d have at least one picture that didn’t include her.
The rally went on. Half an hour later Mark had shot three rolls of film and there was only one roll left in his gadget bag. He sat down on the bench next to Linda, and while the song leaders began dancing their routine to the major fight song, fumbled to get the last roll of film into the camera. By the time the song was over and Peter Nakamura had picked up a megaphone to introduce the team, Mark was ready. He took up a position next to the main gate, and as Peter called out the names of the boys on the team, their numbers, and the positions they played—and the players, in full uniform, trotted out onto the field—Mark resumed shooting pictures.
Some of the players paused for Mark, others waved to him as they trotted past. One or two ignored him completely, and Robb Harris, timing the action perfectly, flipped him the finger at the exact moment the flash went off.
Finally, after a long pause accompanied by a drum roll, Peter Nakamura called Jeff LaConner’s name. As the crowd of teenagers in the stands got to their feet and their cheering rose to a crescendo, Mark focused the zoom lens on Jeff, who was running in place a few yards away. As his name was called, Jeff turned, dropped low to the ground for a moment, then broke into a dead run. As he came abreast of Mark he turned his head, and as the flashgun went off, he was facing the camera squarely.
The look of pure hatred in his eyes almost made Mark drop his camera.
But then Jeff was gone, and as the Wolverines’ star quarterback ran onto the field, his arms spread, his hands held high over his head, Mark decided he must have been wrong. After all, it had been a couple of weeks since Linda had broken up with Jeff, and despite Linda’s fears, Jeff had been perfectly friendly toward both of them.
No, he was wrong, Mark decided. He had to be. Jeff had just been putting on a ferocious expression for the sake of the camera.
Jeff LaConner stood at the end of the long row of football players, his hands clenched at his sides. Though the strains of the Silverdale fight song were filling the air, and the other members of the team were singing along with the crowd, Jeff was oblivious to all of it.
His eyes were fixed on Mark Tanner, who was now standing next to Linda Harris, whispering in her ear. The familiar anger, the anger that was getting harder and harder for him to keep under control, was building inside him again.
It had happened once during the week after he’d spent the night at Rocky Mountain High. He’d been on the practice field, and was playing well. He’d been working on his passes that day, taking the ball on the snap from Roy Kramer, fading back a few yards with a quick look to see if the wide receiver was keeping to his pattern, then hurling the ball with almost perfect accuracy toward the spot where Kent Taylor would be a few seconds later.
In eleven tries, they’d completed the pass eleven times.
On the twelfth try, as he’d scanned the field, he caught a glimpse of Linda Harris and Mark Tanner, both of them laughing, walking away from the school. The play had fallen apart, his pass falling short by a good ten yards. Instantly, Phil Collins had blown his whistle and stormed onto the field, demanding to know what had happened. Jeff said nothing, barely even hearing the coach’s tirade, for a wave of pure fury was sweeping over him. His vision almost seemed to desert him, his focus telescoping to the point where all he could see was Mark and Linda.
They were laughing at him—he was as certain of it as he had ever been of anything in his life.
And then, as abruptly as it had come on, the anger had drained out of him. He’d stood still for a moment, his body suddenly tired, as if he’d just run a ten-mile race.
He could still see Linda and Mark. They had paused by the corner of the building and were looking toward him. When Mark raised his hand to wave, Jeff found himself waving back. For the rest of the session Jeff’s concentration was shot, his mind totally occupied with trying to figure out what had happened. He wasn’t mad at either Linda or Mark. Or, anyway, he didn’t think he was.
From then until the past week, he hadn’t had any problems with anger. But on Monday morning, then again at lunchtime on Tuesday, he’d lost control for a moment. And yesterday it had happened twice, and today he’d carefully avoided both Linda and Mark, afraid the sudden rage might come over him again and that this time he wouldn’t be able to control it at all.
Now, as he stood with the rest of the team facing the stands, it was happening again.
His eyes were fixed on the two of them, his fury tingeing their images with red. He could almost hear them talking together, and he was sure they were talking about him.
“Little prick,” he muttered out loud.
Next to him, Robb Harris turned to glance at Jeff out of the corner of his eye. He thought Jeff had spoken to him, but now Jeff was looking away. From the expression on his face, it seemed Jeff was angry about something. But what? He’d been fine a few minutes ago, when they’d all been in the locker room, putting on their uniforms. Puzzled, Robb glanced around to see what Jeff was staring at.
All he could see was his sister, sitting on the bench next to Mark Tanner. But that was no big deal—Jeff had told him only a couple of days ago that he didn’t blame Linda for breaking up with him. Now, though, he was glaring furiously at Mark, and when Robb glanced down, he saw that Jeff’s hands were curled like claws, the knuckles white, the tendons standing out like steel wires drawn too taut.
The last notes of the fight song faded away, and the rest of the players turned, ready for Jeff LaConner to lead them off the field and
back to the locker room.
But Jeff didn’t move. He stood where he was, as if rooted to the ground, his eyes still fixed glassily on Linda and Mark.
“Come on, Jeff,” Robb whispered. “Let’s go!”
Jeff didn’t seem to hear him. Finally, Robb nudged him. “Will you move your ass, man? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
It took a moment before Robb’s words seemed to penetrate Jeff’s hearing, and the bigger boy swung around to face him.
“I’m gonna get that little bastard,” he said. “I’m gonna smash him up so bad, nobody’s ever going to want to look at him again!”
* * *
“So what’s up?” Blake Tanner asked Jerry Harris. They were sitting in the Harrises’ oak-paneled den, and though Blake had been there for almost an hour, Jerry still hadn’t gotten to the point. And there was a point to this visit, Blake was almost certain, for when Jerry had called him after dinner that evening and asked him to drop by, there had been something in his voice that told Blake it was to be more than just a visit between friends.
Nor did he think it had anything to do with the office, for even in the few short weeks he’d been in Silverdale, Blake had learned that if something came up in the office, Jerry Harris left it there. Of course, they talked business all the time, no matter where they were, but if the situation was primarily social, important issues were never brought up. Nevertheless, as he walked the six blocks from his own house to the Harrises’, he wondered what might be on Jerry’s mind.
It was Ricardo Ramirez, he decided first, and Blake shook his head sadly as he thought about the boy. Rick was still in the hospital in Silverdale, his head held perfectly still in the metal embrace of a Stryker frame. Given his condition, Blake had come to think that the fact the boy was still in a coma was a kind of left-handed blessing, for at least Rick was totally unaware of how serious his injuries were. As far as the specialists Mac MacCallum had called in could tell, Rick was nearly totally paralyzed from the neck down, and without the respirator, he would die very quickly. But his heart was still strong, and so far Maria Ramirez had refused even to consider the possibility that her son might never wake up. Indeed, she was at his bedside every day, holding her son’s hand, murmuring softly to him in Spanish, certain that somehow, even through his coma, he could hear and understand what she was saying.
The trust fund was all set up, a massive insurance annuity that would continue paying every possible expense both Maria and Ricardo could possibly incur for the rest of their lives. Though Blake was certain that Maria didn’t yet understand the full extent of her affluence, he was also certain that she would never abuse it. indeed, after his initial shock at the instructions Jerry Harris had issued on his first day at work, Blake had come to believe that Ted Thornton was correct in his policy, for without the aid of TarrenTech, Maria Ramirez would have had no resources at all. And now Maria had a trust fund and nothing to worry about in the future except the welfare of her son. If her son lived.
But when he’d gotten to the Harrises’, Jerry made no mention of the Ramirez family, or anything else pertaining to business. Instead, he seemed more interested in how the Tanners were adjusting to Silverdale. And now, finally, in answer to Blake’s question, Jerry mixed them each a third drink and got to the point.
“I’ve been thinking about Mark,” he said.
Blake’s brows arched questioningly.
“I’ve been wondering if you’ve had a chance to look over what we’re doing at Rocky Mountain High,” Jerry went on, “the sports center.”
Blake shrugged noncommittally. “Other than the fact that we fund a lot of it, I don’t know that much about it yet.”
“It’s sort of an experimental camp,” Jerry told him. “Martin Ames has some interesting ideas about athletic training, and we’ve been letting him put them into practice.” He grinned, his eyes sparkling. “And since you’ve been going to the football games, you can see how well it’s working out. In fact,” he went on, “it’s exceeding all our expectations.”
Blake sat forward in his chair. “What’s the deal?” he asked. “What’s he doing?”
“Synthetic vitamins,” Jerry replied. “He’s been finding a lot of links between physical development and certain vitamin complexes, and for the last few years he’s been developing a series of new compounds that are helping us compensate for a lot of genetic deficiencies.” He paused a moment. “Such as Robb’s asthma, for instance.”
The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment before their import sank into Blake. “You mean it wasn’t just the change of climate and good, clean mountain air that cleared it up,” he said.
Jerry shook his head. “I wish it had been that simple. But it wasn’t. Ames found all kinds of things wrong with Robb. It wasn’t just the asthma—he was having some problems with his bones that might have been precancerous conditions, and ever since he was a baby, he’d been a little slow to develop. Ames’s theory was that it was all linked to the way Robb’s body handled certain vitamins.” He smiled. “And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, all that’s been taken care of.”
The implication was clear, and Blake didn’t need Jerry to spell it out for him. “But it’s a sports center,” he said, “and you know how Mark feels about sports.”
Now it was Jerry Harris who looked surprised. “Isn’t that you and Mark I see out on the field every Sunday afternoon? Looks to me like he might be changing.”
Blake shrugged with careful indifference, unwilling to expose even to Jerry Harris his hopes that perhaps Mark would, after all, follow in his own footsteps. “He’s a bit small for the team here, don’t you think? I mean, all our guys are so big, they’d run right over Mark.”
“Exactly,” Jerry replied, setting his glass down. “And I know it’s really none of my business, but I’ve been talking to Marty Ames about Mark—the rheumatic fever and all that. I even went so far as to get Mark’s medical records sent to him.”
Blake frowned. “Aside from the fact that I thought medical records were supposed to be confidential, why would you want to do that?”
“Because I wanted to get Marty’s opinion before I talked to you. I didn’t want to get your hopes up, then not have it amount to anything.”
Blake put his own drink aside. “All right,” he said. “So, just for the sake of discussion, what did he say?”
Jerry Harris’s eyes met his. “He thinks he can help Mark. He doesn’t think Mark’s problems from the rheumatic fever have to be permanent, and he thinks he can bring Mark’s growth rate back up to normal.”
Blake’s face took on a quizzical expression. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Jerry replied. “He’s come up with a variant of the same vitamin complex Robb was treated with, and he’s ninety percent certain it will be effective with Mark.”
Blake gazed at his friend. None of what he was saying made sense. If there really was such a complex, he and Sharon would have heard of it by now. Unless …
“Are you telling me you want me to let somebody use an experimental drug on Mark?” he asked
Harris shook his head as if he’d been expecting the question. “It’s hardly experimental,” he said. “And it has nothing to do with drugs, either. It’s just a new way of combining certain vitamins, allowing the body to achieve its full potential. All the vitamins do is act as a sort of trigger, releasing hormones that are already present, but not fully functional.” Reading the doubt in Blake’s eyes, he went on: “Do you really think I’d let Ames give my own son a compound I didn’t have full faith in? He’s my son, Blake, not a guinea pig.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Blake replied. “But it’s certainly something to think about. And I’d like to see all the material on it.” He grinned a little self-consciously. “I’m no doctor, but after all Mark’s problems, I can tell you I know more about growth problems than the average layman.”
“Just like Elaine and I knew everything there was to know about asthma,” Harris agree
d. “You’ll have all the material on your desk Monday morning. Plus, you might want to go out and talk to Ames about Mark. Just listen to him, then make up your own mind.”
A few minutes later the talk turned to other things, but Blake barely listened, for his mind kept going back over what Harris had told him.
And he remembered the sounds he’d heard emanating from Mark’s room every morning for the last few weeks.
The sound of Mark’s labored breathing as he struggled with his push-ups and sit-ups, and the soft grunts that broke from the boy’s throat as he worked with Blake’s own set of weights.
If there were really a way to help him … Maybe he wouldn’t wait until Monday. Maybe he’d go to the office tomorrow and take a look at Ames’s material.
It was a little after ten-thirty when Linda and Mark left the little café next to the drugstore and started home. They still had plenty of time for Mark to walk Linda to the Harrises’ without missing his eleven o’clock curfew, but they walked quickly. A breeze had come up, and Mark turned his collar up as the chill of the night made his cheeks tingle.
“I still don’t think Jeff’s mad at you,” he heard Linda say as she tucked her hand into his jacket pocket and meshed her fingers with his own. “He didn’t say anything, did he?”
“He didn’t have time,” Mark told her, not for the first time. “He was running. But I’m telling you, the look on his face almost scared the hell out of me. Wait till Monday, when I develop the film. You’ll see.”
They turned the corner off Colorado Street. There, the night seemed darker, with only a few pools of yellow light dotting the sidewalk ahead. Instinctively, Jeff glanced around, then felt foolish. This was Silverdale, he told himself as they walked on, not San Francisco, or even San Marcos. But after they’d walked nearly two blocks, a figure stepped out from behind a bush up ahead.
Linda and Mark stopped, startled but not yet frightened.
The figure took a step toward them.