“Mrs. Jordan, my name is Chelsea Popovich. I’m a—a friend of Marcus’s. Sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of important. Do you have any idea where I can find him?”
“I don’t think I can help you,” Mrs. Jordan replied. “He told me he was going to be away all day at a football game.”
“Poughkeepsie West,” Chelsea supplied. “I’ll probably see him there. Thanks anyway.”
She hung up, frowning. The game didn’t start until three. It would be over by five, five thirty at the latest. There was nothing “all day” about that. Why would Marcus tell his mom—?
No. Impossible. It couldn’t be.
DNA versus Poughkeepsie West wasn’t the only football game going on that Saturday. It was also homecoming at East Bonaventure University. That was a pretty long drive, so he would’ve had to leave early, and by the time he got back…
She ran to the computer and called up the university’s website. Right there on the home page was a live-streaming video feed from the homecoming game—EBU versus Rutgers.
She checked the notice board about the hall of fame inductions to see if any “special guests” had been added. No, it was still just the Rogers sisters. Charlie Popovich was listed as an absent honoree.
I must be losing it, she told herself. How paranoid do you have to be to think some kid shanghaied your two-hundred-forty-pound father?
She focused on the live stream—players from both teams were diving after a fumble. EBU recovered, and the crowd went wild. The camera panned the spectators, focusing on faculty and guests in a bunting-draped box.
The shriek brought her mother running from downstairs.
“What is it, Chelsea? Are you all right?”
“I found Daddy,” she replied shakily.
“What are you talking about? Where?”
“There!” her daughter quavered. “Look!”
The two watched the computer screen in amazement as Charlie jumped up and down, cheering and waving an EBU pennant.
Mrs. Popovich goggled. “How did he get to East Bonaventure?”
Chelsea was furious. “I told him he had to respect our decision!”
Her mother was bewildered. “Who?”
The camera pulled back and supplied the answer. Charlie sat down again, providing an unobstructed view of a spectator seated two rows behind him.
Marcus Jordan.
Officer Deluca hung up the phone and let out a long, sharp breath. In twenty years of police work, he thought he’d heard it all, but this was something new: a sixteen-year-old kid abducting a fifty-four-year-old Alzheimer’s patient to take him to the hall of fame ceremony his own family wanted him to skip. For reasons of their own, he assumed.
Had he overlooked anything? Oh, yeah—also, the suspect was Marcus Jordan, who had been in town only a few months yet was not unknown to the Kennesaw Police Department, and who was ticking down to his own court date for vandalism and harassment.
He sighed. To go from TP’ing an exterminator’s shop to kidnapping an NFL veteran was quite an escalation, even for the Jordan kid. Of course, he wasn’t holding the man for ransom. He just took him to a football game. Still, in the eyes of the law, it was a full-fledged abduction, especially in light of Popovich’s condition. Another shock, that. The pride of Kennesaw had Alzheimer’s at only fifty-four. Poor guy.
He looked through his Rolodex and dialed the number of the Bonaventure County Sheriff’s Office. Luckily, Sergeant Earl Ewchuk was on the desk—an old friend of Deluca’s from the academy days.
“I need a favor,” Deluca told him. “Charlie Popovich—remember him? Played for the Bengals. He’s up your way at the EBU game right now.”
“Yeah, I heard he’s here,” Ewchuck told him. “It’s quite a surprise at the college. They weren’t expecting him.”
“That’s probably because he’s not supposed to be there.”
“What are you talking about, Mike?” Ewchuck demanded. “They’re honoring him at halftime—him and the nose-plug sisters.”
“I know he’s invited, Earl, but he’s a sick man. Too many concussions, the wife told me. And the person who brought him snuck him out of town against the family’s wishes.”
“You got an ID on this guy?”
“Never mind him,” said Deluca. “He’s a sixteen-year-old kid. And besides, he’s in the stands two rows behind Popovich. That’s who I’m worried about.”
“I’ll call the campus cops and have him pulled out of there,” Ewchuk offered.
“Don’t. Let him have his moment in the spotlight. But keep an eye on him. He can’t leave. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Done,” Ewchuck promised. “See you then.”
Deluca hung up the phone and reached for his car keys. On top of everything else, he was going to miss the Raiders game against Poughkeepsie West. Two perfect seasons on the line, and he was going to spend the afternoon chasing an Alzheimer’s patient and Marcus Jordan over hell’s half acre.
The kid had a lot to answer for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Both Rogers sisters had put on a few pounds since their silver-medal days—the same amount, of course, almost to the ounce. But their bright smiles and synchronized waves were just the same as they stood on the rollout stage at midfield, accepting the accolade of their alma mater.
Then the scoreboard screen faded out from the 1988 Olympics medal ceremony and into the image of a young linebacker in EBU crimson. The number on his jersey was 55. Long hair poured out of his helmet, but his wild, intense stare burned through the cascading curls like halogen headlights cutting fog. His posture radiated energy and strength, and when he moved, it was with explosive quickness and athletic grace.
A buzz rippled through the crowd as the voice-over traced the career of Charlie Popovich—first his four stellar years at EBU, and then later as a pro in San Diego and Cincinnati.
From his seat in the grandstand, Marcus watched Charlie, who was standing quietly at the edge of the stage, eyes riveted to the scoreboard monitor. Did he know he was watching himself? Or was he just interested in a story about a football player? It was impossible to tell.
“Students and faculty, please welcome our other hall of fame honoree, the King of Pop himself: our very own Charlie Popovich!”
The roar that greeted this announcement moved air. The crowd rose to its feet, stamping and cheering East Bonaventure’s NFL star. The grandstand glittered with thousands of camera flashes. It was pandemonium.
With some prodding from EBU’s president, Charlie stepped to center stage, and Marcus felt his stomach tighten into a nervous pretzel. Beside him, Mac sat forward, his body stiff and tight. What would Charlie say? How would he react to finding himself the focal point of tens of thousands of people? Marcus and Mac waited, scarcely breathing.
“It’s great to be back at good old East Bumwipe!”
That drew an outburst of laughter and a standing ovation that took several minutes to quiet down.
“The last time I stood on this field, I had a broken nose, and Mary Frances Gilhooley’s underwear was flying from the flagpole,” Charlie went on. “I know because I put it there—me and a friend. What I’m trying to say is, the days I spent right here were some of the best times of my life. And to come back and be honored for it—well, that’s just gravy.”
“Look at his face!” Marcus breathed. “He gets it! He gets everything!”
Mac was pink with emotion. “To think I almost turned back!”
“Thanks, everybody,” Charlie concluded. “I’ll never forget this.”
The cheers were deafening.
Two large tears rolled down the cheeks of Elizabeth Popovich. “You see that?” she said to her daughter. “That’s your father.”
Chelsea nodded. “I barely remember him this way.”
Her mother wiped her eyes. “I don’t think I realized how far gone he is—not until now, seeing him the way he used to be.”
“He looks happy.” Chelsea turned su
ddenly angry. “How come that jerk Marcus always knows more about Daddy than we do?”
“I’ve been so blind!” Mrs. Popovich exclaimed. “You and Troy told me again and again, but I wouldn’t listen!”
“Don’t think about that now,” Chelsea sniffled. “Look—it’s a standing ovation.”
As the cheering roared on, Marcus and Mac got to their feet, leaping and high-fiving in triumph, their words an incoherent babble.
For Marcus, the exhilaration was double. The plotting, the machinations, the split-second timing—it was all worth it for this incredible moment. His life had become a muddy chaos of negative emotions: bitterness toward Stalin, regret for Alyssa, anger at Troy, resentment for Chelsea and Coach Barker—and even Mom, for moving him out of Kansas. Yet this felt astonishingly different—simple, crystal clear, and one thousand percent right.
On the field, the grounds crew was rolling the stage back to the sidelines. The ceremony was over, and the second half would soon begin. The Rogers sisters, flushed with pleasure, were being escorted back to their seats and—
Marcus froze. “Where’s Charlie?”
It took all the wind out of Mac’s celebration. “Don’t tell me we lost him!”
Marcus mentally plotted a course from the 1988 medalists back to midfield. No Charlie anywhere along that route.
“What was he wearing?” Mac prodded urgently.
“An EBU warm-up jacket!”
They both looked around in dismay. Three quarters of the crowd was clad in East Bonaventure crimson—jackets, sweatshirts, even stadium blankets.
They ran, sprinting down the concrete steps to ground level.
“Hey!” bawled a security guard. “You’re not allowed on the field!”
“Where’s Charlie Popovich?” Mac demanded.
“Back to your seats!”
Marcus spied Charlie on the opposite sidelines, walking into the tunnel at the center of a cluster of people.
“There!” he shouted, and vaulted over the half wall onto the turf. Mac was barely a step behind him. They raced across the gridiron, dodging the entire Rutgers Scarlet Knights offense, jogging out for the third quarter.
“Charlie, wait!” bellowed Marcus.
By the time they reached the mouth of the tunnel, Charlie and the group surrounding him had disappeared.
They pounded down the passage, shouting Charlie’s name. Marcus spun a three-sixty. The hall that led to the locker rooms was deserted. Another led to equipment storage. The third choice was a door that opened onto the VIP parking lot.
Marcus crashed through the heavy door. The King of Pop wasn’t in the lot. Frantically, he expanded his search field. It was a busy homecoming Saturday at EBU. People were everywhere in the distance, strolling on walkways and relaxing on benches and blankets.
Mac burst onto the scene, shouting, “Charlie—” He scanned the bustling campus. “Uh-oh.”
Marcus was in an all-out panic. “We could pick a direction and look there, but it would be pure luck if we found him!”
“All right, stay calm,” counseled the CPA. “Let’s try to think like Charlie.”
“You can’t think like Charlie!” Marcus raved. “His mind is totally random!”
“Not necessarily,” Mac argued. “When it’s sunny, he shades his eyes, right? His impulses are the same as anybody’s. If he’s hungry, he’ll look for a hot dog stand. If he has to pee, he’ll look for a bathroom....”
There was a momentary silence as they recalled the conversation on the drive across the campus. Then the two Macs looked at each other.
“The fountain!”
They took off in a full sprint, with Marcus in the lead. It was at least half a mile. Marcus made it in record time, and even Mac was puffing along, not far back. There was the fountain, but no Charlie. Marcus was distraught. They had gambled and lost. In the time it had taken to run here, and the time it would take to get back to the stadium, Charlie could be anywhere on the vast campus—or worse still, off campus. What if he hitchhiked again—or boarded a bus bound for Syracuse or New York City?
Unaccustomed to the half-mile race, Mac struggled to regain his breath. Heaving, he turned to a student who was sitting on the rim of the fountain, reading. “Have you seen a guy—a big guy, about my age—tall—curly hair—”
“Wait—he was with you?” the young woman exclaimed.
“He was here?” Marcus blurted.
“He sure was,” she replied. “He stood there for a long time, staring up at the statue. Then he stepped over the edge and started walking toward it—right through the water! When he got there, he was climbing up on the horse—”
“Where is he now?” Marcus interrupted.
She grinned nervously. “He got arrested. It took, like, six campus cops to drag him down.”
“Oh my God,” moaned Mac.
“No, this is good,” Marcus insisted. “It means he’s okay.” He turned back to the girl. “Where would they take him?”
She pointed across the quad. “The redbrick building. Campus security.”
And they were off and running again. Now Marcus’s fear for Charlie’s safety was replaced by a less urgent but definitely more ominous feeling. Any chance of getting the King of Pop to and from EBU under the radar was gone with the wind. Marcus had always known he’d have some explaining to do. But he hadn’t anticipated it would begin so soon.
This time, the older man’s stamina was near its end, and Marcus opened up a quarter-mile lead, galloping for the security station. He blasted through the doors to find Charlie himself sitting on a bench, wrapped from the waist down in a heavy blanket.
“Marcus Jordan”—a voice that was definitely not Charlie’s.
Marcus wheeled to find himself face-to-face with Officer Mike Deluca. He returned his attention to the King of Pop. “You okay, Charlie?”
The former linebacker looked from one face to another, sensing conflict and not much liking it. One thing was certain: The old Charlie, the real one, was no longer present. It was more than likely, Marcus reflected sadly, that he had already forgotten the honor of just twenty minutes before, the one he’d said he would never forget.
“He’s fine,” said Deluca. “He’s with me. I’m the good guy. I don’t know what to call you anymore. Kidnapper, maybe?”
Mac reeled onto the scene in time for this last part. “Nobody’s been kidnapped!” he wheezed. “Charlie needed a lift, so we drove him.”
Deluca glared at him. “And you are…?”
“James McTavish.”
Charlie stared at his high school friend. “You’re not Mac! You’re old!”
Mac indicated Charlie’s reflection in the front window. “We’re the same age, Charlie. Three weeks apart.”
Charlie rounded on Marcus, frowning. “But you’re—”
Marcus shook his head, devastated. “My name is Marcus Jordan.” How could this day have gone so wrong? He and Mac had just taken the fundamental misunderstanding at the core of all Charlie’s confusion and rubbed it in the poor guy’s face. “I’m sorry.”
He turned to the policeman. “Mac had nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know Charlie isn’t supposed to be here.”
Mac’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you saying?”
“What he’s saying, Mr. McTavish, is that Charlie’s family knew nothing of his whereabouts until they saw him streaming live on the EBU website. That’s when they called me to report that he’d been abducted.”
Marcus gulped. “It’s my fault.”
Mac couldn’t believe it. “You mean Charlie’s family wanted him to miss this?”
“They were pretty specific about it to Mr. Jordan,” Deluca replied, stone-faced. “Then again, Marcus never has been one for doing what he’s told.”
“Maybe he did something wrong, but he did it for all the right reasons,” Mac argued. “You can’t arrest him for being loyal to his friend—our friend.”
The officer looked exasperated. “Do you see
anyone being arrested here? Mr. Popovich is safe and sound and on the way home to his family. But just think about this—what if something had happened to him beyond wet feet? Whose fault would that have been? His own? I don’t think so.”
Marcus and Mac exchanged an agonized glance. The nightmare scenarios were all too easy to imagine: Charlie falling from the statue, knocking himself unconscious, and drowning. Or wandering off, soaking wet, as hypothermia set in.
“The family has the right to file a complaint,” Deluca went on. “I’d be well within my job description to cuff the both of you and stick you in the back of my car. So if you’re not under arrest, it’s for no other reason than you were damn lucky—”
“I’ve got to get home,” Charlie interrupted, his voice plaintive. It was obvious that he was very tired. “My mom’s going to be mad.”
Mac stared at his old friend in sadness and sympathy.
“Tell you what,” Deluca said to Charlie gently. “These fine folks have some dry clothes for you to change into. Then you can get in the back of the squad car, where you can stretch out and relax. I’ll have you home in no time.”
And you can’t escape from a police cruiser, Marcus reflected grimly.
“We’ll follow you,” Mac decided. “Come on, Marcus. Homecoming’s done.”
Marcus nodded. Truer words had never been spoken.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The bleachers at Aldrich High School’s football field were a fraction the size of East Bonaventure’s stadium. But the stands were jam-packed, and the excitement became even more supercharged as kickoff time approached.
The town of Kennesaw had bought into the story of their Raiders one hundred percent. But Poughkeepsie West had sent four busloads of their own supporters, so they were well represented. There was an epic feeling about this game—the DNA juggernaut against the team that had last defeated them. The single major obstacle in the Raiders’ quest for double perfection. An old rivalry ratcheted up to fever pitch.
Chelsea looked around the facility as if it had been designed to house some incomprehensible alien custom on a distant planet. Although she went to school just a few hundred yards away, she hadn’t set foot in this place for more than a year. Ever since it had become apparent that football was the cause of her father’s problems. The fact that Troy still played the sport—and their parents came to watch—made about as much sense to her as the medieval custom of tipping your own executioner.