Chinese Handcuffs (16 page)

Dedicated fans began filing into the Three Forks Community College gymnasium more than an hour ahead of the scheduled starting time for the first game of the girls' triple-A high school District IV tournament. Dillon was already busy in the locker room, taping ankles and knees, preparing to work on specific muscle complaints of the girls who lined up for massages. Dillon believed the big games were as important to him as to the players; he felt as much a part of the team as any of them. The girls respected him not only because of his paramedical expertise, which was quite advanced for a high school student, but for the fact that he knew firsthand the pain and pleasure of athletic discipline. Besides that, most of them thought he was cute and funny.

Jennifer sat in the corner, fully dressed in her uniform and warm-up, a towel pulled low over her face, concentrating on the upcoming game. Chief Joe had drawn Rogers High School for the first game, and though the matchup had the potential for a rout, there was no room for arrogance. The regional tournament was single elimination: Lose one and you're out. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not get a shot at the state title.

Dillon glanced over at Jen and mentally assessed whether or not he should interrupt her. Despite the fact that she seemed locked in her concentration, he moved over and squatted in front of her. “How's the hamstring?”

Jen jumped, looking for an instant as if he were a complete stranger, then nodded. “Okay, I think. You might help me stretch a little.”

“How you feelin'?” he asked, but she put up her hand and shook her head, his signal not to talk but to take care of business. Dillon nodded, and Jen rolled over onto her stomach so he could apply gentle pressure to her upper hamstring with the heels of both hands. He felt the leg relax under the pressure and firmly, but still gently, applied more. He took the leg through some more stretches, ones Jen couldn't do herself, and told
her how to keep it warm. Just before the game he would wrap it with a little heat to keep it loose. Jen nodded in acknowledgment and went back into her pregame world while Dillon moved about the other girls, taking care of their aches and pains and teasing a little to loosen them up, though this was a team with lots of big-game experience and not at all likely to choke under pressure.

Coach Sherman moved through the locker room, talking with individual players about their assignments, quizzing each about the Rogers player who was likely to be her opponent. She believed it was important to know not only the opposing team's offense but as much about each player running it as possible. Same with defense. Seldom were any of Coach Sherman's players surprised by another player's abilities.

Minutes before time to hit the floor for warm-ups Coach called them all to circle around her and summarized Chief Joe's general game plan once again. “We're coming out fast,” she said. “If they want to stay with us, they'll have to prove it from the gun. Full-court pressure, work the fast break. Man-to-man defense all the way.” She quickly outlined on the chalkboard two of the newer offenses they had worked on for the past three weeks, called for questions, and, when there were
none, sent the girls charging onto the floor.

She caught Dillon at the dressing room door. “What's with Jen?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“She seems pretty far gone. More than usual. I don't know, maybe it's my imagination.”

Dillon reflected on the past few moments. Coach was right, Jen had been encased in stainless steel, but nothing about her surprised him anymore. He smiled and shrugged. “Game face, is all. I think. Wouldn't want to be Rogers tonight, I know that.”

“Dillon, is something going on with her that you're not talking about? She's been different for the past week or so. If anyone would know, you would.”

Dillon was caught off guard and sputtered a little but caught himself. “I don't think so,” he lied. “I mean, she hasn't said anything. Might be, though, if it feels that way to you. You're not wrong much.”

On the court Jen worked through the warm-up drills as if it were the last three minutes of the fourth quarter and Chief Joe were down by five. Her moves to the hoop were strong and hard, her jump shot on the money. In the three-on-three defensive drills her teammates couldn't get a shot off against her unless they backed way out of range.

Coach Sherman walked among the players, giving them little tips and lots of encouragement, keeping things loose and doing that last little bit of fine tuning that was probably more for her than it was for the girls.

The captains met at mid-court, and Jen listened to the referees' instructions impassively, absently watching the stands fill to near capacity. The opposing bands and cheerleading squads were working the crowd to a fevered pitch. Normally Jen loved that; it worked directly into her own psych-up, but tonight she simply stared as the referee talked, reaching up to slap the hands of the Rogers cocaptains when he'd finished.

She walked back to the huddle to tell Coach and the rest of the team that Rogers was meat, then shed her warm-ups as Coach gave last-minute instructions. The players joined hands, shouting their chant, then took the floor.

From the opening inbounds pass the game belonged to Chief Joseph. Jennifer blocked the first two shots her man took and scored six points before Rogers could work up a sweat: four on quick jumpers and two on a drive to the hoop that left her defender standing and reaching. The girl couldn't get close enough even to foul. Her teammates rose to her intensity and by the time Rogers was able to call its first time-out, Chief Joe
was up 11–2 and high as kites. Coach Sherman quickly outlined a press break to counter the full-court press Rogers would surely come out in. “I wouldn't worry about it too much, though. You keep playing like you're playing and they're going to need a hell of a lot more than a press. They can't press you if they can't catch you. Okay, take it to 'em. Lookin' great, Jen.”

Jen stared at the floor, looked up quickly, and nodded. Back out on the court she took up where she had left off. Rogers trapped Chief Joe's point guard, and Jen came back to help, taking the pass and dribbling through the press, then firing a pinpoint pass to the center, breaking down the key for the easy lay-up. Before the ball was through the net, Jen was back at the half line, stalking her man with relentless ferocity. Chief Joe's defense was so effective that the thirty-second shot clock ran to five before Rogers could get any kind of decent pass into the key, but when it finally came into its weak side forward, she beat her man and drove to the hoop, cutting behind a screen set on Jen and pushing strong to the basket. Jen spun off the screen and, with a second left on the shot clock, sprang from behind, clamping her hand over the ball and driving both ball and shooter to the hardwood. The block was absolutely clean, and as the ball rolled into the
hands of Chief Joe's shooting guard and the Chief Joe crowd leaped to its collective feet, Jen sprinted for the opposite end.

And kept right on going.

Dillon sat awed by Jennifer's defensive move. He saw it from behind and to the side, saw daylight between the bodies and Jen's big, powerful hand close over the leather, forcing the Rogers forward to the ground, saw her lat muscle and tricep flex tight as she twisted like a ballet dancer to avoid the contact. He leaped spontaneously to his feet with the rest of the crowd, wishing at once this were television so he could see the instant replay. He followed the ball downcourt in the hands of Lila Sprague, the shooting guard who retrieved it, and his brain took an instant to compute what he saw out of the corner of his eye: Jennifer running all the way to the baseline, then on out the door. The cheers shifted to a loud murmur, and he looked down the bench to Coach, who could only look back puzzled. For an instant Dillon thought Jen had run to the locker room, maybe with an injury, but quickly realized the only thing out the end doors was outdoors.

Coach Sherman called time simultaneously with the blast of the referee's whistle, and by then Dillon realized something was really wrong. “I'll get her!” he yelled at
Coach. “Go on with the game,” and he sprinted for the door, almost bowling over the refs, who conferenced quickly to decide whether there was a technical foul here or what.

Outside, Dillon stopped a second to let his eyes adjust to the dark, then darted down the only path Jen could have taken, across the treelined lawn toward the entrance of campus and out to the street. Toward the end of the path, by the administration building, he thought he saw a shadow flash across an opening. If it was Jen, she was
moving.

He shot down the path, getting good purchase with his running shoes on the frozen snow; Dillon always wore his sweats and runners to games because he often ran home for training. He sprinted the seventy-five yards down the snowy path to the street and glanced quickly both ways. Initially he saw nothing, and his mind raced out of control.
What could she be doing? Where? Toward town? Toward the bridge?
His heart froze. The bridge. At its highest point it was easily four hundred feet above the river.
For Jen to run out of a basketball game
. . . He couldn't think it, just tightened down a steel clamp on his mind and raced in the direction of the bridge, knowing full well now she had gone that way. It was less than a mile, and she probably had
a hundred-yard lead. She was fast. Dillon was faster, but had no idea whether he could overtake her in that short a distance.

He pushed hard, just under a sprint, and occasionally caught her shadow passing under a streetlamp up ahead. He glimpsed her twice and knew he was gaining. He picked up his pace. The cold air seared his lungs, and a familiar burning began in his thighs. He blocked out his awful fear and concentrated on speed. His rhythmic breathing became labored, and he realized he was running too fast to hold the pace, but he couldn't slow down for fear of being a second too slow. Once again he visualized the triangle, placing it in its familiar spot at the back of his skull, and gathered the pain throughout his body, placing its fiery red imprint into the confines of the three thick borders, where he could manage it, or at least tolerate it. His speed increased.
Going for a photo finish,
he thought.
Neck and neck with Jen's asshole stepdad.

Now he could see her the whole way and thought to yell, but feared she might panic. She couldn't know he was there, and he didn't want to give her reason to run faster. And he didn't have the wind.

When Jen reached the entrance to the bridge, Dillon had closed to within ten yards. The slope below was
gradual, and if Jennifer were going to jump, she would have to make it at least halfway across to get the height she needed to do the job right. Miraculously, she hadn't heard Dillon closing in over her own heavy breathing and sobs. He might get only one chance.

Jen ran close to the edge now. There was a short suicide fence to climb, but she knew she could make it over.

She heard Dillon too late, as he dived for her feet. He wrapped her legs in a perfect downfield tackle, and they fell on the packed snow in a heap. In an instant she was kicking his head, scrambling away, screaming, “Get away from me! Get away from me!”

“No way!” He gasped. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

She kicked his head again and scrambled up. “Get away from me, you bastard!”

Dillon's head reeled as Jen struggled away and sprinted for the center of the span. He caught her again, but his tackle was less than picture perfect this time, and Jennifer kicked him square in the temple.

He pulled himself to his feet again as his head cleared in time to see her sprinting on across the bridge. His temples pounded. A nauseating dizziness danced between his head and stomach, and his steps became
less sure. Jen was just a few yards ahead, but Dillon could only keep her pace; he could not close on her.

At the end of the bridge Jen cut left and aimed down the steep embankment toward the river and the trail running alongside it, back toward the regional park. Dillon followed but tripped in the darkness on a rock, pitching head over heels to the bottom of the hill. Jen raced along the path, knowing she had gained ground because she could no longer hear him. Dillon picked himself up and immediately dropped to the ground in electric pain, his ankle throbbing and stabbing him from within. He felt the swelling, and he reached down to tighten his laces, hoping to create a partial cast—enough to keep up the chase. Jen was serious, no doubt about it. If he didn't catch her, she'd be dead in minutes. He didn't know how, but he knew she'd do it.

The pain in his foot throbbed almost unbearably, but Dillon was not about to have this repeat performance in his life, and he gathered it, stuffing it into the triangle in the back of his brain, and pushed on down the dark path.

Jen stopped as she spotted the water tower looming easily a hundred and fifty feet in the air, like a monolith in the center of the flat, snowy clearing. The ladder didn't reach the ground, but she had gone up there many
times as a child to be alone, leaning a picnic table against the side to reach the bottom rung. She glanced back to see Dillon coming. Once again her best friend was her worst enemy. Quickly she dragged the table the few feet across the snow, leaned it diagonally against the huge tank, stood back, and ran, springing from the table to the bottom rung. She climbed quickly, oblivious to the bitter cold against her skin, her hands nearly numb.

Having watched Jen's method for reaching the ladder, Dillon played follow the leader, stumbling across the snow to the table on his severely sprained ankle. His ankle gave way when it hit the tabletop, sending him tumbling in agony back into the snow. He was up in a flash. This time he pushed off his good foot, barely catching hold of the frozen bottom rung, pulling himself up with only the strength in his arms. A shocking pain shot through his foot at every rung, but he used his other foot and his powerful arms to pull himself up the ladder at almost twice Jen's pace, and he could see himself closing.