Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (7 page)

“Coach Holloway will still have the boys out working hard,” Potter said. “They barely scraped by a terrible team in their final regular season game. I’ll bet they’ll be running bleachers by the time we get there.”

Once Potter parked the truck, he and Cal got out and strolled toward the stadium.

Even before Cal could fully take in the scene, he knew Potter was right. Through the slats in the bleachers, Cal could see a mass of legs pumping up and down the steps.

“I’ll be danged,” Potter mumbled. “Holloway is one of the most predictable coaches on the planet. I’d be willing to be it was his fault the game was so close and not the kids’.”

Cal nodded and plodded toward the stadium.

With gold letters “Tiger Stadium” etched on the exterior of the stadium’s black press box, the venue reminded Cal of the rest of Saint-Parrain: plain and simple. A six-foot high chain link fence surrounded the stadium. The main gate remained open and used only a weathered eight-foot table as a ticket hub. Covering games in everything from eight-man high school football fields without lights to NFL stadiums, Cal estimated the stadium seated a little over two thousand fans. About two thousand on the home side and a couple hundred in the visitors’ section. A press box, one in desperate need of a paint job, decked the top of the home side stands with room for no more than two-dozen people.

When Cal turned his attention to the field, he spotted Coach Holloway immediately, based on Potter’s description. A hefty man who loved two things: chewing tobacco and coaching football. Holloway’s most distinguishing characteristic was his raspy voice that echoed through the vacant stadium as he barked at the players running up and down the bleacher steps.

“Come on, McGrath! You’re lumbering!” Holloway chided one of his players. “You think you’re gonna catch a quarterback in the fourth quarter with the game on the line movin’ that slow? My grandma could move with her walker faster than you’re movin’ right now!”

Potter leaned over toward Cal.

“Holloway’s right, you know,” Potter said. “His grandma used to come to every game until she died a couple of years ago. I saw her run down a young punk who tried to steal her purse at a game once. She wrapped her walker around the kid before he gave her his wallet to stop.”

Cal chuckled at Potter’s exaggerated tale.

“They even have a play named in her honor. It’s called ‘Grandma H,’ ” Potter said. “It’s a pick play where one of the receivers blows up a defensive back on a crossin’ route. It’s just how Grandma H would’ve wanted it.”

If Coach Holloway was half as colorful as Potter’s description of Grandma H, Cal figured an interesting interview awaited him.

Cal and Potter stopped at a short chain link fence encircling the playing field. Cal rested on the fence as he watched Coach Holloway in action.

Ten minutes later, practice ended with Coach Holloway imploring his kids to stay focused and out of trouble since they had a big game coming up on Friday night. He mentioned how practice would be delayed an hour on Thursday so everyone could go to Baker’s funeral. Dixon led the team in a series of chants before they scattered across the field and toward their vehicles.

Coach Holloway spotted Cal and Potter and ambled toward his two guests.

“Well, who left the gate open?” Coach Holloway asked. He didn’t wait for a reply. “When I first saw you two across the field, I thought you were enemy spies and I was ready to come over here and rip you guys a new one.”

Cal didn’t doubt that Coach Holloway would. The coach waited a moment before he smiled, which eased Cal’s mind. Before introductions began, Coach Holloway held out his hand to Cal and squeezed it so tight Cal thought at least three bones in his hands were crushed.

“What’s your name, fella? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meetin’ you.”

“Cal Murphy.”

“And what brings you to Saint-Parran, Mr. Cal Murphy?”

Before Cal could answer, Potter butted in.

“This is the reporter I was tellin’ you about that I’m going to be takin’ around for a few days while he’s investigatin’ for his story.”

Coach Holloway turned toward Cal. “Story about what?”

“Story about Dominique Dixon and Tre’vell Baker’s recruitment and the mystery surroundin’ Baker’s death,” Potter said, stealing Cal’s chance to speak.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. His death is as big of a mystery as we’ve ever had in Toulon Parish. There ain’t no good reason anybody would want to kill that kid. He was a gem.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions about him? I’m trying to get a better picture of who he was,” Cal said.

“Oh, I don’t mind at all.” Coach Holloway looked off in the distance as he adjusted the wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth with his tongue. “Go ahead, son. The world ain’t standing still.”

Flustered by the coach’s impatience, Cal flipped through his notes until he came upon his set of questions for the coach.

“How would you describe Tre’vell Baker as a person and as a football player?” Cal asked.

“There was no difference with him. On and off the field, he was a firecracker—full of passion and energy. A natural leader. Always looking out for the best interest of others. I think that’s why this team loved him so much.”

Cal jotted down some notes before asking his next question.

“Now, did you ever see anything about Tre’vell that would ever give you a reason to be concerned?”

“Concerned about what?”

“Concerned that maybe he was getting into some stuff that he wasn’t supposed to?”

“Tre’vell?” Coach Holloway asked. It was as if he didn’t believe Cal asked him this question. Cal nodded. “Are you kiddin’ me? That kid was pure gold. If he had any flaw, it was in being too good to the people around him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that Tre’vell would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him. And you knew darn well the kid didn’t have another shirt at home. That’s just the kind of kid he was. Lord knows how that boy had such a good heart. It certainly didn’t come from his absent father.”

Cal scribbled down a few more notes.

“Did he say anything to you after his trip to Bryant University with Dominique Dixon?”

“Like what?”

“Like why he was reneging on his verbal commitment to attend school there?”

“Not really. He just said he wasn’t as impressed now and wanted to keep his options open.” Coach Holloway paused. “Are you implyin’ that his death had somethin’ to do with him changin’ his mind about where he was going to play ball?”

“I’m just asking questions. I don’t know anything but I’m trying to get educated.”

“Well, I’ll tell you all you need to know.” Coach Holloway paused, creating a moment of drama in the conversation. “Some coward shot that kid for no good reason. He probably thought he was a deer or a bear and got all trigger happy. But whatever the reason, it won’t bring Tre’vell back now. We’ve all just got to move on and think about how much better our lives are for knowin’ him. And I suggest you do the same, Mr. Cal Murphy.”

Cal paused from his note taking and looked up. “Do the same?”

“Yeah, just move on. Ain’t nothin’ good ever comes out of dredgin’ the swamp of a person’s life.”

Cal nodded and thanked the coach for his time. It was clear the interview was over.

CHAPTER 9

ON TUESDAY MORNING, Frank Johnson paced back and forth outside his hangar at the Saint-Parran Airfield. Like most airfields without a tower, the Saint-Parran Airfield consisted of nothing more than a long strip of pavement, a windsock and a few hangars. Instead of a fence, a line of thick trees served as a weak deterrent. On more than one occasion, planes aborted landing due to wildlife moseying across the airstrip. The planes that frequented Saint-Parran the most chose to use waterways for takeoffs and landings, if possible. The local airfield remained reserved almost exclusively for the wealthy migratory hunters.

Johnson stared at his Rolex and tapped the glass.
He should be here by now.
Before Johnson could worry another second, he heard the faint roar of his Gulfstream IV’s jet engines. Within minutes, the plane was on the ground and taxiing toward his hangar.

As the engines powered down, Johnson awaited for the door to open and his guest to disembark. Like a star-crossed fan, Johnson approached Bryant University head coach Gerald Gardner as he stepped onto the Louisiana ground.

“It’s so good to see you, Coach Gardner,” Johnson said. “I trust your flight went smoothly.”

Gardner flashed his trademark smile, offering to shake Johnson’s hand. “Your crew always treats me like a rock star, Frank. I appreciate that. As always, everything was perfect.”

The two began to walk away from the plane and toward Johnson’s Range Rover.

“So, bring me up to speed,” Gardner said. “What’s happening with Dixon? Are we going to lose him?”

Johnson unlocked his vehicle with his key fob and they both climbed in.

“It’s hard to say, Coach,” Johnson began, “but it’s not looking very promising at this point. He’s grieving his friend—but he’s also greedy. Not sure that we’ll be able to offer enough to satisfy him.”

“The Lord giveth and taketh away,” Gardner said.

Johnson cranked the engine and began heading for the airfield exit.

“Yeah, I’m not sure about all that. For the moment, I think one of our top recruits is just being taken away by those vile imbeciles from Alabama.”

“Now, now, Frank. Let’s not get all judgmental. Besides, there’s another verse I like: ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ ”

“That’s the kind of verse I like,” Johnson said. He smiled and turned onto the major road leading to Saint-Parran. “You still have plenty of work to do, but I think we can still get him.”

As they drove through town, Gardner shook his head. “Same ole, Saint-Parran. This place hasn’t changed a lick.”

Johnson shot a glance toward his passenger. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yep, long time ago when I was on the coaching staff at Texas. They had a kid down here named Harvey Clarkston who was one of the hardest-hitting linebackers I’d ever seen. He was tougher than a two-dollar steak but he couldn’t spell his own name if his life depended on it.”

“Did you sign him?”

“Unfortunately not. Mind you, this was back in the days when there was no dead period before signing day. Nowadays, a coach can’t have contact with a recruit after Sunday the week before signing day. But back then? Everything was fair game. We used to sequester kids to make sure some other school’s coach didn’t get to them right before signing day and change their mind. So, anyway, I could’ve sworn we had Clarkston wrapped up until Miami swooped in right before we got here and hid him away. I staked out his house and thought I saw him leave. By the time I caught up with him in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, I found out he gave me the slip and signed a letter of intent to play for Miami in the meat department. That coach waved the letter at me as he exited the store. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.”

“How’d he do at Miami?”

“He never set foot on the field. It was a plumb shame. Those coaches screwed him up. He should’ve gone to Texas.”

Johnson scratched his face and pondered his next comment.

“Well, Dixon’s as sharp as a tack.”

“Not if he’s thinking about going to Alabama,” Gardner quipped. A wry smile spread across his face. He looked at Johnson, who was also smiling.

“I knew there was a good reason we made you the head coach of Bryant.”

***

By the time Dominique Dixon arrived home from Tuesday’s practice, two guests awaited him. Frank Johnson and Bryant University head coach Gerald Gardner sat on the front porch of his house, sipping sweet tea and trading stories with his mom. Dixon looked at the scene and rolled his eyes. The whole recruiting process felt like a sham to him. Coaches selling him and his parents on the virtues of a good education at their school along with the kind of coaching he needed to turn professional after graduation. If Dixon gave them the cold shoulder, they would go peddle their school with the same routine to the next best recruit.
Rich man begging
, Dixon muttered to himself as he gritted his teeth and got out of his car.

Dixon trudged toward the house with his backpack. Once he reached the top step of the porch, Johnson and Coach Gardner arose to greet him. But before they could shake Dixon’s hand, his mother darted forward.

“Look who came by to you see you, son,” she said. “It’s two of your favorite people.”

Dixon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. He never liked it when she put words in his mouth, particularly those types of words. The two men standing in front of him weren’t even on his list of people he liked; rather, they now held a special place on the list of people he despised.

Dixon forced a smile and extended his hand to Coach Gardner, whose hand had remained outstretched since the moment he stepped on the porch. Johnson then shook Dixon’s hand as well before sitting down. Dixon leaned against the porch railing while Johnson and Coach Gardner returned to their respective seats. His mother excused herself and went inside.

“So, how are you doing, Dominique,” Coach Gardner began, “you know with Tre’vell’s death and all?”

There were so many things Dixon wanted to say, but he stopped short. Without diplomacy, this meeting would get ugly.

“It’s been tough,” Dixon said. “I’m not gonna lie. I miss Tre’vell like crazy every day. He was an amazing friend.”

“Do the police have any idea who would do this or why?” Coach Gardner asked.

Dixon shook his head. “Not yet anyway. But I’m sure they’ll catch the scumbag who did this.”

“Well, I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing and find out if you were still going to keep your word that you were going to play for us,” Coach Gardner said. “From what I understand, it was Tre’vell that wanted to renege on his commitment to play for Bryant, not you.”

Dixon shrugged. “I’m not sure what I want to do any more. Tre’vell and I made a pact to go together, wherever we decided to go. But after visiting Bryant we decided to keep our options open.”