It Had to Be You (45 page)

“And the best part is, there’s not a damned thing you can do about it, Miss High and Mighty, because it happened too long ago. It’d be your word against mine, and while you’ve been humping everything in pants, I’ve been Mister Clean. So whenever you start gloating about the Stars, know that I’ll be remembering the way you screamed when I popped that sweet little cherry of yours.”

“Are you all right, Miss Somerville?”

Reed jumped back as a security guard approached from the left. She pressed her fingers to her lips.

“Miss Somerville? Is everything okay here?

She struggled to speak. “No, I . . .”

“See you later, Phoebe.” Reed straightened his tie, then crossed the hallway to the skybox. He turned and gave her a smirk. “Thanks for that cherry pie.” Opening the door, he disappeared inside.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. The security guard took her arm.

“Everything’s going to be all right, Miss. Let me help you.”

She moved like a robot at his side as he drew her down the hallway. The memories of that terrible night came crashing back. There had been no windows in the metal shed, and the heat trapped inside had been thick and heavy. When he’d opened the door, she’d seen only a hulking male silhouette against slick black sheets of rain. She’d assumed it was Craig, but she hadn’t seen his face.

He’d been on her before she could move. He’d torn her blouse and bitten one of her breasts like an animal. She remembered the roughness of the uneven concrete floor scraping her bare buttocks as he had pushed up her skirt and ripped off her underpants. Her head had banged into a chemical drum when he’d spread her apart. He had made a guttural sound as he’d pushed into her, but after that, the only sounds she could remember were her own screams.

The floor gave out beneath her and her head shot up. For a moment she was disoriented, and then she realized the security guard had led her into an elevator. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to first aid.”

“I’m all right. I don’t need first aid.”

“You’re white as a sheet. I don’t know what that guy was trying to pull, but maybe you should lie down for a few minutes until you feel better.”

She started to protest but realized she wasn’t in any condition to go back to the skybox right then. A few minutes away from curious eyes would give her a chance to pull herself back together. “All right. Just for a bit.”

As the elevator continued to descend, she smelled cigarette smoke on the guard’s uniform, and another wave of nausea came over her because it reminded her of Reed. She was overcome by a sense of helplessness. He was going to get away with this. He was right. Too much time had passed for her to be able to make accusations.

The security guard began to hack. He was overweight, probably in his early fifties, with grizzled hair and a florid complexion. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She read his name printed in block letters on his plastic tag. “You should give up those cigarettes, Mr. Hardesty.”

“Yeah.”

The elevator doors slid open. She saw the pipes overhead and realized they were in some sort of subbasement. “Where are we?”

“There’s a first aid station for the employees down here. It’ll keep you away from the crowds.”

She followed him out of the elevator into a narrow corridor, which was painted a dull, battleship gray. Pipes hissed overhead and she heard a sound that reminded her of distant thunder. She realized that she was hearing the muffled roars of the crowd in the dome above them.

They rounded a sharp bend. “In here.” He caught her elbow and turned the knob on an unmarked door.

Feeling her first quiver of uneasiness, she hesitated. With a hard push, he thrust her inside.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

Her eyes widened with horror as she saw that he had drawn his gun and it was pointed directly at her. A sense of unreality swept over her. Reed was her enemy, not this man she had never met. Above her the crowd roared like a beast in a padded cage, while she was trapped in a nightmare where she had escaped one terror only to be ensnared by another.

He pushed the door shut. “Get over there!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Move!”

She stumbled backward, gradually becoming aware that he had pushed her into a room that seemed to be both a janitorial office and storage space. She saw a dented gray steel case desk, a file cabinet, and a wall of metal shelving holding cartons and machine parts.

He pointed the gun toward an armless secretarial chair that had a small V-shaped tear in the black vinyl seat. “Sit down.”

Her legs trembled as she lowered herself into the chair. The oval-shaped back support squeaked and gave slightly as she leaned back. She stared with grim fascination at the ugly black gun that was trained on her heart. It didn’t waver as he leaned down to pull a length of clothesline from behind a packing box that sat on a metal shelving unit across from the desk.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Instead of answering, he pushed against the chair seat with his shoe, spinning it around so that she was facing the wall. She automatically reached out to brace herself, only to have him grab her arms and pull them behind her. She gave a cry of alarm.

He wheezed as he tied her wrists and secured them to the vertical metal bar that held the chair’s back support. It rocked alarmingly on its spring hinge, pulling at her arms and making her wince. When she was bound, he gave the chair another push, sending it flying into the far corner of the cramped room. She stopped it with her feet before she banged into the wall and then, panic-stricken, pushed herself around so that she was facing him.

She tried to feel grateful that he hadn’t tied her legs, but the cords were cutting into her wrists, sending shafts of pain shooting upward. He picked up the gun from one of the metal shelves where he had laid it while he tied her and returned it to the leather holster on his hip.

How long would it be before Ron noticed that she was missing? She fought down the hysteria rising inside her, knowing that no matter what happened, she had to keep her wits. She grew aware of the distant sound of music and realized that the halftime show had begun. Trying to ignore the pain in her arms and wrists, she forced herself to take in the details of the office.

The dented gray desk against the wall was cluttered with stacks of dog-eared manuals, catalogues, and a litter of papers. A small portable television, its tan case marred by greasy fingerprints, sat on top of a four-drawer file cabinet directly across from her. Clipboards hung from L-shaped hooks on the wall behind the desk, along with a calendar featuring a nude woman holding a brightly colored beach ball.

The guard lit a cigarette and held it between his stubby fingers, which were stained with nicotine. “Here’s the way it’s gonna be, lady. As long as your boyfriend does what I tell him, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well I guess that doesn’t much matter.” He walked over to the file cabinet and turned on the television set. The black-and-white picture showed the commentators in their network blazers sitting in the broadcast booth.

“. . . the Stars played brilliantly in the first half. The offense mixed up their plays. They protected the ball well. The Sabers are going to have to be a lot more aggressive if they want to get back into this game.” The display at the bottom of the screen showed the score:
Stars 14, Sabers 3.

The guard gave a vile curse and turned down the volume. She looked at him more closely as he paced the narrow end of the office closest to the door, smoking furiously. Her eyes fell on his black plastic name tag.

HARDESTY

At that moment, it all came back. She remembered Dan’s telling her about the man who had been stalking him, the father of one of the Stars’ former players. His name was Hardesty.

A beer commercial blinked mutely on the television. She licked her dry lips. “My arms are hurting. The rope’s too tight.”

“I’m not untying you.”

“Just loosen it.”

“No.”

She had to get him to talk. She would go crazy if she didn’t find out what he had in mind. “This is about your son, isn’t it?”

He pointed his cigarette at her. “I’ll tell you something, lady. Ray Junior was the best defensive end to ever play for the Stars. There wasn’t any reason for that bastard to cut him.”

“Coach Calebow?”

“He had it in for Ray Junior. He didn’t even give him a chance.”

“Dan doesn’t operate that way.”

Clouds of gray smoke wreathed his head, and he barely seemed to have heard her. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think he knew Ray Junior was a better player than he’d ever been. I think he was jealous. The press made a big thing about Calebow, but he was nothing, not compared to my Ray.”

She realized that the man was insane. Maybe he’d been this way for a long time, or maybe his son’s death had been the final blow. She tried to conceal her fear.

“Players get cut all the time. It’s part of the game.”

“You don’t know what it’s like! One day you’re somebody special, and the next day nobody knows your name.”

“Are you talking about your son or yourself?”

“Shut up!” His eyes bulged and his complexion took on a faint purplish hue.

She was afraid to push him any farther, and she fell silent.

He jabbed his finger at her. “Look, you don’t mean anything to me. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Because no matter what, I’m not going to let the Stars win this game.”

Ron reached the tunnel just as the players were rushing back onto the field. He dreaded what he had to do. Dan had been a bear all week—temperamental, unreasonable, and impossible to pacify—and he had no idea how he’d react to this distressing piece of news.

Dan emerged from the locker room and Ron fell into step beside him. “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.”

“Handle it. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to win a football game here, and—”

Ron pressed his folded handkerchief against his forehead. “Phoebe’s missing.”

Dan jerked to a stop, and his face went pale. “What are you talking about?”

“She left the skybox during the second quarter and never came back. Somebody found her purse in the hallway. I’ve called her house and her office. I’ve checked with first aid and sent someone to every skybox. She’s gone, Dan, and at this point, I have to believe it’s foul play.”

Ron had seen Dan in pressure situations, but he’d never seen such raw panic in his eyes. “No! She can’t be— Christ. Did you call the police?”

“Yes, but since it’s so early, they’re not taking it as seriously as I am. I hate doing this to you in the middle of the game, but it occurred to me that you might be able to think of someplace else I could look. Do you have any ideas? Can you think of anyplace else she might be?”

He stood frozen, his eyes wild in the pallor of his face. “No.” He grabbed Ron’s arm. “Did you talk to Molly? Jesus! Talk to Molly! Maybe Phoebe’s with her.”

He’d never seen Dan like this, and he knew right then that there was more to the relationship between the Stars’ owner and head coach than he had suspected. “Molly hasn’t seen her since before the game. She’s pretty upset. Tully’s wife is with her now.”

“If anything’s happened to Phoebe—”

“Dan?” One of the assistant coaches had appeared at the mouth of the tunnel.

Dan rounded on him, the cords of his neck standing out like ropes. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

Ron could feel Dan’s desperation, and he grabbed the head coach’s other arm with an urgent grip. “You’ve got to get back on the field! There’s nothing you can do for Phoebe right now. I’ll let you know right away if we find her.”

Dan regarded him with haunted eyes. “Don’t let anything happen to her, Ron. For God’s sake, find her!”

Ron wanted to reassure him, but he could only say, “I’ll do my best.”

One level below, Hardesty reached into his pocket for a fresh pack of cigarettes. Phoebe’s eyes were stinging from the smoke, adding to the misery of the pain in her arms and wrists. The silence between them had strained her nerves to the point where she had to speak.

“Whose office is this?”

For a moment she didn’t think he would reply. Then he shrugged. “One of the engineers. He has to stay with the generators until the gates close, so he won’t be popping in for a visit, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

The silent screen showed the Sabers kicking off. She flinched as he turned up the volume.

“You’re not going to get away with this.”

“You know something? I don’t care. As long as the Stars lose the championship, I don’t fucking care!”

Hardesty glanced at the TV, then moved to the desk, where he picked up the telephone and punched four buttons. Several seconds passed before he spoke into the receiver.

“This is Bob Smith with the Stars. I’ve got Phoebe Somerville here, and she wants to talk to Coach Calebow. Patch this call through to the sidelines, will you?” He paused, listening. “She doesn’t give a shit about authorization. She says it’s important, and she’s the boss, but it’s your ass, so you do what you want.”

Whoever was on the other end must have decided to go along with the request because Hardesty slid the phone to the end of the desk closest to where she was sitting. The wheels squealed as he caught the back of her chair and pulled her to it. He waited silently, his hand clenching the receiver, and then he tensed.

“Calebow? I got somebody here wants to talk to you.” He pushed the receiver to Phoebe’s ear.

“Dan?” Her voice was thin with fear.

“Phoebe? Where are you? Jesus, are you all right?”

“No, I—” She cried out with pain as Hardesty dug his fingers into her hair and yanked hard.

On the sidelines, Dan went rigid. “Phoebe! What’s happened? Are you there? Talk to me!”

His heart was banging against his ribs, and a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. Phoebe was being terrorized, and there was nothing he could do about it. With blinding clarity, the strength of his fear peeled away all his self-protective layers, and he knew how deeply he loved her. If anything happened to her, he didn’t want to go on living. He cried out her name, trying to convey everything he felt for her but had never been able to say.