It Had to Be You

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  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.

  A gravelly male voice traveled through his headset. "I've got her Calebow. If you don't want her hurt, you'll listen real hard to what I'm saying."

  "Who is this?"

  "The Stars lose today. Got me? Your fucking team loses or the lady dies."

  Dan heard the wheeze in the man's voice and was gripped by a horrible suspicion. "Hardesty? It's you, isn't it, you crazy son of a bitch!"

  "Your team isn't going to win the championship without my boy."

  The fact that Hardesty made no attempt to deny his identity magnified Dan's fear as nothing else could have. Only a man who didn't care if he lived or died would be so careless.

  He knew he didn't have much time, and he spoke quickly, his voice commanding. "Listen to me. Ray wouldn't want you to do this."

  "You were jealous of him. That's why you cut him."

  "This is between you and me. Phoebe doesn't have anything to do with it. Let her go."

  "Don't call the police." Hardesty coughed, a dry rattling sound. "I'm watching on TV, and if I see anything unusual going on, you'll be sorry."

  "Think, Hardesty! You've got an innocent woman—"

  "Any more points go on the Scoreboard for the Stars, I'm gonna hurt your girlfriend."

  "Hardesty!"

  The line went dead.

  Dan stood there, stunned. He heard the cheers of the crowd and everything inside him went numb as he remembered the series of plays he had just called. He spun toward the field. Standing in mute horror, he watched as the ball arced through the air and sailed directly between the uprights for a Stars' field goal.

  The Scoreboard flashed, and Dan Calebow felt a cold hand grip his heart.

  In the subbasement of the dome, Ray cursed and slammed his foot into Phoebe's chair. She let out a cry as it flew across the slippery floor and crashed into the end wall. Her shoulder caught the impact and shards of pain shot through her body. She tasted blood in her mouth where she bit her tongue.

  Afraid of what he would do to her next, she fought against the pain and forced the chair back around so that she was facing him. But he wasn't looking at her. Instead he was staring at the television and muttering to himself.

  A close-up of Dan filled the small screen. He looked frantic, and since the score now favored the Stars 17-3, the commentators were making a joke about it. The sight of him made her feel as if she had been ripped open. She might die today. Was she going to be watching his face when it happened? The idea was unbearable and she forced her numb fingers to begin working at the knots that held her to the chair. As she bit back the pain her movements were causing her, she remembered their last conversation and the unshakable conviction in his voice when he had told her he would never throw a game.

  I don't do that, Phoebe. Not for anybody. Not even for you.

  Chapter 24

  « ^ »

  On the sideline Dan called Jim Biederot over. He hoped the quarterback didn't notice the unsteadiness in his voice. "We're making some changes in the next series, Jim."

  By the time he'd finished giving his instructions, Biederot's eyes had narrowed into indignant slits above the black smudges that angled across his cheekbones. "Those are goddamn running plays! I'm hitting every receiver I look at."

  "Do what you're told or you'll sit!" Dan shot back.

  Biederot gave him a glance of pure fury and stalked over to Charlie Cray, one of the assistants. Within seconds, he had grabbed Charlie's headset and was shouting into it.

  Dan knew Jim was speaking with Gary Hewitt, his offensive coordinator, who sat with Tully in the coaches' box high in the dome. Before Hewitt could start giving him hell, too, he tried to swallow enough of his fear so he could sort out his thoughts.

  Hardesty had said he was watching on television, which meant he'd be able to see any unusual movement on the sideline or in whatever part of the stadium was within camera range. As a consequence, Dan couldn't risk notifying the police. Once they knew that Phoebe truly had been kidnapped, they'd be all over the place, including right here on the sideline asking him questions. Even worse, they might decide to call the game, a circumstance that could very well push Hardesty right over the edge.

  He briefly debated using his headset to contact Ron, but he was afraid Hardesty might be listening in. Although Dan didn't understand all the intricacies of the internal communications system, he knew Hardesty could only have accessed it from within the dome. That meant he might, even now, be eavesdropping on conversations between the sideline and the coaches' box. It also mean that Phoebe was tucked away somewhere nearby.

  He swiped at his forehead with his sleeve as he tried to figure out what to do about Ron. Since he couldn't explain what had happened over the headset, he grabbed his clipboard and scribbled a quick note, making it cryptic enough so that it would be meaningless to anyone else who read it.

  I spoke with the player we were discussing at halftime. Your negative assessment of the situation was correct. It is urgent that you take no further action. I'll explain after the game.

  He slipped the note to one of the equipment men to deliver and told himself that Phoebe would come out of this unharmed. Anything else was unthinkable.

  For the first time, he let himself consider how his actions would affect her ownership of the Stars after all this was over and she was safe. Although there was no precedent for what was happening, he couldn't imagine the NFL would let this game stand—not unless the Stars won despite his coaching, which he wouldn't let happen. Once the NFL learned that he had deliberately thrown the game, ensuring a Stars' loss, they would schedule a rematch and she would still have a chance to keep the team.

  And then an ugly thought struck him. What if the police didn't believe that she had been kidnapped? If Hardesty got away, there wouldn't be any tangible proof other than her own testimony. Dan was the only one who could back up her story, and his personal involvement with her would make his word suspect. She could very well be accused of fabricating the kidnapping simply because the Stars had lost and she wanted another shot at retaining ownership.

  There was no way the NFL would let this game be replayed.

  He forced himself to face the painful fact that his failure to notify the police was going to cost Phoebe the Stars. Still, he couldn't do anything else. He wouldn't take a chance with her life, not for the world.

  Gary Hewitt's voice crackled through his headset. "Dan, what the hell's going on? Why did you tell Jim to keep it on the ground? That's not our plan. He's never passed better."

  "I'm making some changes," Dan snapped. "We've got the lead, so we're going to play smart."

  "It's only the third quarter! It's too early to get conservative."

  Dan couldn't have agreed more, so he simply removed his headset and glued his eyes to the field. No matter what he had to do, he was going to keep Phoebe safe.

  By the middle of the quarter the Sabers had scored their first touchdown while the Stars' ground game had failed to move the ball, reducing their lead to seven points. The fans' booing had grown so loud that the offense was having a hard time hearing Biederot's signals. Dan's assistants were furious, the players livid, and, two minutes into the fourth quarter, when the Sabers evened the score at seventeen, the network's color man ran out of patience.

  "Can you believe what you're seeing?" He was practically shouting into the cameras. "All season, Dan Calebow has been one of the most aggressive coaches in the NFL, and it's terrible to see him fold like this. This isn't the kind of football the fans came to watch!"

  Phoebe tried to shut out the commentator's understandably harsh assessment of Dan's coaching, just as she'd been trying to ignore the sound of the crowd's jeers. She didn't want to think about wha
t this public humiliation was doing to his pride, and she knew she had never loved him more.

  Her wrists, chafed raw by her struggles to get free of the ropes, were bleeding. Ignore the pain, she told herself. Play through it. Everything she had heard the players say, she repeated to herself, but she was beginning to think the knots would never loosen.

  Hardesty had tied her wrists in a figure eight of rope, then secured the free ends to the vertical post that supported the back of the chair. Although her fingers had become sticky with blood as she worked at that tight double knot that held her in the chair, it wouldn't give. Play through the pain. Shake it off.

  Hardesty stared at the screen, took a drag on his cigarette, and coughed. The air was so thick with smoke that she could barely breathe. Sometimes she thought he had forgotten her, but then he would look at her with eyes so empty of any remorse that she didn't doubt he would kill her.

  Five minutes into the fourth quarter, the Sabers pulled ahead. On the sideline the emotions of the players and assistants reflected everything from fury to despondency, while the crowd had begun to throw debris on Dan. He stood alone, isolated by the players and the coaches. Only his iron discipline was keeping a full revolt from breaking out on the bench.

  Sabers 24, Stars 17.

  As the Sabers kicked the extra point, Biederot slammed his helmet against the bench, hitting it with such force that the face mask cracked. Dan knew it was only a matter of time before Jim ignored the threat to bench him and began calling his own plays. With less than ten minutes left on the clock and the temper of the crowd growing uglier by the minute, he could no longer keep the game on the ground.

  All his life Dan had been a team player and going it alone had become too risky. Praying that he wasn't making a fatal mistake, he called Jim and Bobby Tom over just before the offense took the field again.

  Jim's face was ruddy with fury, Bobby Tom's rigid. Both of them started spewing obscenities.