The Broken Chase

by Cap Daniels

  “These people are very strange,” she said when we settled into our seats.

  “They’re just different,” I said. “There’s something going on with Coach Woodley, though. I wish I knew what’s bothering him.”

  “Maybe we can help him,” she said.

  I considered that. “Maybe we can.”

  7

  The Game

  I held up two fingers and yelled to the vendor. “Two chili dogs and two beers!”

  The vendor stood in the empty row behind us with his enormous tray suspended from the padded strap around his neck. He handed us the chili dogs then motioned for the drink guy to bring us our beers.

  I watched Anya tear open the foil wrapper of the chili dog. The anticipation on her face was more exciting for me than watching the game. When she saw the contents in the wrapper, her excitement turned to trepidation. In spite of her obvious uncertainty, she lifted the dog to her nose and inhaled the aroma.

  I wanted her experience to be unforgettable. She opened wide and took her first bite of a chili dog at her first baseball game. At the same instant she bit into the bun, the leadoff batter for Alabama fouled a high fastball off the top of his bat, sending the ball straight back into the net, twenty feet in front of us. Anya saw the ball coming at her and leapt backward as if she were about to be hit by a train. The chili dog and beer exploded into the air at the same time her scream left her throat. The ball stopped within milliseconds of hitting the net, but the dog and beer did not. It all came crashing down onto her brand-new clothes.

  I bit the inside of my jaw, trying not to laugh. She was soaking wet and covered in chili and mustard. The chili dog was on the ground at her feet, one bite missing from the end.

  I was terrified she was going to be furious, but with a protruding cheek full of chili dog, she burst into laughter. Relieved, I joined her in the absurdity of the situation.

  I heard the telltale sound of an aluminum bat hitting a baseball exactly the way it was designed to do. A high fly ball trailed away toward the left field fence, and it climbed, ready to leave the stadium. The left fielder ran toward the fence with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, but there was no use. Everyone in the stadium knew the leadoff batter for Alabama had crushed a hanging curveball into the cheap seats.

  Disappointed by the opening play, I turned to help Anya get cleaned up from her debacle, only to find her with my chili dog in her hands—at least two bites already missing. Not only had she swiped my dog, but my beer was also nestled on the seat between her legs.

  Through chili-covered lips, she said, “You were right, Chase. Chili dog is wonderful.”

  All I could do was laugh. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go get you some clean clothes. I can’t be seen with a woman wearing chili and beer.”

  We headed for the vendors who were selling everything from Bulldogs toys to t-shirts. We opted for the t-shirt guy.

  “We had a little accident with a chili dog and a foul ball,” I said, pointing to Anya.

  “I see that,” said the vendor. He took a long look at me just as the ticket lady had done. “Dude! You’re Chase Fulton.” He took a look at my right hand.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Almost as good as new. But my baseball days are long behind me now.”

  “Dude, you’re like a legend around here. Wait. Check this out!”

  He sized up Anya and then slipped through a curtain in the back of his booth. In seconds, he came back with a red Bulldogs jersey. It had my old number twenty-one on the back and Fulton printed across the top.

  He handed it to Anya. “I’m sure you’ve got a ton of these at home, but this one’s on me. It’s like, really cool to meet you, man.”

  Anya took the jersey, held it up in front of her, then handed it to me. She pulled off her ruined shirt and yanked the jersey from my hand. The vendor’s eyes turned to saucers as Anya stood there in her bra and shorts. I pulled the vendor’s cap down over his eyes and gave him a playful shove as Anya buttoned the jersey.

  * * *

  Most of the fans had left the stadium long before the end of the game, but we stayed and watched every pitch. Anya asked a lot of questions about the first baseball game she’d ever seen, and I answered them the best I could. She didn’t seem to care that we’d lost; she was just excited to be doing something new.

  In the car on the way to Milly’s, she finally asked the question I’d been expecting all afternoon. “Why do all these people know you?”

  Humility ran in my family. My mother and father spent their adult lives as terrifying deadly assassins, but from all outside appearances, they were simple, lowly missionaries caring for children throughout the Caribbean and South America. I hadn’t learned what my parents truly were until four years after their death. That tradition of humility continued in me, and I never would’ve bragged about the caliber of ballplayer I’d once been.

  “You know I played ball here in college. In my junior year, I was lucky to be on a team with some really good players. They were so good, in fact, we won the College World Series in ninety-six. I was seriously hurt in the last game of the series. I was the catcher, the guy who squats down behind home plate and catches the ball when the pitcher throws it. There was a close play at home, and the runner and I collided. I broke my right hand and wrist bad enough that I couldn’t play ball anymore. But because I held on to the ball during the collision, the runner was out, and we won the game. I didn’t really do anything special. The team won the game. I just did my job. But they named me the most valuable player of the game. It was a great honor, but I believe everyone else on the team deserved the award as much, if not more than me.”

  Her response surprised me. “I think this is very American thing to say.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “In Russia, if man win award, he tells everybody how great he is, but he is average athlete. You were great athlete and won award, but you tell no one. I think that is American thing.”

  I shrugged and smiled at my Anya Ana Burinkova Fulton.

  * * *

  We pulled into the parking lot at Milly’s, an old log cabin perched on the banks of one of the most beautiful creeks in Georgia. It was the kind of place only locals knew about and tourists could never find. There were always seven or eight lazy dogs wandering around the property or sleeping under the bushes out front.

  Coach Woodley and his wife Laura pulled up beside us and stepped out of their car. Introductions were made, and Laura’s hug appeared to freak Anya out a little. It was going to take some time to turn my Eastern Bloc beauty into a Southern belle.

  Coach Woodley wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Laura wasn’t her usual cheerful self either. Something was amiss. I hoped they’d be willing to tell me what it was.

  The dinner conversation was relatively light and full of lies for the first several minutes. I didn’t like lying to my old coach, but when he asked what I’d been doing for the past two years, and how Ana and I met, I couldn’t exactly say, “Well, Coach, I went to spy school and learned how to kill people, and then I met a Russian SVR officer who was also a trained assassin while I was chasing a Russian hit man all over the world.”

  My story came out a little more benign. I told him I’d been working overseas as a consultant for the government and had met Ana on one of my trips. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was far from the whole truth. By the look on her face, I could tell Laura wasn’t buying my story.

  She took a long swallow of water and asked Anya, “So, dear, what is it that you do?”

  Oh, boy. This should be interesting.

  “I also worked for government in Russia, but now I am learning all about Chase’s life, and I’m eating things, but I cannot remember the names.”

  I hoped everyone’s laughter might change the subject, but it only resulted in uncomfortable silence.

  Our dinner arrived before the awkwardness became unbearable. Anya kept eyeing my shrimp and grits, so I offered her a bite. She eagerly accep
ted and declared them to be as good as the Jekyll Island Club.

  Laura finally smiled her trademark Southern debutante smile. “Oh, Ana, so you’ve been to Jekyll Island. Isn’t it just gorgeous out there?”

  I sat back and watched the show. I should’ve known it would turn into more than I wanted to explain.

  “It is paradise, and we are staying in honeymoon suite.”

  “Oh, Chase Fulton!” Laura squealed. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you both.”

  I noticed Coach checking both of our left hands for wedding rings, but I didn’t flinch. In a desperate attempt to change the subject, I asked, “How’s Skipper? I didn’t see her at the game today. I don’t ever remember her missing a game.”

  Laura’s face paled and she dropped her head. Coach Woodley put his hand on her back in an obvious effort to comfort her. When Laura raised her head, her eyes were filled with tears and she was biting her lip.

  “You’ve got to tell him, Bobby,” Laura said. “Skipper and Chase were like brother and sister when he was playing ball for you. You’ve just gotta tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” I insisted.

  Coach nervously scanned the dozen people sitting nearby. “Let’s go for a walk, Chase. I’d rather not talk in here.”

  I kissed Anya. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Are you okay here with Laura?”

  With a faint nod, she gave her wordless answer. Coach Woodley and I stood and excused ourselves from the table. We walked in silence for a few hundred yards until we reached a small bench overlooking a bend in the creek. I wasn’t going to push. I waited patiently for him to start talking.

  “Chase, it’s good to see you again. Everyone wondered what happened to you when you vanished. Most of us assumed you needed to get away from Georgia baseball, and you’d come back when you’d whipped those old demons.”

  I couldn’t look into his eyes, but I said, “That’s not exactly what happened, but it’s a pretty good assumption, I guess. Now let’s talk about what’s going on with you and Laura. What’s happened to Skipper?”

  He cleared his throat and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “She’s gone, Chase.”

  My heart sank and my stomach churned. “What?”

  “Her senior year in high school she started running around with a bunch of kids who were no good for anybody. They were into drugs and alcohol and God knows what else.” He paused to catch his breath.

  I sat in terror of hearing what he would say next.

  He gathered his composure. “She ran off with these pieces of shit, Chase. They went to Florida . . . down in the Keys, we think. But we can’t be sure. We went to the police, but they wouldn’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “They say because she’s over eighteen, she can run off anywhere she wants with whoever she wants, and there ain’t shit we can do about it. That’s my little girl. Hell, you know her as well as anybody. She loved you like a brother, and I know you always thought of her as . . . well, forgive me, but I always believed that maybe you thought of her as the sister you wished was still alive.”

  My sister and parents had been murdered by militants in Panama almost a decade before, leaving me with no family at all. Coach Woodley, Laura, and Skipper had become the closest thing I had to take the place of my murdered family. Skipper was two years younger than my sister, but every time I’d looked at her, I saw my murdered sister’s curly hair and bright, happy eyes. Skipper was the person who made me believe I could do anything. She made me believe I could keep living even though my family was gone forever.

  I swallowed hard. “Have you thought about hiring someone to find her?”

  “Yeah, we did that. We hired a big-time private investigation firm out of Atlanta. It cost me two hundred grand, and all they did was sell the story to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Big headlines, Chase. ‘Georgia Baseball Head Coach’s Daughter on Wild Ride,’ or some bullshit like that. I tried hiring some guys out of Miami, but all I got from them was a drawerful of bills and a donkey cart full of excuses. I’ve been down there myself a dozen times, but I don’t know how to find her. The truth is . . . I wouldn’t know what to do if I did find her, short of killing every son-of-a-bitch I could get my hands on.”

  I stilled myself. “Coach, I wasn’t entirely honest with you back at the restaurant. I’m not an overseas government consultant. I don’t even know what that is. I do work for the government, though. I find people who don’t want to be found, but it’s not usually teenaged girls. I hunt for killers and hit men and that kind of scum. I’m good at what I do . . . but that’s not all. Ana is Anya Burinkova, a former Russian intelligence officer who could track a butterfly in a hurricane.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Coach, we’ll find your daughter, and we’ll bring her back. You have my word.” I looked him squarely in his sunken, desperate eyes. “And Coach, we’ll drill holes through any son-of-a-bitch who gets in our way.”

  His shoulders dropped and he sniffled. “I can’t pay you, Chase. I’ve already spent every dime we have and then some trying to find her.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I don’t need your money, and I wouldn’t take it even if I did. Now let’s get back and check on our girls.”

  We walked back to the restaurant to find Laura and Anya leaning against the back of our Porsche. Laura was crying, and Anya, in a rare display of compassion, was hugging her.

  Laura pulled back and took Anya by the hands. “Thank you, Ana. Thank you so much.” She fell into Coach Woodley’s arms. “Oh, Bobby, you’re never going to believe it. You’re never going to believe who she and Chase really are. They’re gonna find Skipper, Bobby. They’re gonna find our baby girl, and they’re gonna bring her home.”

  “I know, sugar. Chase told me everything. It’s gonna be all right.”

  He reached out for my hand, and I took his. He pulled me in close. “When you find the bastards, if they’ve hurt my baby girl—”

  “I know, Coach. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything. You get Laura home and worry about winning a few ball games, huh?”

  We climbed into the Porsche. The hunt was on, but this time our prey wasn’t some shadowy, mysterious hit man. We were out to find a bright-eyed, beautiful, nineteen-year-old girl, and we weren’t doing it for money or because it was our duty. This time, for me, it was personal. And no one was going to stop us.

  8

  Lies

  With Anya at the wheel and driving way too fast, I called the Jekyll Island Club on my new cell phone. It turned out to be much easier to use than the satellite phones that required clunky folding antennas and clear lines of sights to satellites to make the things work.

  “Thank you for calling the Jekyll Island Club. This is Stephanie. How may I help you?”

  It was nice to hear her familiar voice.

  “Stephanie, this is Chase Fulton. Has our friend Clark Johnson checked out of one-oh-four yet?”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Fulton. Give me a second and I’ll check.”

  I could hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard.

  “Mr. Johnson is still here. Would you like for me to ring his room for you?”

  “Yes,” I almost yelled into the phone. “Thank you, Stephanie.”

  The phone rang three times before Clark picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “Clark, Chase Fulton here. I’m glad I caught you. Listen, I need a ride to Key West, and you have a King Air. We’ll be back on Jekyll Island in about four hours. Can you have the plane fueled and ready to go?”

  The line was silent for several seconds, so I checked the screen of my phone to make sure we were still connected. I lifted the phone back to my ear.

  “Uh, Chase,” Clark said, “I can’t just take the King Air to Key West anytime I want. It’s not my plane. I’ll have to get authorization.”

  I wasn’t interested in playing ask-daddy-for-the-keys with him. “Here’s your authorization, Clark. Either have the plane ready to go when we get there, or leave the keys with Stephan
ie at the front desk and we’ll take the airplane without you. It’s your choice, but if that plane isn’t on Jekyll Island and full of gas when I get there, you can explain to a very important man that his daughter is dead because you weren’t authorized to take Daddy’s plane to Key West.”

  I wanted to slam the phone, but as I learned, a cell phone doesn’t have a slam function. Pushing the little red button isn’t remotely as satisfying.

  Thanks to Anya’s skills on wheels, we made the five-hour drive in just over three. When we arrived back on the island, I told her to drive by the airport before heading back to the club. I wanted to make sure Clark hadn’t taken off in the King Air. Thankfully, he hadn’t. It was still sitting on the ramp, and the fuel truck was pulling away when we drove by.

  We whipped into the drive at the Jekyll Island Club and Anya parked with practiced precision, exactly where we’d picked it up the previous day.

  Hustling through the lobby, I asked to see Stephanie, but the clerk on duty told me her shift had ended two hours before.

  “How about Jack Ford?” I asked.

  “Mr. Ford doesn’t typically work on weekends. Can I help you with anything?”

  I fumbled through my pockets and found the card Jack had given me, so I asked the clerk to call the number. She was hesitant, but finally relented and dialed.

  As soon as I heard her speaking to Jack, I snatched the receiver from her hand and stuck it to my ear. “Jack, this is Chase Fulton. I’m leaving the Porsche keys with the desk clerk. We’re flying back to Key West tonight, but I need to leave my boat with you until I can have someone pick it up. An emergency has come up and it’s unavoidable. I’ll be happy to pay for the use of your dock until I can have it moved in a few days.”

  There was no time to wait for his reply. I handed the receiver back to the clerk and thanked her. I tossed the Porsche keys onto the counter and headed off toward our room. While I’d been talking with Jack, Anya had hurried to our suite and packed everything. We headed for room one-oh-four where we found the door propped open and Clark sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for us.