by Irene Hannon
She looked down at the offending story, then back up at him. “You’re upset about the story on hate crimes?”
“Yes, I’m upset! What were you thinking?”
“About the need to help people understand the issue. About justice and truth and softening a few hearts.”
He planted both hands flat on her desk and leaned toward her. “What about safety? Have you forgotten that letter?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten it. That’s one of the reasons I decided to do a two-part story.”
“There’s more coming?”
“Yes. Didn’t you read the article?”
“Not yet. I just skimmed it.”
“Well, I hope most of our readers do more than that.”
Frustrated, he straightened up and raked his fingers through his hair. “Abby, this could be dangerous. Someone’s already not happy. This will incite them even more.”
“Are you suggesting that the Gazette back down because one reader wasn’t happy with an editorial?”
“A reader who threatened you.”
“I’m not worried about it, Mark.”
Since he was getting nowhere, he changed tactics. “Okay, then what about this guy you featured? Ali Mahmoud? He’s already been a victim once. He could be targeted again.”
“I realize that. So does he. And he’s done a very courageous thing by allowing me to tell his story. I called the sheriff, and he’ll be beefing up patrols near Ali’s restaurant and his home.”
“What about your home?”
“I’ve dealt with these kinds of things before. I’ll be careful.”
She was looking at him oddly, and Mark forced himself to take a slow, calming breath. She thought he was overreacting. And maybe he was. But even though this might be all in a day’s work for Abby, it was way out of his experience. All he knew was that the letter had shocked him. And considering how the color had drained from Abby’s face when she’d read it, it had shocked her, too.
“Look, why don’t you read the whole article,” Abby suggested. “It’s a very objective, factual, straightforward piece. No one can take issue with it. And our readers appreciate this kind of coverage.”
The placating tone of her voice merely stirred his anger again. But he kept it in check, speaking through gritted teeth. “Okay. Fine. Sorry to bother you. Let’s just hope that you’re right about your readership—including the letter writer.”
Turning on his heel, he exited her office and returned to the conference room, closing the door with more force than necessary.
Abby stared after him, confused by his tirade. She had no idea what had prompted it—unless he was worried about the welfare of the Gazette. But that didn’t quite ring true. There had been an almost personal element to his anger. As if he was worried about her. Abby the person, not Abby the editor.
She had to be wrong, of course. He hardly knew her. And she’d done little to remedy that, avoiding him as much as possible over the past couple of weeks. Yet her instincts told her that her intuition was correct. That Mark had stormed into her office because he cared about her.
That wasn’t a good thing, she reminded herself.
But try as she might, she couldn’t quell the sudden glow of happiness that warmed her heart.
“Excuse me…could I interrupt you for a minute?”
Distracted, Mark grabbed the basketball and turned toward the voice. A fortyish sandy-haired man, attired in black slacks and an open-necked shirt, was standing across the church parking lot a dozen yards away.
Tucking the ball under his arm, Mark closed the distance between them. At closer range, the man had a pleasant, open face and startling blue eyes.
He held out his hand. “I’m Craig Andrews. The pastor of this church.”
As Mark returned the firm clasp, he felt like a kid caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He supposed he was trespassing—and being called to task for it, even if the lot was deserted on a Monday night. “Mark Campbell. Sorry to intrude. I realize this isn’t public property and I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, no problem.” The man lifted a hand to cut him off. “I’m glad to see the hoop being put to use.”
“Thanks. I’m spending a few weeks here doing some business at the Gazette and I’m going stir-crazy in the evenings.”
“Abby mentioned your visit.”
What else had she mentioned? Mark wondered. He’d hardly seen her since the incident in her office the prior week, when he’d taken her to task for the hate-crimes article. He figured she must be mad at him. Better to steer clear of topics related to Abby.
“I’m used to a regular exercise routine, and the NordicTrack at the Oak Hill Inn wasn’t cutting it. I’d rather be outside, anyway. And the hoop was convenient.”
“You’re very good.”
“I played on the varsity team in high school, but I haven’t picked up a basketball since then.” Mark dismissed the man’s praise with a shrug. “I guess it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget the basics.”
“I’m hoping I can persuade you to pass some of your knowledge on.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Puzzled, Mark eyed the minister.
“Of course not.” The man gave a chagrined chuckle. “It would help if I explained, wouldn’t it? For the past couple of years, some of the boys in our congregation have been after me to form a basketball team. It took a while, but I finally managed to convince one of our adult members to act as a coach. Even though the season doesn’t begin until January, Jim wanted to start working with the boys now, since most of them have zero experience.
“Long story short, after two practices he fell off a ladder at his house and broke his leg. I figured the team would have to disband until he recovered, but now I’m wondering if there might be an alternative. Your appearance seems almost providential.”
Mark’s confusion changed to wariness. “I’m not a coach. And I’m not into…religion.”
“Neither is Jim. A coach, that is. As for religion—that’s not a job requirement.” The minister smiled. “The thing is, I’m not looking for a pro. Just someone who’ll take a genuine interest in helping the boys learn the basics. It’s only a couple of nights a week, and a handful of weekend pickup games that Jim organized with some neighboring teams to give the boys a little practice. He should be back on his feet in six to eight weeks, so it’s not a long-term commitment. I’d do it myself, but I’m a total klutz when it comes to athletics.”
The man’s friendly approach made it hard to say no.
“How old are these kids?” Mark asked.
“Thirteen and fourteen. Not the easiest age.”
A shadow darkened Mark’s eyes. The minister was right. It was a tough time even under the best of circumstances. But for him it had been a nightmare. Even after all these years, his memories from that traumatic period remained painful.
“I can see that you relate to that.”
The pastor’s words jerked Mark back to reality. There was kindness and insight in the man’s discerning eyes, and for an instant Mark was tempted to share his story with him. It was an urge he didn’t understand—and one he wrestled into submission. He never talked about that period in his life. Not to family, not to friends. And he wasn’t about to spill his guts to a stranger. The mere fact that he’d even considered doing so astounded him.
“Yeah. I was there once. Long ago.” His voice came out gruff—and not quite steady.
If the man noticed Mark’s sudden unease, he let it pass. “Disappointments are amplified at that age. Of course, it’s not the end of the world if the boys have to postpone things for a couple of months, but they’ve already been waiting two years to get this team organized. I hate to lose the momentum or the enthusiasm.”
A cardinal chirped in a nearby tree, and Mark looked up as the scarlet bird spread its wings and took flight, soaring high against the cobalt blue sky. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do in the evenings, he reflected. He was a
lso growing tired of the weekend commute to Chicago. And even more tired of the restlessness that plagued him once he arrived, as he wandered through the sterile rooms in his condo or forced himself to attend the kind of social events that were rapidly losing their appeal. A few weekends in Oak Hill might be a nice change of pace.
“Okay, Reverend. I’ll give it a shot.”
“The boys will be thrilled.” Smiling, the man held out his hand. Mark took it in a firm grip. “I can’t thank you enough for stepping in.”
“When do they practice?”
“Tuesday and Thursday, from six to seven. But we can change that if it doesn’t work for you.”
“No. That’s fine. When’s the first pickup game?”
“It’s scheduled for Saturday, but we might want to cancel since they’ve had very little practice.”
“Why don’t we let it stand? We’ll have practice tomorrow and Thursday. It won’t hurt to give the boys a taste of competition.”
“Okay. I’ll tell the team to meet you out here tomorrow night. God bless you.”
As the man retraced his steps across the parking lot, his parting words echoed in Mark’s ears. Aside from his father and Rick—and now Abby—Mark had had little contact with people of faith. Most of his acquaintances scoffed at religion, if they discussed it at all. They preferred to take control of their own lives rather than confer with a higher power or follow a set of moral laws they considered to be stodgy and outdated.
Somehow Mark had fallen into that same pattern—even though he knew that any sense of control was an illusion. He’d learned that at a young age, after the back-to-back losses of two people who meant the world to him. Things just…happened. Good as well as bad. Whether by chance or design, he didn’t much care. All he knew was that if God really was up there orchestrating things, He’d fallen down on the job way too often.
Still, he respected people who had faith. Even envied them a little. And he appreciated the good intentions behind the minister’s parting blessing. He just didn’t put a whole lot of stock in it.
Because experience had taught him that God didn’t listen.
Ragtag was a generous description for the eight lanky boys with long, gangly legs who clustered around them as Reverend Andrews made the introductions the next night in the parking lot. Attired in a variety of mismatched outfits, the team members displayed typical adolescent behavior as they attempted to mask their enthusiasm in order to appear cool.
Jim Jackson, their coach, had called Mark at the Gazette to fill him in on the practice sessions to date and thank him for stepping in. Based on that conversation, Mark had concluded that the team would need a lot of work. That conclusion was borne out when he ran the boys through a few drills and they spent more time chasing the ball than dribbling, passing or shooting.
Although the practice was exhausting, to his surprise, it was also satisfying. The boys had been eager, interested learners, responding well to instruction and high-fiving each other for improvements and accomplishments. Already Mark had identified a couple of kids who showed special promise. He’d work with them a bit more next session as they prepared for their first practice game.
“Okay, that’s it for tonight,” Mark called at last, after a quick check of his watch. “Homework awaits.”
When his comment was met with groans and grumbles, he grinned and propped his fists on his hips. “Thursday we’ll start with a review of the rules and assign positions for Saturday’s game. If you get a chance tomorrow, practice a few of the things we worked on.”
As the boys dispersed, Mark dropped to one knee to tie his shoe. When a shadow fell across the pavement in front of him, he looked up to find one of the two boys he’d singled out earlier standing a couple of feet away.
“Hi, Evan. What can I do for you?”
“I know practice is over, but I wondered if you’d show me that spin move again so I can work on it tomorrow.”
It didn’t surprise him that the boy had focused on that maneuver. Mark had introduced it to the group, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize that it was way beyond the sketchy ability of most of the team members. He’d moved on rather than frustrate them. But with his raw talent, Evan might be able to master it.
“Sure.” He picked up the ball and rose to demonstrate. “This is a great move to get around a defender in the open court. But you have to protect the ball or it could be stolen from behind you, on your blind side, as you spin.”
With a deft move, he demonstrated the maneuver, pivoting on his front foot, then pulling the ball hard and fast around his body to continue the dribble with the opposite hand.
“And you have to be careful not to get your hand under the ball or you’ll get a carrying violation,” he said, passing the ball to Evan.
The boy tried the spin a few times, with Mark correcting his stance and position, and after a couple of minutes he seemed to grasp the rudiments, even if the execution was shaky.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” Mark told him, impressed. “We’ll go over it again Thursday if you like.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The boy handed the ball back to Mark. “Listen, the guys…we really appreciate this. We were pretty bummed when Mr. Jackson got hurt.”
“Glad I could help out. See you Thursday.”
As the boy struck off down the street, Mark balanced the ball in one hand and looked after him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten involved in anything that required him to give without expecting some kind of return. Including relationships. Yet he hadn’t approached this temporary coaching gig with that attitude. It had just seemed like a good way to fill up his empty evenings. He hadn’t expected any kind of payoff.
Much to his surprise, however, there was one—though it wasn’t tangible. It was more like a feeling. Of fulfillment, perhaps. As if he’d made a difference somehow.
But even if Mark couldn’t quite identify the payoff, he did know one thing.
It felt good.
On Friday afternoon, his thoughts on tomorrow’s game, Mark used the flat surface of a table beside the copy machine to tap the sheaf of papers into a neat stack. As Abby and Molly passed by, he gave them a distracted glance.
Then he looked again.
Something was up.
There had been an almost palpable tension in the air as the women passed by, reflected in the rigid line of Abby’s shoulders and Molly’s worried expression.
His first impulse was to follow them, but he reined that in. Knowing that his presence at the Gazette had the staff on edge, Mark had done his best to keep a low profile. In general, he hadn’t stuck his nose into anything that wasn’t relevant to his investigation. Last week, when he’d confronted Abby about the hate-crimes article, was the one notable exception. He hadn’t made that mistake again, nor did he plan to repeat it during the remainder of his stay.
But there were strange vibes in the air.
In the end, he broke his rule again and followed the women. He found them outside the back door, conversing in low tones.
They looked up in surprise when he joined them. “I saw you walk by, and wondered if there was some kind of a problem.”
“We can handle it,” Abby dismissed him.
“Fine. Sorry to bother you.” Feeling rebuffed, Mark turned to go.
He had his hand on the door when Molly spoke.
“Maybe he’s run into this kind of thing before.” Mark paused as Molly directed her comment to Abby. “Campbell Publishing is a big outfit.”
Shifting his attention to Abby, Mark saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes—and used it to his advantage. “What kind of thing?”
With a resigned sigh, Abby gestured behind him. “Molly found that a little while ago.”
Turning, Mark looked around. A brown corrugated box, taped closed and addressed to Abby, stood on the ground a few feet away.
Puzzled, he turned back to the women. “What is it?”
“We don’t know. But this was on top.” Abby hande
d over a copy of the last issue of the Gazette, opened to the hate-crime story, which was circled in red.
Mark’s breath caught in his throat. “We need to call the police.”
“That’s a waste of their time,” Abby responded.
“Not if this is a bomb.”
Molly gasped and took a quick step back, but Abby’s expression was incredulous. “That’s crazy!”
“Yeah, it is. But there are a lot of crazy people in this world,” Mark countered. “You had a hate crime here, remember?”
“Okay. Fine. I’ll call Dale, our sheriff,” Abby capitulated.
Without a word, he handed her his cell phone, then took her arm and urged her away from the building. At least it was lunchtime and the place was deserted. “Molly, why don’t you lock the front door while we wait for the sheriff?” Mark suggested. “I doubt he’s going to want anyone inside until this is resolved.”
“Okay.”
Molly disappeared around the side of the building, and Abby looked up at Mark as the steady pressure of his arm propelled her away from the back door. “I think you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe. We’ll let the sheriff decide.”
When Mark at last released her arm, she tapped in a number on his cell phone, then spoke. “Hey, Dale. It’s Abby. We have a rather interesting situation at the Gazette.” While she explained it to the sheriff, telling him about the first note, as well, Mark surveyed the vacant lot behind the building, hoping to spot a clue about who might have left the package. But to his untrained eye nothing looked amiss.
Not that the sheriff would have any better luck, he speculated. In a town the size of Oak Hill, the local cop most likely spent his days writing parking tickets and helping old ladies retrieve cats from trees. His experience with bombs and bomb threats was probably nil.
To his surprise, however, the fit, late-thirtyish sheriff who stepped out of a patrol car a few minutes later was no Barney Fife. He asked a few crisp, pertinent questions, told Abby he’d instructed Molly to remain in front, then started to move in on the suspicious box.
“Hey…shouldn’t you bring in an expert or a bomb-sniffing dog or something?” Mark called after him.
