by Todd Hafer
Now he wished he had taken those fantasies more seriously—and paid closer attention during all the secret-agent movies he had seen before he gave them up in favor of sci-fi flicks. Because now he was certain that he was being followed through Cedar Heights Mall.
The guy tailing him was big, at least six three and well over two hundred pounds. He looked older than college age, maybe twenty-five. And he looked vaguely familiar, but Cody couldn’t recall why. Perhaps he had attended Crossroads Community Church at some point. But if that were the case, he definitely had not sported a Death Metal T-shirt then. Pastor Taylor wouldn’t have stood for that.
Cody threaded his way through the Thursday-night-at-the-mall traffic. He reached a long escalator at the south end of the mall’s first level. He stepped carefully onto the moving steel steps and half turned so that he could monitor his stalker.
Mr. Death Metal walked head down toward the escalator. Cody swallowed hard. He almost stumbled as the escalator reached the second level. He made a sharp left turn and speed walked toward Pet Planet. He stepped through the entryway and the sharp smell—a mixture of pet food before and after digestion—filled his nostrils.
Through a glass display area that contained a half-dozen kittens romping amid shredded newspaper, he could see the escalator. Mr. Death Metal reached the top, took two steps forward, then stopped.
Why is he stopping? Cody wondered. If he were going to a store, he’d just go there. This is so not good. Why did I listen to Beth? “Come to the mall with your dad and me, Cody. It’ll be fun. It’ll take your mind off the big game tomorrow. Give you something to do besides sit in the house and obsess about Claxton Hills until you make yourself sick!”
Cody almost cried out when he realized the man had spotted him. Cody moved toward the back of the store past aquariums teeming with multicolored fish. When he reached a large metal tank housing three lethargic turtles, he stopped. The pet shop was narrow, with only three cramped aisles, like a miniature bowling alley. A guy could get cornered easily.
Mr. Death Metal was at the entrance now. He stopped for a moment to watch the kittens, then slid to his right and headed toward Cody.
God, he prayed, I know that you know my favorite prayer. I probably don’t even have to say it, but— HELP!
Cody waited until his stalker was halfway down the aisle, then darted up the middle of the store. He didn’t even risk a glance at Mr. Death Metal. Once outside Pet Planet, he turned left and sprinted. He could see heads turning to watch him. Two frowning mothers pulled their strollers out of his way.
They must think I’m a shoplifter—or a lunatic, he thought. And I don’t care. He arrived at another escalator and sprinted up it, taking the moving steps two at a time.
Mr. Death Metal was still on his trail. The big man didn’t run, but his stiff, brisk walk betrayed someone on a mission.
Cody waited at the top of the escalator. Okay, he told himself, I have to do one thing, just to prove I’m not crazy paranoid.
Mr. Death Metal stepped on the escalator. He walked up the steps until his path was blocked by a thin, white-haired man holding the hand of a pigtailed girl in a long, yellow dress.
Cody forced himself to stare at Mr. Death Metal’s face. Gotta make eye contact, he told himself, then I’ll know if it’s on.
The man was halfway up the escalator now. Cody stepped forward, as if he were going to pull a Pork Chop stunt and try to descend against the flow. Mr. Death Metal met his stare and gave an exaggerated, palms-up shrug. As if to convey, “What’s the use of running? You can’t escape.”
Cody stepped back. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “You wanted to know if it was on. Well, it’s on.”
He sprinted again. He passed a bookstore, an athletic shoe store, and an apparel shop for the Plus-Size Woman. The food court was just ahead. He could smell the appealing, mingling aromas of various fried foods. Between Nacho Loco and the Donut Factory was a long hallway leading to some restrooms. He whipped his head around. Mr. Death Metal wasn’t in his sight line. He slowed to a walk to avoid colliding with a business executive exiting the men’s room.
Inside the rearmost stall, Cody fought to slow his hungry, panting breaths. His T-shirt clung to his back, just as it did after a full-court basketball scrimmage. He locked the door and stood just in front of the toilet, facing forward.
He waited. Presently, the door hinges whined. Is someone coming or going? he wondered. Then he heard the telltale sound of footfalls on the sticky floor. Coming, was the answer. Right at him.
The footsteps stopped in front of Cody’s stall. The door rattled as a hand pushed against it. Cody made his voice as low as a fourteen-year-old in the early stages of puberty could. “Occupied,” he said flatly.
“That’s okay,” a voice answered. “I can wait.”
Cody gulped. Man, what I wouldn’t give for a mall security dude who drank too much coffee at dinner.
Cody scanned his memory trying to identify his stalker. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that face before, but it must have been a long, long time ago. Or maybe I’m just trying to convince myself I know this guy, because it would be even more terrifying to be attacked by a total stranger. And on the night before a play-off game, to boot! I’m gonna be a wreck tomorrow!
The entrance door moaned again, and Cody heard two boisterous voices arguing over the previous weekend’s Denver Broncos game. One guy’s voice grew louder as he fought to be heard over the hissing of a sink faucet.
Okay, Cody resolved. Time to exit. It stinks in here, and if Death Metal Dude is gonna kill me, he’s gonna have to do it in front of witnesses!
He drew in a deep breath and turned the latch. Mr. Death Metal turned his body slightly, but he didn’t back up. Warily, Cody stepped by him. He locked his eyes on the exit. One of the Broncos fans was furiously rubbing his hands together under an air dryer. The other was studying his reflection in a mirror.
If I run, Cody wondered, what will happen? Will one of those guys grab me, or will they let me go by? Maybe they’ll slow down Death Metal Dude if he sprints after me.
The sound of a clearing throat yanked Cody from his thoughts. “Cody Martin,” the man in the Death Metal shirt said evenly. “We need to talk. I’m Gary Weitz. Gabe Weitz’s big brother.”
Cody felt fear envelop him like a fog. So that’s where I’ve seen that face before. Gary’s face isn’t as fat as his brother’s, but those cold eyes—there’s definitely a family resemblance.
One of the Broncos fans shoved the other out the door, leaving Cody alone with a guy whose shirt proclaimed “Death.”
“What do you want with me?” Cody was surprised at the anger in his voice. He had meant to sound meek, sympathetic.
“Like I said,” Gary Weitz explained, his tone still eerily calm, “we need to talk.”
“Look,” Cody said, “my dad is here at the mall and I was supposed to meet up with him a while ago. He’s going to be looking for me.”
Weitz smiled. “This won’t take long.”
Cody swallowed what little saliva remained in his mouth. “Those guys who were in here—they saw us. They saw your face. If anything happens—”
The smile again. “I don’t care what they saw. It doesn’t matter.”
Cody willed himself to look into those cold eyes. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said. Helpful hint, he scolded himself, next time you tell someone you’re not afraid of him, try to do it without your voice shaking.
“I think you are afraid,” Weitz said. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m sweating because you chased me all over the whole stinkin’ mall.”
“Yeah, but athlete sweat and fear sweat have distinct aromas. You’re a jock. You should know that. And I smell fear.”
Just keep talking, big man, Cody thought. The longer we talk, the better the chances someone else will come in. Maybe even Dad.
But Weitz was reaching for him. Cody stepped back, banging into the stall door. “Cody,” Weitz said. “I�
��m not going to hurt you.”
Cody cocked his head and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yeah? You mighta told me that right up front, then.”
Another smile. “I have to admit—I was enjoying watching you squirm. See, sometimes I find myself wanting to blame you for what happened.”
“You gotta be kidding me!” Again, Cody’s own anger shocked him. “Your brother attacked me, and that’s what started the whole thing. I don’t know what he told you, but all I did was let a door close behind me one time after basketball practice. And for that, he goes Extreme Wrestling on me and slams me into the door, then tosses me in the snow. Later on, he chucks beer bottles at me and Pork Chop, then chases me and another one of my friends, and, finally, tries to run me down with his truck! I never talked trash to him. Never flipped him off. Nothing. Look, I am sorry about what happened to your brother. But what happened— that’s on him, not me.”
Weitz dipped his head. “I know.”
Cody felt his head shaking in bewilderment. “Then why did you come after me?”
“I wasn’t coming after you, not like you’re thinking. I just need to tell you something. And ask you one question.” Weitz’s arms were folded defiantly across his chest. He let them drop to his sides.
“I’m listening,” Cody said.
Weitz cleared his throat. “Gabe wasn’t trying to run you down,” he said. “Not really.”
“He coulda fooled me!”
The elder Weitz sighed wearily. “He was just trying to scare you. Look, he was my brother, and I know he had a mean streak. It’s kinda my fault, I think. I picked on him, harassed him all his life. Anyway, he mentioned you from time to time. I think he really hated you at one point, because Pork Chop’s brother, Doug, humiliated him with that one-punch KO. And that all kinda started with you—even though I know it wasn’t your fault or anything. But after a while, he got over wanting to hurt you. He just wanted to throw a scare into you occasionally. It became kinda like a hobby.”
Cody crossed his arms. “Collecting stamps—that’s a hobby. Stalking someone doesn’t seem like just a hobby to me. It’s more like an obsession.”
“Really? Then why did you tell the police that you thought the whole truck thing was probably an accident—or a prank gone bad?”
Cody felt the question pressing in on him. He recalled the police interview—and reinterview. “I’m not sure if I know the answer to that,” he began. “I mean, your brother was killed, after all. Whether he was attacking me or just trying to scare me, he paid the steepest price. I didn’t see what good accusing him of attempted murder would do. And, besides, I wasn’t sure. And I don’t go around throwing serious accusations like that unless I’m 100 percent sure. You know, back in Old Testament times, if you accused someone of a crime punishable by death, you had to be willing to participate in the execution yourself.”
Weitz raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that.”
Cody sensed he was out of danger. Still, he wanted to escape from the restroom. Gary Weitz seemed like a reasonable guy, but he was Gabe Weitz’s brother, and the momentum could shift suddenly—just as it did in sports.
“Uh, Gary,” Cody said, “you mentioned that you had a question?”
Weitz nodded. “Yeah. Well, if I understand correctly what happened, you had gone for help when Gabe stumbled out of his truck and onto that old highway.” “
That’s right. I really did all I could to get help to him as soon as I could. I ran as hard as I could to find someone.”
Weitz’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I believe you. What I’m wondering is, you must have known he was alive if you went for help. So, did you talk to him or anything? Did he say anything to you?”
Cody shook his head sadly. “No. I don’t know if he was conscious. But I did talk to him. I tried to assure him that I was going for help. And I told him I would pray for him. I told him he should pray too.”
Weitz looked at Cody. His eyes glistened. “I hope he did.”
“I do too,” Cody said quietly.
Weitz looked up at the ceiling. “You know, at his funeral, a few of his buddies were there. At the cemetery, before they put my brother in the ground, these guys walked by his casket and poured beer on it. Some ritual, huh?”
Cody nodded slowly.
“I mean,” Weitz said, his voice quaking slightly, “is that what it comes down to? Is that what a guy’s life stands for? Your best friends march stone-faced by your dead body and pour beer on you?”
Cody searched every corner of his brain for a response. All he could find was, “I’m sorry.”
Weitz took two steps backward. “Well, you better go find your dad.”
Cody walked purposefully toward the door.
“Thanks for what you did, Cody,” he heard Weitz call behind him. He turned and nodded.
Chapter 4
Postseason Blues
Claxton Hills High School was surrounded by ranch-style homes framed by evergreen trees, rose bushes, and hedges manicured with surgical precision. It was a private school where parents coughed up more than $8,000 a year to protect their kids from the dangers— both real and perceived—of South Denver’s public schools.
As Cody, with his Eagle teammates, traipsed through the gymnasium, he noted the many banners adorning all four walls. Conference, district, and state titles in almost every sport—gymnastics, cross-country, track, baseball, soccer. He didn’t notice any football banners, but he knew Claxton Hills hoped to remedy that shortcoming— and this evening’s game was part of the quest. Grant, which finished the regular season at 5–3, had handed the Lancers their only loss of the season, so Claxton entered the play-offs as a higher seed—a vengeful higher seed.
When the Eagles were taped up and dressed out, Coach Morgan called them to the center of the visitors’ locker room. As he began to speak, ATV and Clark began to tap their helmets, gently and rhythmically, on the benches where they sat. Coach Morgan raised his voice slightly, and the cadence of his speech changed, keeping rhythm with his two star players’ percussion backdrop. Soon, other Eagles joined their leaders. Some began clacking their cleats against the concrete floor. Something about the aura reminded Cody of church.
“Forty-eight minutes,” the coach was saying. “Maximum effort on every play. Play with courage. Play with pride. Play with intensity. You are Eagles! It’s time to fly high!”
The tapping and banging and pounding accelerated steadily until it sounded to Cody like a violent hailstorm.
ATV stood, threw back his head and bellowed a primal war cry. Others joined in. Coach Morgan waited for the frenzy to subside. “Let’s take a minute,” he said. Almost in unison, the team dropped to one knee.
Cody closed his eyes tightly. Any glory, Lord, that comes from this game, he prayed earnestly, let it be yours. No one else’s.
He opened his eyes. Clark’s hands were folded in front of him, his lips moving slightly. Pork Chop stared straight ahead, drinking in huge gulps of air. Phillips crossed himself before standing quietly and sliding his helmet over his head.
Coach Morgan waited for all of his players to stand. “Let’s bring it in, fellas,” he called. The team formed a massive huddle in the middle of the locker room, all extending arms toward the center, making a huge stack of their hands. “Let’s hear ‘team’ on three,” he commanded.
Cody yelled the word as loud as he could, but he couldn’t hear his own voice amid the deeper, louder ones surrounding him.
Cody followed his teammates on the field, which was lit up like a birthday cake. Throughout pregame warm-ups, Cody had to constantly battle the urge to stop and stare in wonder at the scene around him. “There must be 250 kids just in the Claxton band,” he mumbled. “It’s a good thing this stadium is so big, because it looks like the whole city of Denver is here!”
The much smaller visitors’ stands were full too, but the size contrast between the Eagle and Lancer faithful reminded Cody of Gideon and the Midianites.
> ATV gave the visiting fans cause to cheer early in the game, booting the opening kickoff five yards beyond the end zone, then sacking Eric Faust, the Lancers’ college-bound QB, on first down.
But it was a long time before the Grant High parents, alumni, and fans found cause to cheer again. In the meantime, Eagle defensive stalwart Jeff “Truck” Tucker broke his ankle midway into the first quarter. ATV began to suffer from back spasms a few minutes later. By late in the second quarter, he couldn’t move without crying out in pain and frustration.
Finally, with thirty-eight seconds remaining in the half, Clark body-slammed Faust in his own end zone for a safety. But that cut only slightly into Claxton Hills’ 14–0 lead.
Cody found himself in the thick of the first-half action as Faust relied heavily on his two talented wide receivers, the stocky and tough Sam Butler and lanky and fleet Hayden Owens-Tharpe. Working mostly against Butler, Cody enjoyed success early in the game, as he crowded Butler at the line of scrimmage, preventing him from getting into his routes. However, on the Lancers’ final drive of the first quarter, Cody bit on an out-and-up route and had to grab Butler’s jersey to keep him from getting open for a long bomb from Faust. The resulting holding penalty was key in the Lancers getting on the scoreboard first.
On the next Claxton Hills possession, Cody found himself with a clear path to Faust on a corner blitz, but the QB ducked under the attempted sack, then scooted around the right end for twenty-nine yards.
As a result, Cody spent the early portion of halftime in the rear of the locker room muttering to himself. He startled when he realized Coach Morgan was standing right behind him.
“Martin,” the coach said, his voice little more than a rasp, “get yourself under control. Get your focus on the second half, understand?”
Cody swallowed hard. “Yes, Coach, it’s just that—”
