First Team

by Tim Green

  Brock turned away, and tightened his grip on Laurel’s arm.

  “Come on.” His voice was low and urgent. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?” She stumbled in her effort to keep up.

  “Maybe nothing,” he said. “Maybe everything.”

  47

  Run for your life. Brock’s father’s words echoed in his mind.

  Brock tried not to run. He didn’t want to excite any attention, but he had to get back to his father, fast. Stray balloons escaped skyward. Couples held hands, some swinging children between them. Brock dodged and darted and Laurel kept up with a look of worry tugging down the corners of her mouth.

  When they reached the blanket, Laurel’s mom finished telling a story that made the rest of them laugh. The band stopped playing at the same time and they all clapped politely along with everyone else.

  “Dad.” Brock had to catch his breath.

  His father looked up. His face went from a lazy smile to serious state of alert in an instant. “What happened?”

  “Can I, um . . . talk to you?” Brock motioned with his head.

  His father got up. “Just a second. I’m sorry.”

  Laurel’s mom laughed. “That’s fine. You men.”

  Brock’s dad put an arm around him and they walked out of earshot.

  “I saw him. I think I did,” Brock whispered, and tried to convey his anxiety through the look he gave his dad.

  “Who?”

  “Remember in the newspaper? After you did whatever it was you did?”

  “The Washington Post?”

  “Yes. Boo-dant-suv, the Russian.”

  “Boo-don-seeve, what about him? You saw him?” His father scanned the crowd around them.

  “I think I did. I’m not sure. He . . . he looked at me.”

  “Brock, are you sure he looked at you? No one knows what you look like now, right?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure it was him and I’m pretty sure he looked at me, but we bumped right into him, so maybe that was why. I stopped and looked back, though, and he was still looking, Dad. And there was that Audi too.”

  “Audi?” His father crumpled up his face.

  “Remember that day when you got your job? You said you’d pick us up in the park and we ran into that alley?”

  “I do, but what’s that got to do with it.” His father waved a hand impatiently. “Get to the point.”

  “I saw an Audi with blacked-out windows watching us. That’s why I was running, not from you. You just saw us running and followed. Maybe it was him in that Audi? I don’t know. Dad?”

  His father’s face had gone blank. It was a look Brock hadn’t seen in some time.

  “Okay. You’re sick. Got that? Migraine headache. Go with it.” His father steered him back toward the rest of their group, stopping at the edge of the blanket. “I’m sorry, but we have to go. No, don’t get up. Don’t let us ruin your night. Brock is embarrassed about it, but he gets migraines. He has medicine he’s supposed to carry with him, but you know kids. We need to get him home. Maybe the boat could take us to the house and then come back for you all.”

  “No, that’s silly. We’re fine.” Laurel’s mom got up and brushed the grass off her dress. “We see Three B’s all the time, and this was nice. It’s more something to see than anything and now you’ve seen it.”

  Brock’s dad helped fold the blanket, but his eyes darted around so quick they seemed to almost vibrate. As they walked through the crowd toward the pier, his father snuck glances back over his shoulder.

  “Is everything else okay?” Laurel’s mom sounded concerned.

  “Yeah, fine.” His dad spoke in a tone that didn’t invite a second question.

  They got into the boat and pushed away. Brock put his head in his hand and faked a headache. It wasn’t hard. His head was spinning with all the possibilities. Were they in danger? Were they leaving? Could they ever be safe?

  Laurel lightly rubbed his back and clucked her tongue.

  Laurel’s mom said something to the boat captain and he took off at a clip, the bow rising up over the dark water and a wake of white foam cascading from the stern. Brock stole a look at his dad, who now sat with his arms on his knees, staring at the darkness on the river’s shore, thinking . . . planning.

  They pulled into the boathouse, got off, and started up the lawn at a quick pace.

  “You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?” Laurel’s mom asked.

  “Kim, thank you so much for everything. This was a wonderful night, dinner, the boat, the band. Brock’ll be fine. I just need to get him back to lie down and to take his medicine.”

  “You’ll call me?” she asked.

  Brock’s dad paused.

  “To tell me how Brock is?” she said.

  “Of course.” His dad swung the car door open and Brock got in.

  As his dad rounded the car, Laurel leaned into the open door and gave Brock a kiss on the cheek, then whispered to him. “I know it’s not a headache. Call me when you can and tell me. I want to help, Brock. I’m scared.”

  Brock’s dad got in and started the car. Brock looked up at Laurel, unable to speak. She closed the door and his father pulled away, leaving Laurel and her family in a small spray of gravel and dust.

  Brock wondered if he’d ever see her again.

  48

  Brock’s dad pulled the car over on the street two blocks away from their house.

  “Wait here.” His father started to get out.

  “I can’t come?”

  His father gave him a look, then closed the door. Brock sat, waiting and wondering, hoping that his mind had simply played a trick on him. Maybe the whole thing was just a crazy coincidence. He’d heard somewhere that everyone had a double, a random person out there in the world who looked exactly like you.

  “Why did he look at me like that, though?” Brock asked himself aloud. “And he talked funny.”

  A car drove slowly by. Brock slid down into the seat, watching it across their own car’s dashboard as it pulled around the corner in the direction of Brock’s house. He worried about his father, but told himself that his father above anyone knew how to take care of himself. Brock remembered the airplane, the crash, and the hospital. His father’s abilities seemed to have no limit.

  From nowhere, his father appeared and flung open the door. He threw a duffel bag over the seat into the back, climbed in, and took off.

  “I got you some things.”

  “Did you get what you needed?” Brock asked him, leaning into the turn as his father swerved out onto the main boulevard, heading south, away from the bridge and town.

  His father shook his head and slapped the wheel. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  His father glanced over. “I’m glad you’re cautious.”

  “I thought we didn’t have to be.”

  His father just kept shaking his head and he gave his tongue one big cluck.

  “I thought we could stay.” Brock tried to sound hard to keep from whining.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I just need to get you clear of town in case.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two, three days.” His father shrugged.

  “What about football? We’ve got practice tomorrow. If we come back, they’ll kill me for missing.”

  “You got a migraine, remember? I’ll call the coach and give them a doctor’s note.”

  They drove for over an hour in the dark, and his father occasionally consulted a paper road map until they pulled off the highway and rode up a rough dirt road into some woods. A handful of small log cabins lined the path. His father told him to wait and went inside the main cabin, which had a light on the outside big enough that Brock could read the license plates on the cars in the parking lot—Ohio, but also Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. His father came out several minutes later and drove them up the dirt road to the cabin at the e
nd.

  “This is it.” His father got out and unloaded the bag. “You’ll be safe here.”

  It was pitch-black. Brock heard his dad fumble with the keys and get the door open before a light went on inside. Brock went in and sat down on a musty couch. He wanted to put his head in his hands and cry, but he knew better. From the bag, his dad removed some fresh clothes and his book. Brock cracked it open and began to read.

  “I’ll be back by morning and I’ll bring some food.” His father turned to go. “Lock the door. You can read a little, but get some sleep.”

  “What? Dad? You’re leaving me here?”

  His father stopped. “I know it’s not ideal, but hang in there, buddy.”

  “I want to go back.” Even the thought of Coach Van Kuffler couldn’t drown out the image of Laurel and Mak. “I mean, to stay.”

  “I know. Me too,” his father said. “Let me scout things out and make sure it’s safe.”

  He stared at his father. Brock was used to being left alone. He’d been left alone his whole life. What he never knew until a few months ago was that there were people trying to kill his father. Brock had seen them, one up close. He remembered the dark shape of the man outside their previous home who had tapped on the car window with his gun, with Brock alone in the dark, waiting. He remembered his father thumping the man on the back of the head and them racing away.

  He remembered the airplane and the sparkles of light that were gunfire. “What if you don’t come back?”

  His father took a deep breath and let it out in a long thin stream. “I always come back. Don’t even think about it.”

  His father left. Brock closed his book and set it down.

  Because whether his father would come back or not was all he could think about.

  49

  Brock wandered into the bedroom and looked at the quilted bedspread. He opened a window. The scent of pine rushed in to wrestle with the musty smell of bedclothes and furniture that hadn’t seen the sun in years. He lay down on the bed to read, but a million pine needles whispered to him in the night breeze outside the open window, and he grew so tired that he slept.

  When he woke, the sun was already high enough to filter down through the trees and dapple the mossy rocks and pine boughs with golden light. Brock threw the covers aside and realized by the coffee smell that his father had returned. He got up and opened the bedroom door to find his father sitting in the kitchen at his computer.

  “Sleep good?” his dad asked in a cheery tone which encouraged Brock to relax a bit. “I got some cereal for you, milk’s in the fridge.”

  “You didn’t find anything?” Brock asked.

  “That doesn’t mean too much, yet.” His father sipped coffee from a thick white mug.

  “How do you even start looking for someone?”

  His father set his mug down. “Well, Boudantsev is a wanted man. He isn’t going to stay in one place for very long. If he knows we’re here, it’s because he somehow got a line on us. I can’t imagine how, but things happen, and if he had a line on us, he’ll find out where we live quick and make a move. I put cameras on the house to watch.”

  His father’s words made Brock shiver. He knew “make a move” wasn’t like a board game. It meant someone was going to try and kill them.

  “Couldn’t he just go away and come back?” Brock asked.

  His dad shook his head. “It’ll never happen. Don’t forget, he has no idea we’re here to stay. If he knows where we are, he’ll do something about it now. He’d stay someplace close. Try to get in and out, so I spent the other half of the night checking out every hotel and motel in the area. No sign of him.”

  “How do you check out hotels? You can’t just ask for him, can you?” Brock found a bowl and a spoon. He shook out some Raisin Bran and doused it with milk before sitting down.

  “Not by name, but Boudantsev isn’t a guy to go unnoticed. He’s got a unique look.”

  “A scary look.” Brock slurped his cereal.

  His dad nodded. “And he doesn’t speak English all that well.”

  “So, if he’s not staying anywhere, maybe he was just passing through. Maybe it wasn’t him at all, that’s what I keep thinking.” Brock couldn’t help being hopeful, despite what he knew he saw.

  His father rubbed his beard. “I doubt he was passing through Calhoun, Ohio. That’s too much of a coincidence. I’d normally say we’re all clear, but you said he was with another person.”

  Brock winced. His father had asked him several times to try and remember something distinguishing about the other man, but he simply couldn’t. He didn’t know if the man was tall or short, heavy or thin, red-haired or black-haired. The image of Boudantsev’s glare burned so deep into his brain that everything else was faded.

  “I’m pretty sure he was,” Brock said.

  “So, it’s possible that person is the front, doing all the talking, getting a room, and Boudantsev just sneaks in and out unnoticed by almost everyone.”

  “I could be wrong about the whole thing, though.” Brock poked his cereal, thinking of Laurel, and still hoping.

  His father bit his lip and studied Brock. He spoke soft. “You’ve been through a lot, so . . . yes, I’d say it’s possible someone just looked a lot like the man you saw in the newspaper. He looked back at you because you bumped into him. That’s entirely possible, Brock. But, I’ve stayed alive and kept you safe for the past ten years by being careful. Give me a couple days. If nothing turns up, then we’ll be fine.”

  Brock took another spoonful of cereal, then spoke through his food. “Mak. I should tell him.”

  “Let me,” his dad said. “Give me his number. I’ll call your coach too when I get out on the road.”

  “But we’re not even home. What if he stops by?”

  “I’ll tell him you’re in bed. Shut down, and can’t see anyone. That’s how migraines are anyway. I’ll make the calls when I get out on the road. First, I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes.”

  Brock finished his breakfast while his dad lay down in the other bedroom. Brock cleaned up and sat on the couch to read his book. He couldn’t help laughing out loud as he read Jon Scieszka describe himself and his brother as kids peeing on the space heater to put it out like a campfire. He looked at the author’s crazy picture on the back of the book and heard a shuffling in the next room.

  “What’s so funny?” His father was bleary eyed and scratching his beard.

  “Sorry. Jon Scieszka, the author. Didn’t meant to wake you up.”

  “I gotta go anyway.”

  “Do you have to call in sick to your job?” Brock asked.

  “I did.”

  “I’m going to finish this today.” Brock held up his book. “Can I download something? Do you have your iPad?”

  “I thought you only liked ‘real’ books.” His father reached into the duffel bag and handed Brock the iPad before changing into a new shirt.

  “I do, but . . . it’s better than nothing. I’m guessing you don’t want me to leave the cabin.”

  “Correct. Tell you what. I’ll take it down to the highway and stop at a gas station and download it there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust these things. They’re just as dangerous as using your phone with a location service on. When you enable a wireless connection to download something people know where you are.”

  “What people?” Brock asked.

  “The government for sure,” his dad said. “And if the government knows, anyone can know. I’m just playing it safe, that’s all. Even if Boudantsev does have a line on us, I doubt he’s in that deep, but you never know. Once you uplink an iPad, you’re location is marked. You can’t undo it. What do you want me to download?”

  “The Lightning Thief. Get the next couple in that series too.”

  His father finished changing, then left with the iPad before returning twenty minutes later and handing it to him. “Enjoy. I got a package of bologna and some bread. It’s n
othing great, but it’ll hold you over. Don’t worry if I don’t come back tonight. It might be tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you need to sleep?” Brock asked.

  His father’s mouth was a flat line. “Not when I’m working.”

  “Working.” The word had an entirely different sound from when his father was talking about his new job as a sanitary engineer. He’d thought that variety of the word had been put away forever. “Good luck.”

  His father winked. “See you soon.”

  50

  Brock was thankful for the ebooks. They were good ones, and kept him occupied for the next day and a half. It was Sunday night and Brock had already put himself to bed when he heard a car roll slowly up outside the cabin. His blood froze and he clenched his hands. Something told him to run.

  He remained frozen, like a deer in headlights.

  He heard the cabin door swing open.

  “Brock?” his father’s voice floated in from the main room.

  Brock exhaled. “In here.”

  His father walked into the bedroom and flipped on the light. Brock’s dad’s eyes were red and watery, but he kept his chin high and his back straight. Concrete. “How’d you like to go home?”

  Brock threw off the covers. “Really? It’s okay?”

  “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t.”

  “I know. Yes. Let’s go. I can go to practice tomorrow.”

  His father chuckled. “For a guy who hates his coach as much as you, I’m surprised you didn’t want another day off.”

  “If I’m here, I got to play.” Brock went into the bedroom and started stuffing his things into the duffel bag, raising his voice so his dad could hear him. “It’s what everyone does, and I’ve only got one season with Van Kuffler. After that, I’ll be moving up. I’ve been thinking about it while you were gone. I mean, what if Percy Jackson just gave up when things were hard?”