Finally, she looked up. “What planet are you from, Cody Musket? You may be a son of the thunder where you came from, but not in my world. You don’t fool me for a second, but I still can’t figure you out.” She tilted her head. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“No sense at all,” he said. “But I prefer your world.”
“Good night, man of steel.” She stepped aside to let him through the door and then caught his arm as he passed. Her wistful eyes blinked twice like a puppy dog pleading to be held. “Cody, I —” She never finished.
“I know." He nodded. "Good night, Brandi Barnes.”
* * *
Cody awoke before dawn. The digital clock beside his bed told him it was 0530. He turned over. Just then, he was startled to hear a child screaming. The sound was bloodcurdling. At first it was far away, and then close — in the hallway outside his room.
He tried to kick the covers off and run to the door, but he couldn’t move. Suddenly, he heard a crash. Three men wearing turbans had burst into the room. They smelled like burning flesh.
They pulled him from the bed and dragged him to the door. He looked out and saw at least five hundred people standing in the hallway of the Marriott with raised arms shouting, “Death to America! Death to Americans!”
He was on fire. His body felt the sting of ten thousand whips, though no one had touched him. His lower right leg was burned beyond recognition. He could see cuts and burns all over his body. His thirst was unbearable.
Then he looked down to discover that the hallway had morphed into a dusty gravel road — the only passage through a small village — the same street in which the goats and fowl defecated.
The crowd moved back as his abductors threw him into the dirt. Hundreds of voices screamed in a dialect he had never heard. The howling mob was feeding off the collective rage. He would surely be torn apart within moments.
They dragged him through the filth and gravel toward a structure on the other side of the street. He heard the sorrowful sobs of children but couldn’t see them.
Just then, a terrified teenage girl was dragged before him. She was screaming, crying, naked, staring through gray eyes nearly swollen shut, abandoned to evil with none to deliver her. He reached his hand toward her. She should at least know someone felt her pain. They threw her upon him. Suddenly, hatred and rage overtook him. He was the target of a thousand curses, but he lifted his voice and wailed.
“Oh, God, don’t let me die this way! Help me save the kids! Send in the SEALs!”
His words rang through the village and echoed off the walls of his twentieth-floor suite. Brandi sat straight up. She flew out of the bed and ran into his room. He lay underneath the coffee table in a fetal position, his hands covering his ears.
“Cody! Cody, can you hear me? You’re having a bad dream. Wake up!"
“You heard me, Sergeant! Get those kids outta there!”
Then he screamed like a scalded beast and clutched his left knee. He tried to rise but banged his head on the underside of the table. He fell back to the floor and then crawled away, dragging his left leg as the table fell in the opposite direction. He collapsed temporarily, writhing and coughing.
Brandi wanted to run to the other room and get her phone to call Tanner, but she dare not leave Cody alone. She couldn’t control the shaking of her hands and thus doubted she could even manage a call.
Cody began to sob. He moaned out chilling words. “Pleeeese, God. No. Pleeeese, God. I gotta end their misery. Noooooo!”
She despaired. Oh, God, what can I do? She remembered what Julia had said to her — “He stopped himself because you were the one holding on to him.”
Something evil was in the air. It smelled like a burning, rotting carcass. Brandi fought the panic as she knelt and spoke tenderly. “Cody? It’s Brandi. Cody? I’m here.” She wrapped her tremoring arms around his midsection as he crawled again. His shirt was soaked. He stopped when his head bumped into the kitchenette wall, then sat up and looked at her.
His eyes were tearful, wild, distant. “Brandi?”
He reached out and clung to her like a drowning man clutching a float. In a few seconds, he leaned back against the wall and rubbed his eyes.
“How long have you been here? Is Knoxi okay?” His breathing was labored, his speech slurred.
“Cody, how often does this happen?”
“How bad was it?” he asked, holding his hand over his forehead.
“How bad? Your head is bleeding if that’s any indication. Have you sought help for this?”
“Doesn’t seem like it.” He lowered his hand, now bloody from touching his forehead. “I recognize your shirt — ‘I Love The Son.’”
“Let me help you back to bed and clean up your head. I’m gonna stay with you, okay?”
The stench was gone. In a few moments, Cody was asleep again. She went to her room, checked on Knoxi, got dressed, and returned. She dozed in the recliner beside his bed until he awoke at 9:00 a.m.
When he finally opened his eyelids, Knoxi had wandered into the room and had climbed into her mother’s lap.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Good to see — Uh, what’re y’all doin here?”
“How much do you remember?” she asked.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. “Too much. Not enough.” He rose to one elbow. “But you didn’t have to stay in here. I would’ve been okay.”
“Cody, I’m not a therapist, but I know that something is locked away inside your conscience that needs to escape. It tries to come out in your sleep while your defenses are down. Maybe if you could just tell someone everything you can remember, the night sweats and bad dreams would leave you alone.”
Cody lay back down and stared upward again. “You never know, but we’ll talk about it later.”
* * *
By daybreak, segments from the media conference had been beamed across the free world. Networks and social media could not get enough of the couple. Candy Mack of Valley Fervor wrote, “There are two things you can’t hide — sneezing and romance. It was Camelot Reborn.”
Fox Sports analyst Jesse Franklin referred to the couple as “Brandi and the Babe,” inserting Cody’s military call sign. It caught on.
Individually, Brandi’s face had appeared on every news outlet in America. The San Diego Pacific News declared Brandi Barnes to be “an overnight international celebrity, whose beauty, transparency and savvy have given a major news story legs — literally.”
The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette compared her to Jacqueline Kennedy. “The story of Brandi and the Babe is right out of Camelot, certain to become immortalized."
In the Tuesday edition of New York Times, one writer declared, “She is a Pennsylvania girl who refuses to be a victim, destined to become the most admired woman in America.”
And Cody was the man of the hour, the guy with the powerful, compact swing both on the baseball diamond and when knocking out bad guys. Crack! Bam! Oof! The media hailed him as the union of two superheroes — Batman and Ted Williams.
Reporters researched the details of his short Medal of Honor career. Questions arose as to how one could be discharged from the military, having been declared physically disabled, and then just four years later, play in a major league all-star game.
But instead of questioning his integrity, they called it a modern-day miracle.
Even some backwater tabloids abandoned their usual practice of manufacturing sordid details. The real story was better. The media saw dollars. No one wanted to discredit him. It was money in the bank for Cody Musket to be a good man — the American hero everyone wanted to believe in, a distinction Cody feared the most.
The Major League All-Star Game was a destination he could never have imagined at the start of the season while playing third base at Corpus Christi. And how could he have stumbled into ones so priceless as Brandi and Knoxi?
Good things were not supposed to happen to him. Surely it would end in disaster. After the miraculous hea
ling of his leg, why couldn't he have the faith Brandi has?
He told her he trusted God. But did he? If he couldn't trust God with his past, how could he trust God for a future?
He had promised to tell Brandi everything, but he was terrified, afraid of remembering the missing details, but afraid of not remembering. He was afraid of committing to her, and afraid of not committing.
Would she be disappointed if she knew what he knew? The last few days had been as close to heaven as he could imagine. Could he bear to lose it now?
Three hours before game time, Cody’s cell rang. He was in the American League clubhouse, preparing for pregame activities. Brandi’s voice was hoarse and uneasy.
“Cody, Dupree is dead. He was found face-down in the Monongahela.”
Jungle Dawg Night
The annual Major League All-Star Game allows elite players who compete against each other all season to be teammates for one evening that celebrates their accomplishments. Dugout joviality rules the pregame.
Most players did not know Cody because he had not been around long enough, but they had seen the theater video. Some would not come near him at first, but Sly had covertly spread the word that Cody was not looking to smash any mouths or break any necks, and needed as many new friends as he could get.
Players began to reach out, and Cody's friendly response brought on the trash talking — mostly about his hot woman friend. He returned the barbs and began to engage. He was not in the starting lineup for the game but was invigorated by friendship and camaraderie with these great athletes.
Sitting in the dugout, he pondered the dangers ahead. Had the men in black paid the detective a visit? Would they dare attack at a ballpark? Who were they working for? What would Sasha’s killers reveal when questioned?
He scanned the stadium. Would another shoe fall during this game like it had Sunday in Pittsburgh?
In the eighth inning, with the score tied, Angels Manager, Bo Phelps, the American League skipper, called out to Cody.
“Musket, grab your bat. You’re hittin’ for Castillo this inning.”
Cody headed to the on-deck circle. Moments later, with his team trailing by a run, he stepped to the plate with a runner at third base and two outs. Pitcher Adrian Lotus of the Saint Louis Cardinals struck him out on a slider low and away, and Cody was through for the night.
* * *
After the game, Detroit police escorted Cody off the field and into the home team clubhouse. After he had showered, he dressed in his street clothes and then learned that at least fifty reporters were waiting for him outside the dressing room.
He called Brandi. “Where are you?”
“Julia and I are still in VIP parking, fighting traffic.”
“I’m hiding in the clubhouse. Must be a million reporters on the other side of the door. Dunno how I’m gonna get outta here.”
“We’re listening to CNN in the car. The FBI has taken over the investigation of Dupree’s death. They think it may be related to my attack. That’s what has the press stirred up tonight.”
Just then, Cody heard a loud, booming exclamation behind him. “Snap ding, yo!” He turned around.
“Dawg? What’re you doing here?” Cody yelled. “I thought you were in Mexico.” Then he put his phone back to his ear. “Brandi, I'll call you back. An old college buddy just walked in. Tanner is right behind him showin’ his Cap’n Sly face. Must be cookin' somethin’ up.”
JD Blue, former Baylor All-American basketball player, had returned three days early from a trip south of the border. Tanner had walked behind him into the clubhouse but was hidden at first behind JD’s imposing six-foot-ten, 290-pound frame. After six years in the NBA, JD was now a megastar with the Detroit Pistons.
“Hello, my brotha Cody! How long’s it been?”
“Too long!” Cody answered. “And speakin’ of too long, I see you haven’t gotten any shorter since the last time we saw each other.”
“And I see you still ain’t tall enough to reach da toppa you own head! Tanny cawled me and said you might need some help gettin’ outta here. I was already here, man. I was sittin’ right behind da dugout for da game. You didn’t see me? Man, dis here my playground now. I’m tight wid evabody here.”
JD was a great athlete and wannabe entertainer. Despite his upbringing in the hard streets of New Orleans, he spoke as articulately as any head of state and was fluent in Spanish and French. He could speak like a New England-born Harvard professor, but liked to talk in his "native language"— a well-oiled New Orleans drawl — which he preferred in public. His favorite act was to unexpectedly switch back and forth with his speech styles to the delight of friends and fans.
“Put dese on, man. You know what a hawd time I had findin’ gear shawt enough fo you?” He handed Cody a pair of Detroit Pistons warm-up pants, matching jersey, and a motorcycle helmet with a hand-painted pink heart on the side. The paint was still wet.
Cody pitched his eyes toward Tanner. The pink paint was a dead giveaway. Whatever these two were planning had Sly’s signature all over it.
“Change into this Pistons gear,” Sly swagged. “You gonna be Dawg’s bodyguard. You got that?”
“What? You kidding? I’m the one who needs a bodyguard!”
“Come on, will you just listen for a minute? You gonna escort JD to his bike, and then y’all gonna meet me and the girls at the hotel. Smoooth as cake, man!”
Cody shook his head. Cap’n Sly was living the dream — anything deceptive or underhanded, especially for a good cause.
Then Dawg switched gears. “You had better be a good actor, Cody, because this is one of Sly’s most ingenious flashes of romantic deception ever to be perpetrated upon Homo sapiens since women got the right of suffrage in the state of Texas! And, in case you didn’t understand all that, Homo sapiens is the binomial nomenclature for the human species, and suffrage means —”
“Yeah, yeah. I know all that.” Cody waved him off. “You haven’t changed much.” He had forgotten how wide Dawg’s face could get when he grinned that way. “You better not let that wife of yours hear you talk about women’s voting like that.”
Cody called Brandi back and told her what was happening.
“How would you like to meet Jungle Dawg?”
“JD Blue? Detroit Pistons? You know him?”
“Yep! I’ll introduce you. You won’t have to get very close to him though cuz his arms are long enough for you to shake hands with him across the room.”
Cody donned the gear, including the helmet, and then he and JD went out the door.
“Make way, make way for Mr. Blue,” Cody said. “Excuse us. No, Mr. Blue will not be taking questions right now. Make way. Excuse us. No interviews, no autographs.” The disguise worked.
Finally, they mounted JD’s fourteen-foot-long custom-built Harley, navigated out of the stadium lot, and rumbled toward the hotel. It was the biggest bike Cody had ever seen. They cruised into the casino parking area and loaded the bike into JD’s trailer, which Silverbelle, his wife, had just brought to the hotel. Cody invited them up to his suite.
JD’s real name was John David, but the Baylor fans called him “Jungle Dawg” because of his dogged tenacity on the basketball court. The nickname, which matched his initials and his physical assets, had also caught on in Detroit and with the national media.
One ESPN columnist, pointing out that JD had founded nonprofit organizations to feed the homeless, house orphans, and provide literacy programs, had declared that his heart was as big as his hands.
Silverbelle was two years older than her husband. She was a master of finance and was the creator and spokesperson for the couple’s three charitable foundations. At five foot ten with a photogenic smile, she had become a front-page favorite, having appeared on several women’s magazine covers.
They entered the hotel through a back entrance and then took the service elevator to the twentieth floor where they joined the others in Cody’s suite.
“Ha-ha! How you
doin’ my man? I see you survived the ride.” Tanner slapped Cody on the back and then flashed his sly grin around the room.
“That was quite an act you boys pulled off.” Julia sported a grin of her own, making eye contact with JD and Cody but not with her husband.
“Yep, Cap’n Sly strikes again.” Cody bumped knuckles with Sly. “That was definitely one of your better ones.”
Sly looked at Julia. “Man, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what I got planned for later on when —”
“A’right, a’right. Before you go completely funky on us, we all appreciate your unique skills, sugarplum. And we all love you for it, especially me.” Julia kissed her husband on the cheek.
Brandi opened the drapes, unveiling a magnificent cityscape. The large room and death-defying view were perfect for hosting friends at midnight. They munched from a massive fruit basket, courtesy of management.
After thirty minutes, the ladies became weary of hearing the men swap sports stories, so the conversation turned to more serious matters.
“Cody, when Silver called me and said you were shot down, I was at Charlotte in the playoffs. It was halftime, and we were gettin’ ready to go back on da court. I gathered my teammates around, and we said a prayer for you, man. Right there in the locker room, man. It was sweet.”
“I knew you’d be there for me, Dawg. I felt it.”
Brandi’s emotions were getting away from her again. She put her hand over her mouth. Silverbelle noticed. “So, Brandi, you’re goin’ back to Pittsburgh tomorrow?”
Brandi glanced at Cody, who hastily took her hand. “I’ve asked her to go with me to Houston,” Cody said, “but we need to go through Pittsburgh tomorrow and get some of her stuff out of the apartment first.”
Dawg’s face came alive. “Snap ding! We gonna hear ‘bout weddin’ bells purdy soon?”
Brandi’s face flushed, but Cody masterfully resorted to his standard response, “You never know.”
They decided to break it up just after 1:30 a.m. Silver hugged Brandi and then Cody. “Don’t stay away so long, Cody. Come see us, and bring Brandi with you. We used to be really tight. We’re still your friends, you know.”
No Pit So Deep: The Cody Musket Story Page 16
