TPG

by The Perfect Game (mobi)

  Kyle could feel Liam’s excitement even before Liam started with his explanation. “The guy who can cause these strokes, or used to be able to do it, absorbed the energy of others,” Liam said.

  “Absorbed the energy?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “He didn’t say. But it makes sense that’s what’s happening here if you think about it.”

  “How on earth does it make sense?”

  “Think about it,” Liam said. “Since neurons are electrically excitable, it’s possible their voltage gradients can be increased so that the nervous system’s synapses can work at an even crazier pace than they already do, which would, in a sense, supercharge the senses. You know, kinda like you’d have a 90-watt bulb instead of a 60-watt bulb. A brighter, more powerful light. And that’s what happened to this guy when he absorbed the energy. The man said it would heighten all his senses. The wiring in his nervous system kicked into overdrive and amped everything up.”

  “Okay. Putting aside the improbabilities and impossibilities with the story—again, what does any of that have to do with the dates?”

  “That’s what I’m getting to,” Liam said. “So when I was watching Hillier’s game earlier, I was thinking, who in the city would need the extra energy? Who would it help? Who would need to be a Superman of sorts, but only for short spurts of time? And then it hit me about the fifth inning of Hillier’s perfecto. I thought about his stats at home—ten wins, no losses, a better than Bob Gibson-like ERA of .48. Even less if you toss out the start before today. What’s crazier is that he’s doing it in the American League East, against the best teams in the league. And he’s twenty-nine and coming off two devastating arm surgeries. Hillier isn’t just having a good year, not even just a great year. When you factor in the adjustments for modern-day ball, the DH, the training these guys have, this guy may be having the best year ever.”

  Kyle couldn’t help but smile. “So you’re telling me that you think Evan Hillier, the pitcher for the New York Yankees, is causing these strokes?”

  “No,” Liam said, “that’s not what I think. It’s what I know.”

  “Liam, the man is having a good run. And he’s pitching for a good team. His arm is finally healthy. Pitchers have runs like this. Remember what Orel Hershiser did in eighty-eight? Fifty-nine scoreless innings in a row. Fifty-nine. In a row. Pitching all around is better now, and ERAs are down because the hitters don’t have carte blanche access to the performance enhancers like they used to. Just because the guy threw a perfect game doesn’t mean he’s got some sort of super powers. There have been more than twenty guys who have pitched perfect games, and a slew of guys with no-hitters. Nolan Ryan has seven of them. Besides, if the umpire had called a few full counts the other way, or one of the fielders muffed a play, Hillier doesn’t even have the perfect game. It’s ludicrous.”

  Silence.

  “Look …” Kyle softened his tone, realizing he was coming on too strong. He didn’t know Liam that well and the man was going through a tragedy. There was a good chance his niece would never wake up again and, even if she did, that she’d never be the same. Liam also seemed to have some psychological issues going on, whether his sister or family wanted to recognize them or not. So maybe this was the way he needed to cope. There was no need for Kyle to slam the door so dismissively, so he eased up a bit. “I’m just having some difficulty understanding any of this,” Kyle explained. “I’m also having difficulty believing that, even if what you’re saying is true, a person would actually kill people so he could pitch better.”

  “No worries. I’m not upset,” Liam said calmly. “I get it. It’s a tough pill to swallow, I agree. But what about the dates? How do you explain them?”

  “The dates?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kyle looked back at the spreadsheet. “What about them?”

  “How do you think I filled in the ones I didn’t know about? How do you think I know someone died today of a brain hemorrhage?”

  Excellent point, Kyle thought.

  “How did you come up with them?”

  “MLB.com.”

  Kyle kept staring. Looking at the spacing between the dates. There wasn’t an exact pattern he could decipher. They ranged from eleven days apart to five, with the heaviest concentration in May. He didn’t get the correlation.

  “His home ERA is microscopic,” Liam said. “Yet his road ERA is average.”

  A sudden chill ran down Kyle’s spine.

  He now understood. He knew the pattern.

  “Shit,” Kyle said softly into the phone, barely believing the correlation. “Starts.”

  “Yup.”

  “Jesus,” Kyle said as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes remaining glued to the computer screen. “Every single one of these dates coincides with one of Evan Hillier’s home starts, doesn’t it?”

  “You got it, Einstein,” Liam said, undoubtedly with a wide grin. “He’s loading up on energy before each of his home starts. Instead of steroids, HGH, amphetamines or some other PED, he’s enhancing his energy field. Something that would never be detected by any drug test. He’s essentially found the perfect way to circumvent the rules.”

  Kyle couldn’t believe it, yet he knew Liam was right about the last two starts. The young man with the broken neck was earlier that morning, the day of Hillier’s perfect game, and he remembered Hillier also pitching later in the day after Allie collapsed. He opened up his Internet browser as Liam went on about more statistics. He clicked on espn.com and typed in Hillier’s name, then brought up his starts. He compared the home ones to Liam’s spreadsheet. They matched.

  “And,” Liam said. “Get this—Allie didn’t die. And look what happened when he pitched that day.”

  “He had his worst start at home,” Kyle said, specifically remembering the game as Eddie had accused him of jinxing the man.

  “Correctamundo. He probably wasn’t able to absorb everything he needed.”

  Could it be? Kyle wondered. Could Evan Hillier really be doing this? Kyle thought back to the alley that night. The man was tall … it could’ve been Hillier. Maybe he didn’t finish with what he needed because Kyle had chased him away.

  But it couldn’t be, Kyle thought as he brushed the notion aside. It didn’t make sense. No one was able to do what Liam was suggesting. It was ludicrous. But the coincidence was too much to ignore. Could there be a serial killer out there? Someone timing the deaths to Hillier’s starts? Maybe some Yankees fanatic?

  “Liam,” Kyle said. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but if these burst aneurysm incidents really do coincide with Evan Hillier’s home starts we need to speak to the police.” And I need to tell them what I saw.

  “I already spoke to the detective handling the case. He’s not buying into it. So I’m going to take matters into my own hands.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ll do a little recon.”

  “Recon?”

  “Right,” Liam said. “I’ll snoop around. Find out where he lives, where he goes. See what he does the nights before his starts. Get some intel, and then we’ll catch him in the act.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “Simple. He’s scheduled to pitch at home again in five days. Right before they go on the road. I’ll get the info on him, and then we’ll follow him and stop him.”

  It can’t be Evan Hillier, Kyle repeated to himself. “Can you email me the info of the detective you spoke to?”

  “Already did it while we were speaking. And maybe you can convince him to listen to what I’m saying, but I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s willing to try and get it.”

  Kyle wasn’t surprised. The theory was beyond out-there.

  “And get this,” Liam said. “Allie was practicing Deeksha and she was the only one who didn’t die.”

  “Deeksha?” Kyle asked, familiar with the Buddhist cleansing technique and even recalling Allie
mentioning something about having tried some holistic approaches and Liam having mentioned something about a Giver during one of their earlier conversations.

  “Yeah,” Liam answered. “She’s been seeing a Giver since she’s been home for the summer. That’s probably why she was texting you about Sheldrake. I’ve already left a message with the guy so we can meet him. He’s out of town right now, but as soon as I hear back from him I’ll schedule an appointment so we can go talk to him.”

  Kyle didn’t object to Liam’s proposal, as he was more anxious to just end the conversation and call the one person he knew would either put his mind at ease or set it ablaze with anxiety.

  And that person was not a Deeksha Giver.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I need another favor,” Kyle said.

  There was no answer on the other end.

  “Last one. I promise.”

  “If it’s about the files,” Tom said, “I told you, I can’t help you. I don’t have access. They’ve been marked sensitive and requisitioned.”

  “All I need to know is the dates,” he said. “That’s probably still there, right? The entries for them?”

  Tom didn’t answer.

  “How about this,” Kyle tried. “I’ll read you the dates I have, and you just let me know if I’m right or not.”

  “Kyle, I’m telling you, I can get into big trouble for this. I shouldn’t have even told you about the information in the first place.”

  Kyle ignored him and read all the dates up to Allie’s. Then he slowly repeated them.

  “Why is it even so important?” Tom asked. “The police, or someone else, are investigating. The files have already been pulled. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”

  “I just need to know.”

  Kyle heard a loud sigh over the phone. “This is it, though,” Tom said. “Understand? No more after this. I can’t keep putting myself at risk. Not for this.”

  Kyle was pretty sure Tom wanted to add, and not for you. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave Kyle the answer he was looking for.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “They coincide?”

  “They coincide.”

  Kyle knew what he had to do. He couldn’t hide it anymore. Something was up. He had to come clean, completely clean. And he had to do it to the police. He thanked Tom again then called the detective whose number Liam had sent over. A Detective Slattery.

  At the third ring, he heard a man answer, “Slattery,” on the other end.

  “Detective Slattery?” Kyle asked.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Kyle Vine. Liam Murdock gave me your number. He told me you’re investigating his niece’s incident.”

  “Murdock,” the man said. “He just called. He’s the guy who thinks his niece was attacked.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And who are you?” the man asked with a thick Long Island accent.

  “His niece’s professor,” Kyle explained. “Liam shared his theories with me.”

  “Right, right. He said he was talking to someone. You’re a shrink, right?”

  “I’m a psychologist, correct.”

  “Then you must know that your man Murdock is a goddam nut.”

  “He’s eccentric, yes.”

  “No. He’s a nut.”

  Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t believe him, I take it?”

  “Don’t tell me you do.”

  “Well,” Kyle said, “whether I do or don’t isn’t the issue.”

  “What’s the issue then?”

  “Liam’s uncovered a very odd coincidence.”

  “Yeah, I know. That these things are happening every time Evan Hillier pitches.”

  “And you don’t find that odd?”

  “Hey, I’m a Mets fan,” Slattery said. “I’d easily blow up a few brains if one of our guys could put together a string of starts like that.” Slattery chuckled at his own line, then with a no-bullshit tone said, “Do I find it odd? Yeah, it’s odd. But I took a look at a few of the autopsy reports. Nothing suspicious. Nothing at all. Same with his niece. They say these types of things just happen sometimes.”

  “I agree, but what about the timing of it? And the ages of the victims? Don’t you think there might be some …” Kyle trailed off, not sure how to complete the sentence. “I don’t know exactly, maybe a serial killer or someone out there timing them to Hillier’s starts?”

  “Serial killer? I guess that’s better than what Murdock thinks—that it’s Hillier himself. But it still makes no sense. How would they be doing it?”

  “I have no idea. But shouldn’t you investigate?”

  “I already looked at the reports. There’s nothing there. No drugs or anything. What else do you want me to do?”

  “Maybe tail Hillier?”

  Slattery laughed. “You’re kidding me, right? Put a tail on the ace of the Yankees over this? Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  Kyle wanted to mention something about the files having been marked as sensitive but didn’t want to implicate Tom, so he danced around the subject instead. “Is there any way I’d be able to take a look at the files of the people who’ve had these ruptured aneurysms?”

  “Can you? I don’t know. Not my department. Like I said, nothing suspicious. It’s not like they came to us. They aren’t homicides or anything. But I guess you can do a FOIL request to the coroner’s office or something.”

  “So you don’t have them?”

  “I just said I didn’t.”

  So who requisitioned them?

  “Let me ask you this one last thing, Detective,” Kyle said. “Suppose someone saw a person near one of the victims when they had their stroke. Would that cause you to investigate?”

  “Depends on what they saw this person do.”

  “Nothing. He was just there. But then say he took off after the victim collapsed.”

  “Did that happen?”

  “Let’s say it did. I’m just curious how these things go.”

  Slattery hesitated, then said, “Would this man—this witness—have touched the victim in any way?”

  “Let’s suppose not.”

  “Then why would that make me any more prone to investigating?”

  “You wouldn’t find it suspicious?”

  “To be honest Mr …”

  “Vine.”

  “To be honest, Mr. Vine, I don’t find any of this suspicious,” Slattery said, his tone becoming sharper.

  “Not even the dates?”

  “Look,” he softened his voice, “I feel bad for Murdock and the families of whoever else this happened to. I do. But the guy’s off the wall. We aren’t dealing with murder here. Just isn’t the case. Now unless there’s something else you know, I don’t know what else to say. Maybe you should focus on helping Murdock get some medication or something.”

  Kyle didn’t press any further. He simply thanked Slattery for his time and hung up, then leaned back in his chair and stared at one of his photos of Bree.

  She had on big red sunglasses and a floppy pink hat. It was an older photo. She was nine at the time. He and Sheila were still together. They were still a family. Things were good. They were happy. At least, he was happy. And so was Bree. He was sure of it. That’s the reason he kept that photo on his desk year after year. He knew Bree’s “camera-ready” smiles as opposed to her genuine ones, the feel-good ones where the smile and the laughs came from deep in her belly. The photo on the desk was one of those smiles. A real in-the-moment smile. It wasn’t a staged photo, wasn’t a “camera-ready” shot. They’d been watching a juggler perform in the park and the guy was hamming it up with the slapstick. All of the kids loved it. Ate it up. Especially Bree. She was on the verge of tears she was laughing so hard. The photo was shot without her even knowing it. It made Kyle smile every time he looked at it. Even now. Even knowing that Sheila was probably sleeping with someone else at the time, or wanting to. Bree’s smile, her happiness … it still made
him smile.

  He loved when she was happy.

  And he knew why he needed to smile right then, why he needed that jolt of happiness.

  To mask what a coward he was. To hide the shitty feeling he couldn’t escape after not having told Slattery the truth, not having said he was there that night with Allie. That he saw someone else there as well. That he knew there was something suspicious going on. He could justify it all he wanted, but it didn’t excuse his actions, or more to the point, his inactions.

  He didn’t say anything because he was selfish, because he didn’t want his life to get any worse. He didn’t want the school to find out. He didn’t want his colleagues to find out. He didn’t want Sheila or Bree to find out. Didn’t want to become any more of a pathetic character than he already was.

  He just didn’t want to have to deal with it.

  He stared at the photo again, at the smile that jumped off the picture.

  But he didn’t smile this time.

  He thought of Bree being in a coma instead of Allie. He thought of the stress on Nicki Shelton’s face, of the anguish and lack of hope in her voice.

  No, he didn’t smile.

  But he also didn’t pick up the phone.

  He didn’t call Slattery.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He turned off Third Avenue and walked down Eighty-third, a treelined residential street with more than the usual smattering of commercial stores. Not large ones. Small shops in what should be ground floor apartments. A dry cleaner, some clothing stores, a hobby store, travel agency, pet supply store. Little, quaint stores. The type you don’t see much anymore on the Upper East Side, an area overtaken by the likes of Duane Reades and Starbucks.

  In the middle of the block was a small sign that said “The Bodhi Studio” next to a lantern with an actual candle inside adorning the doorframe. Liam had called Kyle the night before, which was one day after their conversation about Hillier, and given him the time and place for their appointment with the Deeksha Giver Allie had been seeing.