Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  Abdullah watched his friends as Dan began a story of his own. Why didn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they see how messed up things were? There were times when Abdullah wanted to tell them everything just to see how they’d react. But he knew he couldn’t. They were brainwashed just like everyone else.

  Abdullah knew he had a special calling. And part of that calling was isolation, pretending, never letting anyone get close enough to see who he really was.

  But someday . . . he thought. Someday my time will come. Then my true identity will be revealed.

  4:05 P.M. PDT

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  The pepper white MINI Cooper S convertible tucked into a parking spot on the third level of the garage. Immediately, the top began closing. Naheed Yamani checked her face in the rearview mirror, then bent her five-foot-ten-inch body through the car door as the roof snapped into place.

  49 Geary Street was one of Naheed’s favorite places. This one building held more than twenty art galleries and a number of rare-book dealers. Naheed could spend days in here without it getting old. But today was not the day for browsing. Her friend June Waller had an exhibition opening in just under an hour at the prestigious Vorreiter Gallery, and Naheed had promised to be there a half hour ago to help make sure everything was just right.

  The granddaughter of a Saudi prince, Naheed had always known the finer things. But life in Saudi Arabia—even a privileged life—wasn’t for her. Six years ago, when she turned eighteen, she’d begged her grandfather to let her move to San Francisco on the pretense of pursuing her sculpting in a place that truly appreciated art. Grandfather, always a pushover for his many granddaughters, had happily obliged. He had set Naheed up in a Nob Hill loft that doubled as her studio and had given her a generous allowance. So far she hadn’t sold a piece, but that was okay. Becoming a great artist really wasn’t the ultimate purpose of her being here anyway.

  Her heels clicked loudly on the tile floors as she brushed past people she didn’t know and nodded to people she did. Naheed was used to being noticed. Her midnight black hair contrasted with her light mocha eyes in a way that often made people take a second look. Today, her clinging designer T-shirt and skintight jeans gave two more excuses for double takes.

  A friend from FiftyCrows stepped out of his gallery and grabbed Naheed’s arm. “Sweetheart, I’ve got that—”

  “Sorry, can’t right now, Richard,” she said apologetically, shaking herself free of his grasp. “I’m late for June’s setup.”

  Three galleries up was her destination; June stood out front. Racing up to her, out of breath, Naheed threw herself on her friend’s mercy. “June, I’m so sorry. I just totally lost track of time.”

  June was laughing. “Girl, when have you ever been on time?”

  “Unfortunately, that is only too true. Now, hurry, if we start setting up now we can make up for lost time.”

  “Setting up? Pardon me, but this is the big time. I don’t do setup. I now have people who set me up,” June said, trying her best to sound pretentious. Unfortunately, she was just too nice and down-to-earth to pull it off. “Actually, the gallery took care of the layout.”

  Naheed was confused. “Then why did you ask me to come down here so early?”

  “What time would you have shown up if I had told you the exhibition started at five o’clock?”

  “Four thirty?” Naheed attempted.

  “You lie like a rug! You would have come rushing in here around six at the earliest.”

  Naheed grinned sheepishly. “Okay, puppet-master, how are you going to manipulate my life next?”

  June danced her hand above her friend’s head and said, “The puppet-master says we must go in and have a drink. Come on, my nerves are on hyperdrive.”

  The two walked arm-in-arm into the gallery and headed to what would soon be the open bar. The bartender was just polishing the last of his glasses.

  Naheed flashed her best flirty smile, put her hand on his arm, and said, “Any chance of mixing the artist and her best friend a couple of Gibsons, two onions each?”

  The bartender, looking into her eyes and then letting his gaze slowly slide down until it hit the floor, took the bait. “Can I see a couple of IDs from you little whippersnappers?” he asked with a smile as he began mixing the drinks.

  “I’m so sorry, young man,” Naheed said, playing her part to the hilt, “but I left it in my car. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you I’m sixty-three.”

  “Wow, you sure have aged well.”

  “It’s because I’m well preserved,” she said, picking up her glass. “Ta-ta.”

  The two friends walked away with drinks in hand. “How do you do that?” June whispered.

  Naheed knew June had always been a little jealous of her ease around men. “You just have to remember who has the power.”

  As Naheed looked around the gallery, she was again struck by June’s photographs. The subjects’ eyes were what always got to Naheed—the emptiness and pain of the eyes. June was very socially conscious, and most of her pictures were of women and children who were victims of poverty or abuse. “You amaze me. I don’t know how you do it, but somehow you seem to capture a person’s whole life in one photo.”

  June blushed, then said, “I think it’s because I just feel them—you know, hurt with their hurts—and it somehow comes out in the picture.”

  The two continued to walk quietly, looking over the exhibit. The sound of a ring interrupted their thoughts. Reaching into the very tight gap in her front pocket, Naheed pulled out her phone. “This is Naheed. Speak.”

  “Awake, O Sleeper,” came a deep, accented voice, and then the signal abruptly cut.

  Naheed’s martini glass shattered on the tile floor, while a tremble that began deep inside her soon shook her entire body.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TUESDAY, MAY 5, 5:10 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO

  Riley saw the twinkle in her beautiful brown eyes. He knew what was coming next but felt himself powerless to stop it. Slowly she moved her face toward his. Riley couldn’t help but smile in anticipation.

  When they were just a few inches apart, she stuck out her tongue and proceeded to blow the biggest, wettest raspberry Riley had ever experienced.

  “Alessandra Ricci, what are you doing?” a mortified Meg Ricci scolded her fourteen-month-old daughter. “Riley, I’m so sorry!”

  “That’s okay,” he replied, more to the little girl who was lying on top of him as he was stretched out on the living room carpet. “As long as she doesn’t mind being my towel!” In a flash, Riley’s big hands snatched Alessandra off his chest and dropped her stomachfirst onto his face, rubbing her all around to dry off the spit. This quickly deteriorated into a five-minute-long belly-furber fest that eventually left both Riley and Alessandra exhausted.

  Ever since his friend and former teammate Sal Ricci had been killed last February, Riley had been coming regularly to spend time with Sal’s widow, Meg, and little Alessandra. “Just because a man doesn’t turn out to be who you thought he was doesn’t mean that his wife and daughter should pay the price, too,” he’d often told naysayers who criticized him for his loyalty to these two innocent victims.

  After giving one more kiss to the black hair on the top of the little girl’s head, Riley rolled himself up off the floor and dropped down in a leather chair. Opposite him, Meg set down the crossword puzzle book she had been working on. Riley noticed that none of the squares had been filled in.

  “You are so good with her,” Meg complimented him.

  “It’s hard not to be.” Riley tossed a soft throw pillow from the chair onto Alessandra’s back. She giggled and continued to crawl away.

  “So, tell me what really happened to you down in Costa Rica. The news tells all these stories, but the former reporter in me doesn’t fully believe anything I hear from them.”

  Riley sighed. “You know, Meg, I’d really rather just forget about it. I’m having too nice a time to bring t
hat junk up. Besides, what I really want to know is how you’re doing.”

  “That’s fine, Riley, you can tell me your top secret stories another time,” Meg responded with a little irritation in her voice. “As for me, that lawyer you sent to me has been a huge help. She’s blocked anyone from seizing our assets, and she made sure the life insurance is paying up. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about.”

  “Excellent. So, back to my original question—how are you doing?”

  Although Meg’s voice remained steady, Riley could see her eyes begin to tear up as she answered, “I’m fine, Riley. Really I am. Other than the loneliness, the fact that all my neighbors hate me, and the well-deserved reputation I now have of being the stupidest woman in the world, everything’s just dandy.” Her tears finally let loose, and Meg covered her face with her hands.

  Riley leaned forward in his chair. “Meg, if you’re the stupidest woman, then I’m the stupidest man. We were all taken in by Sal.”

  Dropping her hands, she cried, “Yeah, but I married him; I slept with him; I had his child!”

  Silence filled the room, except for the soft sound of Meg’s sobs. Riley, feeling very awkward, said, “You mentioned your neighbors. Have you been harassed at all? Gotten any threats?”

  “No, nobody is that blatant. But I can see it in their eyes—that is, when they will at least look at me. Even Jill from next door has become cold toward me.” Meg pulled a couple of tissues from a nearby box and began dabbing her eyes.

  Oops, Riley thought, I probably should have offered those to her. His mind raced to come up with some other conversation to break the silence.

  “Have you ever thought of moving? You know, starting fresh again somewhere?”

  Meg sighed and dropped the tissues on a side table. “Of course. My folks have even invited me to come live with them up in Fort Collins. But Alessandra and I have been through so much, I just don’t think I’m ready to pack everything up and leave home. Besides, if we tried to sell this place, we’d end up taking a huge hit. Who’d want to buy Sal Ricci’s old house?”

  Riley saw his opportunity to hop back on his white stallion. “That kind of stuff, Meg, you don’t worry about. You let me worry about it. You just do what you need to do.”

  “I know, Riley. Thanks.” Then, bravely trying to brighten things up, Meg asked, “So, do you want to stay for dinner? I make a mean peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. Just ask Alessandra.”

  Riley laughed. “No, I better get going. I’ve got to—”

  “No, no, you don’t need to explain anything to me,” Meg interrupted.

  “What? No, seriously, Meg. I’ve got to go meet—”

  “Riley! I said you don’t have to explain,” Meg insisted as she stood up to find where Alessandra had wandered off. “We’re just thankful for any time we can get with you.”

  Meg found her daughter crawling under the baby grand piano tucked in the front corner of the room. She picked her up off the floor and said, “Alessandra, give Uncle Riley a kiss before he goes.”

  Riley took Alessandra from Meg’s hands and gave her a quick tickle and a kiss. Alessandra, for her part, tried to start the previous game again by spraying raspberries all over Riley’s face. Meg reached around and covered her daughter’s mouth, then set her back down on the ground.

  After walking Riley to the door, she put her arms around him. Riley responded to the hug, but when he began to break off the embrace, Meg kept holding on. Sensing that she must be a little emotional, he held on to her longer. He could feel her breath against his neck, slow and steady.

  Finally, just as it was really beginning to get awkward for Riley, Meg pulled back. She looked at him with dry eyes and said, “Thank you, Riley, for being the man in our lives.”

  Riley stammered something like “Sure” and “No problem” and went out the door.

  As he walked to the car where Skeeter was waiting in the passenger seat he began trying to process what had just happened. But as soon as he started his Denali and TobyMac’s Portable Sounds began blaring through the speakers, the incident was quickly filed away in the “To Be Reviewed Later” section of his brain.

  5:17 P.M. MDT

  DENVER, COLORADO

  “I walk up to the kid and motion for him to roll down his window.” Reggie Brooks had taken the floor and now had Dan Elijah and Abdullah in stitches. “He’s all nervous, and I can tell his mind is trying to figure out what to say to me. I ask him for his docs, and as he’s fumbling through his wallet, he says, ‘I just want you to know right off, officer, that these are not my pants.’”

  The two-member audience completely lost it.

  Reggie continued, “I’m like, ‘Not your pants?’ And he’s all nodding and saying, ‘Yeah, they’re my friend’s, so any drugs or anything that might be in them belong to him and not me.’ So, I’m like, ‘Uh, son, you probably ought to step out of the car.’”

  Abdullah’s cell phone drew him away from the story. Still laughing, he reached into his locker to grab the RAZR out of his jeans pocket. Flipping it open, he said, “Abdullah.”

  “Awake, O Sleeper.”

  Abdullah sobered up in an instant. He had rehearsed so many times in his head what he would do if he ever got this call that he kicked into autopilot. He quickly slipped his shirt over his head and grabbed his jeans.

  “Everything okay, man?” asked Dan. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  But Abdullah didn’t hear him. “Sorry, boys, gotta go,” Abdullah said to Reggie and Dan and ran off before the other two had a chance to protest.

  6:19 P.M. CDT

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  Mohsin played with the remote control, lowering and raising the projection screen at the far end of the mini conference table in his office. He tried a new button, and suddenly vertical blinds shot out of a hidden door, causing him to jump and then burst out laughing. The blinds swept across the windows. Another button twisted the blinds closed, and still another twisted them back open.

  His cell phone rang. Mohsin checked the caller ID on the front of the phone. Unavailable was written across the screen. This was the third unavailable call in the last three minutes. He silenced the ringer and began looking for the remote button that would open his television cabinet.

  His phone rang again. Exasperated, Mohsin snatched the phone up, hit Send, and yelled, “What?”

  What he heard on the other end caused the phone to slip from his hand onto the glass desktop. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  Suddenly, he reached under his $4,000 desk, snatched up his leather-wrapped waste can, and purged every ounce of food from his body.

  7:23 P.M. EDT

  NEW YORK CITY

  Isaac Khan forced himself to finish the last of the Gatorade. Although he still felt a little weak, he was definitely on the upswing. Looking at the empty bottle, he thought, If they could just make a flavor that didn’t taste like a three-year-old’s birthday party.

  He launched the empty at a greasy metal barrel that served as a trash can. The bottle clipped the rim, bounced to the ground, then circled to a stop. I probably ought to get that. . . . Nah, somebody will pick it up eventually.

  He willed himself to slide off the loading bay so he could make his way to the car. His cell phone stopped him. Reaching into his shirt pocket with his grimy hands, he pulled out an eight-year-old Motorola flip phone that was stained the color of the grungy fingers that held it.

  “Hello?”

  Isaac stopped in his tracks. After hearing the words on the other end, Isaac dropped to his knees on the hard cement and wept.

  Awake, O Sleeper! Awake! Awake! he sang in his head. Isaac turned his face up and raised his hands to the sky. “After all these years of slumber, I am finally awake. Oh, Allah, you are so merciful to take notice of your servant. Whatever you want of me, I will do. All you need do is ask. Thank you for not forgetting me. You truly are great.”

  His prayer complete, Isaac jumped to his feet and r
an to his car. The years fell off him with every step he took. By the time he put the keys in his car door, he felt like the eighteen years he had wasted on the docks had been given back to him by Allah as a reward for his long-suffering patience.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MONDAY, MAY 11, 8:30 A.M. MDT ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

  Is dread the right word? Riley asked himself. What about disgust? Or maybe revulsion? Or maybe something not quite so strong, like hesitant, or a fancy word like trepidation?

  Driving to his first day of minicamp, Riley tried to put a name to how he was feeling. No, nothing fancy. Dread’s the right word. Pure and simple dread! Riley’s reluctance to start minicamp was an entirely new phenomenon. He had always loved football. And days like this used to really get him excited. Minicamp was a time to enjoy the workouts and the game without having to deal with all the pressures that came during the season.

  Even back in high school, Riley had counted the days until the summer practices started. The competition, the challenge of meeting and exceeding his personal goals, learning new team systems, and everything else that embodied football were things that had gotten his adrenaline pumping from the time he was a kid. But now . . .

  Riley hit the brakes hard at a yellow light, causing the car behind him to screech to a halt. When the guy laid on his horn, it was all Riley could do to keep himself from getting out of the car and explaining to the man—in no uncertain terms—that yellow means slow down. He resisted the urge, though, because first of all, he didn’t need the added drama in his life, and second, any other day he would have just blown through the light. It’s not that guy’s fault I’m trying to stretch my drive to take as long as possible.

  “You want me to go back there and shoot him?” Skeeter asked from the passenger seat.

  Riley glared at him in response.

  Deep down, Riley knew the reason for his dread. There were still deep wounds from the end of last season—the attack on Platte River Stadium, his own experience of being held hostage and tortured, the betrayal and death of people he loved. Lord, please give me the strength to follow through with the calling You’ve given me. Help me be a light, even when I feel the darkness permeating my very soul.