by Tim Green
Hunter saw the muzzle of Angelo Quatrini's gun flash a bright orange flame in the night before the explosion rang in his ears. He rushed forward as fast as he could. He heard Cook's body crashing through some chairs to the floor of the porch and then saw him roll under the railing and over the edge to the ground below. Angelo Quatrini fired three more quick shots at Cook's form, then paused to assess the damage. He looked around instinctively, and it was then that he saw Hunter's shape moving toward him from the darkness. Angelo spun and crouched, leveling his gun. Hunter pulled up and began firing shots at Angelo. Hunter heard a bullet whiz by his head, and without thinking he dived to the ground. Angelo continued to fire at him, and Hunter rolled madly away, stopping only when he'd gotten himself behind the wheel of the Cadillac, parked directly in front of the cabin.
Hunter heard Angelo scramble off the porch and then there was silence. He froze where he was. His mind was churning with the possibilities. Was Cook dead? Where was Angelo? Where was Rachel?
It was that thought that spurred Hunter into action. Instantly he jumped to his feet and raced for the open doorway, expecting any minute for a bullet to strike him in the head and instantly kill him. He got to the door and into the cabin without anything happening. He flattened himself against the open door and listened for some kind of noise from without. Besides the moaning wind there was nothing. Hunter searched the interior of the cabin with a sweeping gaze. Nothing moved and there was no noise. It made Hunter think that Angelo Quatrini was alone. He brought his trembling hand up to his face and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He tried to think.
A loud crash from within the cabin made him jump, and he raised his pistol in the direction from which it came. He heard it again, coming through the thick log wall. It was the clanging, rattling noise of metal on metal. Then he heard the muffled noise of a woman's voice. He rushed across the great room and into & small hallway. Seeing a bedroom door on the left, he burst into the room. Rachel lay handcuffed to a brass headboard. Her skin was sickly pale, and her hair was tangled and matted. The large band of tape across her mouth was the most disturbing thing of all. Hot tears welled up in Hunter's eyes.
"My God," he moaned and threw himself down beside Rachel on the bed, holding her tightly and rocking her fragile figure back and forth like a child. The tears spilled down his face and into Rachel's greasy hair. She, too, was crying. Hunter heard a low laugh behind him and spun his head around.
Angelo Quatrini stood in the doorway of the bedroom with a big automatic pistol leveled at Hunter's head. His large, heavy frame shook ever so slightly as he chuckled quietly to himself. The gun was pointed almost casually at Hunter.
"Now," Angelo growled, "what am I supposed to do with you?"
The room exploded with the noise of gunfire, and Angelo's neck burst open like the stalk of an overripe milkweed. Another shot blew his elbow into jagged mess of bone and meat, and his gun clattered to the floor. Still two more bullets thudded into his torso, leaving holes that spouted more blood. Angelo looked confusedly at his elbow and reached up with his other hand to try to plug the leak in his neck. The effect was like putting his thumb over the end of a hose, and the blood sprayed about wildly out of control. He lurched sideways and then went over in a heap of blood and gore.
In the remnants of the shattered window that looked out onto the cabin's porch stood Ellis Cook, with his gun raised and smoking and his eyes glassed over in pain. His free hand was clamped over one side of his head, which appeared to be half blown off. Cook looked in the direction of Hunter and Rachel. His mouth dropped open as if he was about to speak. Then he staggered forward and fell over the jagged window and into the room, smashing the glass left from his barrage of bullets.
A pathetic sob escaped Rachel, and Hunter realized he hadn't yet taken the tape off of her mouth. Gently he pulled it away, cringing to himself at the oozing red patch of skin that remained. Then he held her. He held her close in a way that seemed like it would last forever.
When the smoke cleared and the ringing in his ears began to subside, Hunter could hear the silence through the moaning wind. He knew they were alone, and he knew he had to do two things. First, he had to get Cook to a hospital. Next, he had to get Rachel out to the Hamptons with her parents and Sara and then get all of them to a place they could hide until everything was over. Hunter fished through the pockets of Angelo Quatrini's corpse and found a large key chain and what he believed to be the keys to Rachel's handcuffs.
"Come on, Rachel," he said. "We've got to go."
Rachel had a hard time getting up and could barely walk. Hunter scooped her up and carried her out to the Cadillac. He opened the front door and gently set her down on the seat. Next Hunter draped Cook over his good shoulder and brought his limp body out to the car. He lay Cook across the backseat. He thought Cook was alive but wasn't sure. The man's head continued to bleed profusely, creating a sticky pool on the seat. Hunter climbed into the front seat and raced down the hill.
At the bottom he had to stop and find which of Angelo's keys opened the lock on the pipe gate. It only took a minute, and before long they were back on Route 17, racing toward New York. Hunter had seen a sign for a hospital nearby on their way in. He followed that same blue sign now. It was the third exit up, but the hospital was not far from the highway.
Hunter carried Cook into the emergency room and laid him as carefully as he could on an unoccupied gurney. A young round-faced doctor burst into the hall. He checked Cook over quickly and immediately began to administer CPR while at the same time barking orders to a couple of nurses who fluttered about wildly.
He thought he heard one of them murmer, "He's dead."
Hunter stood for a moment and watched the young doctor. He was smooth and quick and every movement seemed important. Hunter felt completely useless, and the trauma team carried on as if he wasn't there. Then he remembered Rachel in the car. He thought about Cook's words: If he won the game, Rizzo would be taken out by his own kind. On the other hand, his instincts told him to run, to go get Sara and make sure the three of them disappeared forever. He knew that when confrontation occurred, the human reaction was flight or fight. Right now he felt like he'd used up all the fight he had. Hunter clenched his fists and said a brief prayer for Cook, then jogged out into the night.
Henry woke up in the Meadowlands Marriott. It was only six o'clock, but that was when Henry got up. Bert snored soundly in the next bed, and Henry wondered how his wife ever got any rest. Henry pulled the telephone out from underneath the pair of jeans Bert had slung over the night table between the two beds. Bert's belt jingled loudly, and some change fell out of the pockets and clattered down onto the night table. The message light was not blinking. Henry knew from Bert that no calls were allowed into the players' rooms after eleven. He thought that Hunter might have tried to call sometime during the night and leave a message that he would be there by game time.
Henry got up and used the bathroom. He paced back into the bedroom and sat on his bed in the weak light that leaked through the curtains. Henry crossed his arms and rocked nervously back and forth. He had expected Hunter to be back by now. Instead of becoming more comfortable with his role as his brother as the week went on, Henry had become less and less comfortable. Right now he felt like pulling on his clothes and just sneaking out. He wanted to leave, to just go home and get back to his life. Sad as it was, it was his, and he was tired of worrying and pretending. But this was nothing more than wishing. He wouldn't let Hunter down. Most of all, he wouldn't let Rachel down. He had never had much to say to her, but he'd always admired her from a distance. He knew she was in danger, and that was why it was so important that he continue to play his role.
He got up and paced the floor between the TV and the beds. He wanted at least to get out of the room, into some light and away from Bert's awful noise. But he felt safer in these dark confines than he did wandering around the hotel. Out there he was likely to run into a coach or someone else who couldn't sleep late, and t
hey would want to talk with him about the game or how his shoulder felt.
Henry lay back down on the bed to wait for the day to begin. If Hunter didn't show up, he had no idea in the world what he could do. He certainly couldn't go out there and play, but then again, he couldn't run either. The whole thing made him sweat. He couldn't wait to get back to West Virginia, where he was comfortable and where he belonged. As much as he hoped for that, though, he hoped even more that Hunter would get Rachel back and the two of them with Sara could be safe.
Bert finally woke up. They got ready and went down for the pre-game meal. Bert ate heartily but wasn't much of a comfort to Henry. Bert was getting on his game face, and he dealt with Henry's concerns about Hunter's showing up by saying, "Don't worry, it'll work out."
To Henry that could mean a lot of things. It could mean Bert thought Hunter would return in time. It could also mean that he wouldn't but that something else acceptable would happen. Henry couldn't think of another welcome solution, and Bert had nothing more to say. So instead of eating, Henry played with a pile of eggs and spaghetti while Bert cleaned up three full plates of food.
Because Henry was anxiously awaiting his brother, the time crawled by. Every minute he looked expectantly at the doorway for Hunter to wave him out so that they could switch places. On the bus ride to the stadium, Henry consoled himself with the idea that of course Hunter was waiting there for them. It was the logical place to make the switch. When the bus dropped them off in the stadium tunnel, Henry's eyes roamed the immediate area for a sign of his delinquent brother. In the locker room Henry checked the training room, the shower, and even the toilets, each place fully expecting to find Hunter. After he had checked the area thoroughly, he reported to Bert that something was wrong.
'Just hang tight," Bert said under his breath as he tightly wrapped a roll of wide white tape around his wrists for the contest. "He'll be here."
Henry looked around him. The locker room was filling up with Titans players. Each one was intent in his own game preparation. Henry tried to do something of the kind. He pulled some pads from the top shelf and began stuffing them into Hunter's game pants. His hands were beginning to tremble now. He cursed under his breath. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And where the hell was Hunter?
Henry, unable to keep still, got up and walked back out into the tunnel. There were all kinds of people milling through the dark gray passage: janitors, concessionaires, police, referees, and cheerleaders. Already the stadium above hummed with life. Henry felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around with a relieved grin and found himself face to face with a sharply dressed, handsome young man with angry dark eyes. Beside him was a clone, a little shorter and not quite as tough-looking, but dressed in the same type of hand-knit sweater and leather coat and wearing the same long hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Henry almost chuckled at the second guy, but the realization of who these two must be hit him first.
The fuck you smiling at?" Tony Rizzo snarled, grabbing Henry tightly by the biceps.
Henry didn't know what to say.
That's better," Rizzo said with a malignant grin. "Now you look scared. That's what I'm used to. I almost didn't recognize you without that fucking terrified shit-in-your-pants look.
"Yeah," Tony continued, "I just came by to make sure you were doing all right."
He pulled Henry close and hissed into his ear, "You fucking better be out there on that field, and you better lose this fucking game in a big way! If this fucking thing is even close, I'm gonna cut that little bitch of yours open from her cunt to her fucking chin!"
Rizzo separated himself from the pale and shaky form of Henry Logan. 'Yeah," Rizzo said loudly, "It was great seeing you, Hunter. Good luck!"
Tony led Mikey up through a concrete stairwell to the concession area, where there was also a bank of pay phones. He pulled a piece of paper from his wallet and punched a Connecticut number into the phone.
"Motel 8" came the slow, lazy voice of a woman Tony just knew was ugly.
'Yes," Tony said, "I'm looking for a Mr. Burke, Carl Burke."
"Hang on . . ."
The phone rang seven times. Tony fidgeted and frowned at Mikey, who was looking on anxiously.
On the eighth ring, Carl picked up and said, Tony?"
"Yeah."
T--I did it. You should've seen it! There was fucking brains everywhere. It was a fucking mess! I did it, Tony ..."
"You emptied the .38 like I said?"
"Fucking A! Brains everywhere! Everything went fucking right! I did it, Tony!"
"Good, Carl. Very good. You stay right there where you are until I call you. I'll let you know when the dust settles and we'll bring you back. In the meantime, you don't go anywhere, got it?"
"I got it, Tony. I did it."
"Good, Carl. I'll talk with you soon."
Tony hung up the phone and turned to Mikey. His upper lip quivered uncontrollably.
"He did it?" Mikey asked.
Tony wanted to grab Mikey and spin him around, but he remembered himself. "Four hours from now," he said with quiet certainty, "I will be the head of the Mondolffi family."
Henry couldn't control a shudder after he watched the two of them go. His stomach turned and sank. Hunter was nowhere, and he was going to have to play. It was a nightmare. He did have to go out there or Rizzo would do what he said, of that Henry had no doubts. But how could he go when he didn't really have a clue about what to do? The coach would pull him out after the first play. Henry had no idea what he was doing. He didn't even know the hand signals that were used to send the play in from the sideline.
Henry made his way back into the locker room like a zombie. He found Bert by his locker, a storm of anger with bugged-out eyes.
"I don't know," Bert said, his eyes rolling half-crazy in his head, "you gotta just do it. I don't know what to say."
Henry sat on the stool in front of Hunter's locker and stared at the uniform that hung there. It was the uniform of the man people were calling one of the greatest ever to play the game. It would be frightening to put on that uniform even under normal circumstances. Bert's mad words rang out clearly in his head. Henry was suddenly struck with a surge of resolve. If he had to do it, he would. He might fail, but he would try. He had to at least try, he absolutely had to.
The day was warm for early October in New Jersey, and a steady breeze from the south carried with it the foul smells of industry combined with decaying wetlands. The crowd seemed not to notice, though. The contest today took on vast proportions as the die-hard fans for both the Titans and the Giants came to see their team claim the bragging rights to New York City. When the Titans jogged out onto the field for their pre-game warm-ups, half the crowd cheered ecstatically while the other half booed their lungs out.
Many of the eyes from both sides were on number thirteen, Hunter Logan. Every football fan in the nation knew that the great quarterback was having problems with his shoulder and that he had not taken a single snap in practice all week. Such a handicap would preclude most quarterbacks from seeing the field on Sunday, but Hunter Logan was not most quarterbacks. He was the man who had taken his team to the top, a Super Bowl victory, and the man who had only last week outgunned one of the game's legends, Joe Montana.
Again, when the eager crowd saw Hunter Logan's first pass, half cheered madly, but the other half, instead of booing, were conspicuously silent. The ball was a lame duck. It had wobbled through the air and fallen despicably short of its intended target. The next one was not much better. The Giants fans were given life. As the underdogs in this contest, they had been abuzz all week at the prospect of a wounded Hunter Logan. It could be the element they needed to put it in the face of their counterparts who had bragged so unabashedly for the entire off-season. A win for the Giants fans today would make the season a success no matter what happened later on. It didn't get much better, but on his final throw before the Titans retreated to their locker room before the start of the game, Logan did throw a
short pass that resembled a spiral. The Titans fans were encouraged and cheered wildly in the hopes that he had only needed to get the kinks out after a week of inactivity and that by the end of the contest Hunter Logan would again be his brilliant self.
Henry jogged back into the locker room with the rest of the team, but he felt as if he was completely alone. Immersed in the fog of his own dream, he didn't notice Coach Price until he was on top of him.
"You better turn it up a notch, Logan!" Price said angrily with his face only about an inch from Henry's. "I know you got the man upstairs buffaloed with your heroics last weekend. Yeah, you got the job, you got the man, but if I have to play you this whole game and you dump a load of shit like you just did out there, I swear I'll make your life miserable. You may be a superstar right now, but you're getting old, Logan, and I just got here."
Price walked away without another word.
Five minutes later, the entire team was kneeling in a circle and holding each other's hands. A voice rose up from their midst and prayed for no injuries. It prayed for glory to give back to the creator. It prayed for courage and toughness and strength.
Henry Logan prayed on his own. He prayed for a miracle.
Chapter 43
The Titans players were milling toward the doors of the locker room that led to the stadium when some scruffy-looking guy who resembled Hunter Logan burst in from the tunnel. Only about a third of the team even saw him, and they all kept pushing forward, not having time to indulge themselves in curiosities only minutes before the kickoff of a big game. The one man who was obviously affected to the point of distraction was Hunter Logan, or rather, the man the Titans believed was Hunter Logan.
"Damnation!" Henry cried, unconcerned now about who was there or who wasn't.
Hunter grabbed his brother with a quick, affectionate hug and then started to strip down right there in the middle of the locker room floor. Henry wasted no time but did the same.
"What the hell happened?" Henry said as they worked.
