Pop (19 page)

He remembers
, Marcus thought excitedly.
He knows this place
.

“Well, here we are,” Mac announced as they moved along the tree-lined drive. “Looks a lot smaller than I pictured it all these years. What do you think, Charlie?”

Charlie peered straight ahead, frowning in concentration. “There's a fountain—right there.”

They followed his pointing finger. There were young people standing around a building that appeared to be a dorm or student center. No fountain.

Marcus and Mac exchanged a knowing glance.

“We should find the stadium,” Mac decided. “It's almost—”

“A fountain,” Charlie insisted. “With a guy on a horse in the middle of it.”

All Marcus's anxiety returned. Was Charlie
hallucinating
now?

The Toyota passed the dorm, continued beyond a clump of white birch, and there it was.

Mac nearly cheered. “A fountain! And a statue of a guy on a horse!”

“Hey,” said Charlie, “I used to whiz in that fountain. You don't forget a thing like that.”

“Jeez, I think I might have been with you!” Mac exclaimed.

They ran into a traffic jam as they approached the stadium parking. But then Marcus spied a sign:
VIP LOT
.

“That's right,” Mac chortled triumphantly. “We don't have to wait with the common people. We've brought the King of Pop!”

There was a little confusion at the gate because they weren't on the list, until Mac announced, “Don't you know who this is?”

The attendant regarded Charlie quizzically for a moment, trying to place the vaguely familiar face. And then a middle-aged woman with a
HOMECOMING COMMITTEE CHAIR
badge came bounding over.

“Charlie Popovich! Why didn't you tell us you were coming! Everybody's going to go
crazy
!”

The attendant was impressed. “Yeah? You're Popovich? I used to watch you play! Can I shake your hand?”

Within a few minutes, Charlie was mobbed by well-wishers.

Marcus watched like a proud parent. The fact that he had made this possible absolutely thrilled him. It was easily the most worthwhile thing he had ever done.

He was so wrapped up in the moment that it took a few seconds to realize that the committee was walking away with Charlie.

Mac was already on it. “Number one rule,” he told the committee chair. “We go where he goes.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” she explained reasonably. “There's a limited amount of space on the dais—”

“No deal,” Mac replied firmly. “You're not hearing me. We can't leave him alone.”

She tried to make a joke out of it. “Are you his bodyguards?”

“Something like that.”

Eventually, Marcus and Mac were seated two rows behind the honorees—close enough to lay hands on Charlie if they felt they must.

Charlie was between the Rogers sisters and EBU's president. As word spread that the NFL veteran had turned up unexpectedly at homecoming, a procession of fans and old classmates paraded by.

Marcus marveled at the way Charlie greeted each one with a firm handshake and a hearty “Good to see you!” No one ever would have suspected that
this
Charlie was anything less than what he appeared to be—a celebrity, the center of attention, the man of the hour.

Mac nudged Marcus. “Look at him. An hour ago, he climbed out of the toilet and tried to hitchhike to the United States. Now he looks like he's running for governor.”

Marcus nodded. “He's really pulling it off.”

But could it last?

Chelsea ran into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.

“Is he here?”

Her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You didn't find him.”

“I went all over town, all his usual haunts. Even Three Alarm Park.”

Her mother checked her watch. “It's only lunchtime. Troy's game isn't until three.”

“This isn't about the game!” Chelsea exploded. “Daddy's like a bear who wanders into the middle of New York City! He could get hurt; he could hurt someone else—”

“I'm worried, too,” said Elizabeth Popovich sharply, “but he's been gone this long before. He's always come back.”

“Except the time Marcus had to go rescue him,” Chelsea reminded her.

“That was
one night
. There's no reason to believe it wasn't an anomaly.”

“We hid his car keys when the time came,” Chelsea argued. “What if we've passed the point where he can't be left on his own at all? And now it's too late?”

“Don't panic, Chelsea. Your father isn't a bear in New York; he's a man in the town he grew up in.”

“Well, what about Troy? Shouldn't we let him know Daddy's still missing?”

Her mother thought it over. “Not yet. We don't know for sure that anything's wrong. We don't want to get him upset right before the biggest game of the year.”

Chelsea stomped into her room, fuming. She understood that her mother was trying to think positively, but a couple of drops of water didn't mean the glass was half full! How could she be so
calm
? The night of Luke's party, if it hadn't been for Marcus, who knows
what
might have happened?

Marcus. That was the person to call. Of course, her father wasn't at Three Alarm Park now. But maybe Marcus would have another inspired guess based on the special relationship he seemed to have with her dad.

There was no answer at the Jordan house, so she tried Marcus's mother at the newspaper office.

“Mrs. Jordan, my name is Chelsea Popovich. I'm a—a friend of Marcus's. Sorry to bother you, but it's kind of important. Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

“I don't think I can help you,” Mrs. Jordan replied. “He told me he was going to be away all day at a football game.”

“Poughkeepsie West,” Chelsea supplied. “I'll probably see him there. Thanks anyway.”

She hung up, frowning. The game didn't start until three. It would be over by five, five thirty at the latest. There was nothing “all day” about that. Why would Marcus tell his mom—?

No. Impossible. It couldn't be.

DNA versus Poughkeepsie West wasn't the only football game going on that Saturday. It was also homecoming at East Bonaventure University. That was a pretty long drive, so he would've had to leave early, and by the time he got back…

She ran to the computer and called up the university's website. Right there on the home page was a live-streaming video feed from the homecoming game—EBU versus Rutgers.

She checked the notice board about the hall of fame inductions to see if any “special guests” had been added. No, it was still just the Rogers sisters. Charlie Popovich was listed as an absent honoree.

I must be losing it
, she told herself.
How paranoid do you have to be to think some kid shanghaied your two-hundred-forty-pound father?

She focused on the live stream—players from both teams were diving after a fumble. EBU recovered, and the crowd went wild. The camera panned the spectators, focusing on faculty and guests in a bunting-draped box.

The shriek brought her mother running from downstairs.

“What is it, Chelsea? Are you all right?”

“I found Daddy,” she replied shakily.

“What are you talking about? Where?”

“There!” her daughter quavered. “Look!”

The two watched the computer screen in amazement as Charlie jumped up and down, cheering and waving an EBU pennant.

Mrs. Popovich goggled. “How did he get to East Bonaventure?”

Chelsea was furious. “I told him he had to respect our decision!”

Her mother was bewildered. “Who?”

The camera pulled back and supplied the answer. Charlie sat down again, providing an unobstructed view of a spectator seated two rows behind him.

Marcus Jordan.

Officer Deluca hung up the phone and let out a long, sharp breath. In twenty years of police work, he thought he'd heard it all, but this was something new: a sixteen-year-old kid abducting a fifty-four-year-old Alzheimer's patient to take him to the hall of fame ceremony his own family wanted him to skip. For reasons of their own, he assumed.

Had he overlooked anything? Oh, yeah—also, the suspect was Marcus Jordan, who had been in town only a few months yet was not unknown to the Kennesaw Police Department, and who was ticking down to his own court date for vandalism and harassment.

He sighed. To go from TP'ing an exterminator's shop to kidnapping an NFL veteran was quite an escalation, even for the Jordan kid. Of course, he wasn't holding the man for ransom. He just took him to a football game. Still, in the eyes of the law, it was a full-fledged abduction, especially in light of Popovich's condition. Another shock, that. The pride of Kennesaw had Alzheimer's at only fifty-four. Poor guy.

He looked through his Rolodex and dialed the number of the Bonaventure County Sheriff's Office. Luckily, Sergeant Earl Ewchuk was on the desk—an old friend of Deluca's from the academy days.

“I need a favor,” Deluca told him. “Charlie Popovich—remember him? Played for the Bengals. He's up your way at the EBU game right now.”

“Yeah, I heard he's here,” Ewchuck told him. “It's quite a surprise at the college. They weren't expecting him.”

“That's probably because he's not supposed to be there.”

“What are you talking about, Mike?” Ewchuck demanded. “They're honoring him at halftime—him and the nose-plug sisters.”

“I know he's invited, Earl, but he's a sick man. Too many concussions, the wife told me. And the person who brought him snuck him out of town against the family's wishes.”

“You got an ID on this guy?”

“Never mind him,” said Deluca. “He's a sixteen-year-old kid. And besides, he's in the stands two rows behind Popovich. That's who I'm worried about.”

“I'll call the campus cops and have him pulled out of there,” Ewchuk offered.

“Don't. Let him have his moment in the spotlight. But keep an eye on him. He can't leave. I'll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Done,” Ewchuck promised. “See you then.”

Deluca hung up the phone and reached for his car keys. On top of everything else, he was going to miss the Raiders game against Poughkeepsie West. Two perfect seasons on the line, and he was going to spend the afternoon chasing an Alzheimer's patient and Marcus Jordan over hell's half acre.

The kid had a lot to answer for.

B
oth Rogers sisters had put on a few pounds since their silver-medal days—the same amount, of course, almost to the ounce. But their bright smiles and synchronized waves were just the same as they stood on the rollout stage at midfield, accepting the accolade of their alma mater.

Then the scoreboard screen faded out from the 1988 Olympics medal ceremony and into the image of a young linebacker in EBU crimson. The number on his jersey was 55. Long hair poured out of his helmet, but his wild, intense stare burned through the cascading curls like halogen headlights cutting fog. His posture radiated energy and strength, and when he moved, it was with explosive quickness and athletic grace.

A buzz rippled through the crowd as the voice-over traced the career of Charlie Popovich—first his four stellar years at EBU, and then later as a pro in San Diego and Cincinnati.

From his seat in the grandstand, Marcus watched Charlie, who was standing quietly at the edge of the stage, eyes riveted to the scoreboard monitor. Did he know he was watching himself? Or was he just interested in a story about a football player? It was impossible to tell.

“Students and faculty, please welcome our other hall of fame honoree, the King of Pop himself: our very own Charlie Popovich!”

The roar that greeted this announcement moved air. The crowd rose to its feet, stamping and cheering East Bonaventure's NFL star. The grandstand glittered with thousands of camera flashes. It was pandemonium.

With some prodding from EBU's president, Charlie stepped to center stage, and Marcus felt his stomach tighten into a nervous pretzel. Beside him, Mac sat forward, his body stiff and tight. What would Charlie say? How would he react to finding himself the focal point of tens of thousands of people? Marcus and Mac waited, scarcely breathing.

“It's great to be back at good old East Bumwipe!”

That drew an outburst of laughter and a standing ovation that took several minutes to quiet down.

“The last time I stood on this field, I had a broken nose, and Mary Frances Gilhooley's underwear was flying from the flagpole,” Charlie went on. “I know because I put it there—me and a friend. What I'm trying to say is, the days I spent right here were some of the best times of my life. And to come back and be honored for it—well, that's just gravy.”