Three-Point Play (4 page)

Cody struggled a bit to keep up. His quadricep muscles ached with the deep-seated pain of yesterday's gassers—seven all-out sprints across the width of the football field. He gulped a lungful of air. “No problem. Glad to do it. It's not safe for a girl to be running alone on these mean streets.”

Robyn giggled. “Yeah. Grant's streets are really mean. You never know when one of the chickens from the Hanson farm is going to escape and go looking for trouble.”

“Or one of their cats,” Cody offered.

“Ha. Those cats are so fat and lazy; the only way they could hurt you is if you tripped over one of them.”

Cody laughed politely. He glanced at his watch, which read 7:21. “Time to head back to the school,” he said, trying not to sound too eager. As they wheeled around and headed back down Main Street, he felt Robyn studying him.
I hope I don't have something hanging out of my nose,
he thought.
Or maybe I'm sweating too much
.

“Cody,” she said finally, “is it still hard—dealing with your mom's death? I mean, it's been over a year, but I don't know if I could ever get past something like that. I hope you don't mind my asking. But it's something I think about—pray about. Worry about you over.”

Cody flashed her his Brave Smile. He was the master of the Brave Smile. He practiced it in his bathroom mirror almost every morning. “Let me put it this way, Hart. Every morning, I wake up wondering, ‘Will this be the day when it finally stops hurting so much?' I'm still waiting.”

Robyn dipped her head. “I'm so sorry.”

Cody looked at her. She appeared to be on the verge of tears.
Can't have that happen
, he told himself
. If she starts crying, I might start too. That would be quite a sight—two frosh jocks running along Main Street sobbing like babies.

“I am making progress though,” he said quickly. “It's like, the pain's still there, but this weight that I've been feeling on my chest every morning is getting lighter. It used to be like a forty-five-pound weight plate, but lately it's been more like a thirty-five, maybe even a twenty-five.”

Robyn laughed softly. “Leave it to a guy to put everything in weight-lifting terms.”

They grew silent as they turned right off Main and headed to the high school. Cody noticed that his breaths were coming twice as fast as Robyn's. He wasn't sure if that was a sign that she was in much better shape than he was—or if the fact that he was running next to her, her ponytail swishing from side to side—had something to do with it.

They reached the bottom of Heartbreak Hill, the steep eighty-yard incline that crested near the main entrance to Grant High School. The hill had other names, especially among the athletes who had to sprint it as punishment for a poor game or a sloppy practice. But Cody didn't use any of those names, at least not in front of Robyn.

“Are you ready for Heartbreak?” Robyn asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied grimly. “Always.”

Robyn rose on her toes, swinging her arms. Cody lengthened his stride, feeling his quads rebel.
Just keep up with her
, he admonished himself.
Don't pass her, or she'll think you're challenging her. And the way your wheels are hurtin', you're not up to that kinda challenge. Think of the game tomorrow.

He let her nudge ahead as they topped the hill.

“Good run, Cody,” she said, extending her hand, palm up.

He froze for a moment. What to do about that hand: slap it, give it a squeeze? Or was it just a symbolic gesture, and he wasn't supposed to do anything? After an awkward pause, he grabbed her hand and shook it, just as he'd seen greeters do at church.
Ah, man
, he scolded himself,
I can't believe I just did that!

Robyn giggled. “Nice to meet you too, Cody Martin, sir.” That was followed by more giggling.

Cody started jogging backward. “I'm gonna run a bit more,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Try to loosen up my legs. They're still a little tight.”

Robyn just smiled. Cody turned and quickened his pace. “What my legs really are,” he muttered to himself, “are dead. Just like my brain.”

As a grade-schooler, Cody used to pretend he was being followed in the library, in the mall, even in church when he got to youth group early. His heart would start drumming as he ducked around corners or stutter-stepped his way downstairs. The imaginary chase always thrilled him, but it was a safe thrill.

Now he wished he had taken those fantasies more seriously—and paid closer attention during all the secret-agent movies he had seen before he gave them up in favor of sci-fi flicks. Because now he was certain that he was being followed through Cedar Heights Mall.

The guy tailing him was big, at least six three and well over two hundred pounds. He looked older than college age, maybe twenty-five. And he looked vaguely familiar, but Cody couldn't recall why. Perhaps he had attended Crossroads Community Church at some point. But if that were the case, he definitely had not sported a Death Metal T-shirt then. Pastor Taylor wouldn't have stood for that.

Cody threaded his way through the Thursday-night-at-the-mall traffic. He reached a long escalator at the south end of the mall's first level. He stepped carefully onto the moving steel steps and half turned so that he could monitor his stalker.

Mr. Death Metal walked head down toward the escalator. Cody swallowed hard. He almost stumbled as the escalator reached the second level. He made a sharp left turn and speed walked toward Pet Planet. He stepped through the entryway and the sharp smell—a mixture of pet food before and after digestion—filled his nostrils.

Through a glass display area that contained a half-dozen kittens romping amid shredded newspaper, he could see the escalator. Mr. Death Metal reached the top, took two steps forward, then stopped.

Why is he stopping?
Cody wondered.
If he were going to a store, he'd just go there. This is
so not
good. Why did I listen to Beth? “Come to the mall with your dad and me, Cody. It'll be fun. It'll take your mind off the big game tomorrow. Give you something to do besides sit in the house and obsess about Claxton Hills until you make yourself sick!”

Cody almost cried out when he realized the man had spotted him. Cody moved toward the back of the store past aquariums teeming with multicolored fish. When he reached a large metal tank housing three lethargic turtles, he stopped. The pet shop was narrow, with only three cramped aisles, like a miniature bowling alley. A guy could get cornered easily.

Mr. Death Metal was at the entrance now. He stopped for a moment to watch the kittens, then slid to his right and headed toward Cody.

God
, he prayed,
I know that you know my favorite prayer. I probably don't even have to say it, but— HELP!

Cody waited until his stalker was halfway down the aisle, then darted up the middle of the store. He didn't even risk a glance at Mr. Death Metal. Once outside Pet Planet, he turned left and sprinted. He could see heads turning to watch him. Two frowning mothers pulled their strollers out of his way.

They must think I'm a shoplifter—or a lunatic
, he thought.
And I don't care
. He arrived at another escalator and sprinted up it, taking the moving steps two at a time.

Mr. Death Metal was still on his trail. The big man didn't run, but his stiff, brisk walk betrayed someone on a mission.

Cody waited at the top of the escalator.
Okay
, he told himself,
I have to do one thing, just to prove I'm not crazy paranoid.

Mr. Death Metal stepped on the escalator. He walked up the steps until his path was blocked by a thin, white-haired man holding the hand of a pigtailed girl in a long, yellow dress.

Cody forced himself to stare at Mr. Death Metal's face.
Gotta make eye contact
, he told himself,
then I'll know if it's on
.

The man was halfway up the escalator now. Cody stepped forward, as if he were going to pull a Pork Chop stunt and try to descend against the flow. Mr. Death Metal met his stare and gave an exaggerated, palms-up shrug. As if to convey, “What's the use of running? You can't escape.”

Cody stepped back. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “You wanted to know if it was on. Well, it's on.”

He sprinted again. He passed a bookstore, an athletic shoe store, and an apparel shop for the Plus-Size Woman. The food court was just ahead. He could smell the appealing, mingling aromas of various fried foods. Between Nacho Loco and the Donut Factory was a long hallway leading to some restrooms. He whipped his head around. Mr. Death Metal wasn't in his sight line. He slowed to a walk to avoid colliding with a business executive exiting the men's room.

Inside the rearmost stall, Cody fought to slow his hungry, panting breaths. His T-shirt clung to his back, just as it did after a full-court basketball scrimmage. He locked the door and stood just in front of the toilet, facing forward.

He waited. Presently, the door hinges whined.
Is someone coming or going?
he wondered. Then he heard the telltale sound of footfalls on the sticky floor. Coming, was the answer. Right at him.

The footsteps stopped in front of Cody's stall. The door rattled as a hand pushed against it. Cody made his voice as low as a fourteen-year-old in the early stages of puberty could. “Occupied,” he said flatly.

“That's okay,” a voice answered. “I can wait.”

Cody gulped.
Man
,
what I wouldn't give for a mall security dude who drank too much coffee at dinner.

Cody scanned his memory trying to identify his stalker.
I'm pretty sure I've seen that face before, but it must have been a long, long time ago
.
Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself I know this guy, because it would be even more terrifying to be attacked by a total stranger. And on the night before a play-off game, to boot! I'm gonna be a wreck tomorrow!

The entrance door moaned again, and Cody heard two boisterous voices arguing over the previous weekend's Denver Broncos game. One guy's voice grew louder as he fought to be heard over the hissing of a sink faucet.

Okay,
Cody resolved.
Time to exit. It stinks in here, and if Death Metal Dude is gonna kill me, he's gonna have to do it in front of witnesses!

He drew in a deep breath and turned the latch. Mr. Death Metal turned his body slightly, but he didn't back up. Warily, Cody stepped by him. He locked his eyes on the exit. One of the Broncos fans was furiously rubbing his hands together under an air dryer. The other was studying his reflection in a mirror.

If I run
, Cody wondered,
what will happen? Will one of those guys grab me, or will they let me go by? Maybe they'll slow down Death Metal Dude if he sprints after me
.

The sound of a clearing throat yanked Cody from his thoughts. “Cody Martin,” the man in the Death Metal shirt said evenly. “We need to talk. I'm Gary Weitz. Gabe Weitz's big brother.”

Cody felt fear envelop him like a fog
. So that's where I've seen that face before
.
Gary's face isn't as fat as his brother's, but those cold eyes—there's definitely a family resemblance
.

One of the Broncos fans shoved the other out the door, leaving Cody alone with a guy whose shirt proclaimed “Death.”

“What do you want with me?” Cody was surprised at the anger in his voice. He had meant to sound meek, sympathetic.

“Like I said,” Gary Weitz explained, his tone still eerily calm, “we need to talk.”

“Look,” Cody said, “my dad is here at the mall and I was supposed to meet up with him a while ago. He's going to be looking for me.”

Weitz smiled. “This won't take long.”

Cody swallowed what little saliva remained in his mouth. “Those guys who were in here—they saw us. They saw your face. If anything happens—”

The smile again. “I don't care what they saw. It doesn't matter.”