“Now when you get it, tuck the ball into your chest,” Peter shouted, tossing the football. It soared in a perfect arc. He shouted: “Tuck the ball into your chest. Tuck-”
Jared stepped aside, and the football slipped through his hands and thunked hollowly into the grass. Vaulting after it, Jared lost his balance and slammed to the ground.
“Jesus,” Peter said with disgust. “The ball’s not going to hurt you. Get your body in front of the ball! Don’t be afraid of it!”
“I did-”
“Get both hands around the ball!”
Frustrated, Jared got to his feet and ran back toward Peter.
“Look, Jerry,” Peter said in a softer voice. “You gotta bring it into your body. All right, we’re going to do a button hook.”
“A button hook?” Jared repeated wearily.
“A button hook. You get out there, run ten yards, and turn around. The ball will be there. You get it?”
“I get it,” Jared said. His voice was sullen; he hung his head. Sarah wondered whether her presence was embarrassing him, decided it was, and that she should leave.
“All right, let’s go!” Peter shouted as Jared scrambled ahead. As he ran, his pace accelerated. Peter threw the ball hard and fast, a bullet. Just as Jared stopped and turned, the football hit him in the stomach. Sarah heard a whoof of expelled air. Jared buckled over, sank clumsily to the ground.
“Jared!” Sarah shouted.
Peter laughed raucously. “Man,” he said. “Buddy boy. You really screwed the pooch there, didn’t you.” He turned toward Sarah. “Wind knocked out of him. He’ll be fine.”
Jared struggled to his feet, his face red. There were tears running down his face. “Jesus, Dad,” he cried. “What’d you go and do that for?”
“You think I did something?” Peter said, and laughed again. “I told you, you gotta tuck it into your chest, kid. You looked like a clown out there. You want to learn this or not?”
“No!” Jared screamed. “Jesus, Dad! I hate this!” He limped away toward Sarah.
“Peter!” Sarah said. She began to run toward Jared, but the heel of her left shoe caught in a tangle of weeds. She tripped and landed with her knees in the mud.
When she got up, Jared was there, throwing his arms around her. “I hate him,” he sobbed against her blouse, muffled. “He’s such an asshole, Mom. I hate him.”
She hugged him. “You did so well out there, honey.”
“I hate him.” His voice grew louder. “I hate him. I don’t want him to come around anymore.” Peter approached, his face set in a grim expression, his jaw tight.
“Look, Jerry,” he said. “I don’t want you to be afraid of the ball. You do it right, the ball’s not going to hurt you.”
“You get the hell out of here!” Sarah exploded, her heart racing. She grabbed Jared so tightly he yelped in pain.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Peter said. “Look what you’re doing to him.”
“Get the hell out,” Sarah said.
“You’re a goddam asshole!” Jared shouted at his father. “I don’t want to play football with you again. You’re an asshole!”
“Jerry,” Peter coaxed.
“Screw you, Dad!” Jared said in a quavering voice. He whirled around and stomped away.
“Jared,” Sarah called out.
“I’m going home, Mom,” he said, and she hung back.
A few minutes later, Sarah and Peter stood on the edge of the field in the drizzle. His blond hair was tousled, his gray Champion sweatshirt smudged with mud. In his faded jeans, he looked as slender and trim as ever. He had never looked as attractive, and she had never hated him more.
“I talked to Teddy,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“I heard about Sweet Bobby whatever-his-name-is.”
“What, you surprised we made the whore’s killer so fast?”
“No. I just don’t think you got the right one.”
“Jesus, Sarah, we got blood on the guy’s clothes, what more do you-”
“You’ve got evidence enough to lock him up. I just don’t think he’s the killer.”
Peter shook his head and smiled. “Whatever. Mind if I use your shower? Get changed? Jared and I are going out to dinner. Hilltop Steak House.”
“I don’t think Jared is up to going out.”
“I got him till tonight, remember.”
“It’s Jared’s choice, Peter,” she said. “And I don’t think he wants to go out to the Hilltop with you tonight. I’m sorry.”
“The kid’s got to learn to stand on his own,” he said gently.
“For God’s sake, Peter, he’s eight years old. He’s a child!”
“He’s a boy, Sarah. Kid’s got a lot of potential. He just needs a little discipline, is all.” He seemed almost to be pleading. “You know, Joey Gamache was a lightweight, but he became a world champ. You want to knock down Floyd Patterson or Marvin Hagler or Mike Tyson, you got to learn to take your lumps. You’re raising him to be soft. Jerry needs a father.”
“You aren’t a father, you’re a sparring partner,” Sarah said, her voice quiet and malevolent. “Rocket shots to the rib. Jab to the jaw. You’re goddam abusive, is what you are, and I’m not going to permit it. I’m not going to let you treat my son this way anymore.”
“‘My son,’” Peter echoed with dark irony, chuckling.
They were both silent for a moment. The argument hung heavy in the air between them.
“Look, just make it easier on all of us,” Sarah said. “Go home. Jared doesn’t want to go out to dinner with you tonight.”
“Kid needs a father,” Peter said quietly.
“Yeah,” Sarah agreed. “It’s just not clear you’re the one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At a few minutes after four o’clock in the afternoon, the office mail courier, a chubby middle-aged black man, dropped a small yellow bubble-pack envelope, about four inches wide by five inches long, into Sarah’s in basket. “Just came in,” he said. “Rush.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” she said. The label bore the return address of the MIT Artificial Intelligence Laboratory.
She tore open the envelope, removed the tape, and put it in a tape player.
The voices were indistinct, forlorn, distant conversations in a wind tunnel. Even played on the most high-fidelity tape deck Sarah could wangle from Audio Services, the acoustic quality of the tape recording was woefully bad. But once you got used to it, you could make out the words.
Will Phelan-brow furrowed, intently concentrating, stroking his mustache absently with his pinkie-sat at the conference table beside Ken, who leaned way back in his chair, arms folded across his ample belly, eyes closed.
Sarah provided the narration. “This one,” she said, “is just a routine dunning call.” A man’s voice identified himself as being “from Card Services” and left an 800 number. Then a beep, then the synthesized female voice of the answering machine’s day/time stamp announced: “Monday, four-twelve P.M.”
“All right,” Sarah said. “Listen.”
Another man’s voice. If the first voice sounded lost in an electronic maelstrom, this one was even more distant, bobbing on crashing waves of static.
“Mistress? It’s Warren.” A surge of crackly static, then: “… the Four Seasons at eight o’clock tonight. Room 722. I’ve been hard for days thinking about you. Had to jerk off in the lavatory on the plane. Probably against some FAA law. I’m going to have to be punished.”
Phelan arched his eyebrows and turned to look at Ken, who seemed on the verge of exploding with laughter.
A beep. The day/time voice stamp announced: “Monday, five-twenty P.M.”
Phelan cleared his throat and rumbled: “All right, you got-”
“Wait,” Sarah interrupted. “One more.”
A rush of static, hollow and metallic. The next voice was male, high-pitched, British-accented. The connection was distant; every few seconds it broke up.