Kerrigan closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He was a prosecutor. His job was to make certain that criminals suffered the consequences of their acts, but he had escaped the consequences for his worst act for so long that he'd deluded himself into believing that he would escape punishment forever.
* * *
The weeks before the Rose Bowl had been a blur. The press was everywhere and the practices had been intense; and compounding the confusion were the discussions of his wedding to Cindy. It was almost impossible to find a place where he could be alone and think. Too many people wanted a piece of him, and Cindy wanted to be with him every second of the day. Tim was sharing a house with Hugh Curtin and two other players that was a nonstop party.
On a wet and cold Thursday, a week and a half before the big game, Tim had escaped to a dark booth in a workingman's bar off the interstate. The tavern was only three miles from campus but it catered to hard drinkers and had none of the ambience that attracted a college crowd. It was a place where the Pac-10s star running back could drink without being noticed.
By two in the morning, empty shot glasses were lined up in front of Tim on the scarred wood table. He'd made a solid dent in his sobriety, but he was no closer to solving his personal problems. Cindy was expecting him to marry her, but did he want to get married? He was young and he had his life ahead of him. How did he know that Cindy was The One? One thing he knew for certain-- Cindy would be crushed if he broke off their engagement. But wouldn't a momentary tragedy be better than a lifelong one?
It was well past the curfew set by the Oregon coach. If he was caught here, drunk or sober, Coach could suspend him. Tim looked around. The bar was emptying out and he still had not decided what he was going to do. Fresh air might help.
Tim pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door. A gust of wind blew cold darts of rain into his face. Tim's car was in the lot but he knew better than to drive. He'd have Huge drive him over tomorrow morning. The walk back would give him time to think and sober up.
Tim had no idea how long he'd been walking when a car slowed down and paced alongside him. It was new and expensive, a rich kid's car-- the kind the sons and daughters of the Westmont Country Club crowd drove. The passenger window rolled down.
"Tim. Hey."
It was a girl's voice. He stumbled over and ducked down so he could see the driver. She was alone.
"It's me. Melissa Stebbins."
Tim placed her immediately. She was one of Cindy's sorority sisters. Melissa had a reputation for doing drugs, drinking, and sleeping around.
"Get in," Melissa said.
Tim thought about refusing, but the rain had sobered him up enough to make him feel miserable walking in it. The dome light switched on when Tim opened the door. It had given Melissa a chance to see his pale face and bloodshot eyes. It had also allowed Tim to notice Melissa's breasts outlined beneath a tight sweater. He had the beginnings of a hard-on by the time he sat down.
"What are you doing out?" Melissa asked. "Don't you jocks have a curfew?"
"I had something to do. Coach said it was okay."
Melissa could smell the booze from across the car, and Tim looked like shit.
"Right," she laughed. She saw the concern on Tim's face. "Don't worry. I won't turn you in."
The car swerved and almost went off the road.
"Whoops," Melissa laughed as she brought the car back to the pavement. Tim realized that he wasn't the only drunk in the car and that they were heading away from his house.
"I'm over on Kirby," Tim said.
"Fuck Kirby," Melissa laughed.
"Are you okay? You want me to drive?"
Melissa didn't answer. She turned into the park and headed for the heavily forested section known since the advent of the car as Lovers' Lane. Melissa smiled at Tim. There was no doubt what had prompted her look. If he'd been sober he would have been scared, but the booze had mashed down his inhibitions.
Sometime between parking and their first kiss, Melissa slipped her hand into Tim's lap and began stroking his penis through his jeans. When she broke the kiss, Tim noticed that her eyes were glassy, but he didn't notice much else.
"Want one?"
Melissa was holding out a handful of pills. Even as wasted as he was, Tim knew better than to mess with pharmaceuticals. He shook his head. Melissa shrugged. She shoved the pills into her mouth and washed them down with something from a bottle Tim hadn't seen before. The hand returned to Tim's lap. Melissa pulled down his zipper and unbuckled his pants. He was conscious of the rain pelting against the roof of the car. For a second, Tim thought about Cindy. Then Melissa's mouth was on him and he wasn't thinking about anything. His eyes closed and his buttocks tightened. He was about to come when Melissa pulled away roughly.
Tim's eyes snapped open. Melissa's eyes rolled back in her head. A moment later, she was thrashing against the driver's-side door. Tim pressed backward, stunned and too terrified to think. Melissa was flailing. He knew that he had to do something, but he had no idea what. Suddenly, she collapsed, convulsed again, and stopped moving.
"Oh, my God. Melissa! Melissa!"
Tim forced himself to lean toward Melissa and touch her neck, checking for a pulse. Her flesh felt clammy and he pulled back. Had there been a pulse? He wasn't certain. He just wanted to get out of the car.
The rain was still falling. He zipped up his pants. What should he do? Call someone, he guessed, an ambulance, the cops. But what would happen to him if he did? He was drunk, breaking curfew, an engaged man getting a blow job from a girl high on God knew what. Would the cops think he'd given her the drugs?
Better get out of here, he told himself. Tim ran. Then he stopped. He had to make a call. If he left her and she died . . . He didn't want to think about that.
Another thought occurred to Tim-- fingerprints. He'd seen cop shows. They'd dust the car, wouldn't they? Where had he touched it? After that night, every time he was tempted to rationalize what he'd done, Tim would remember wiping the door handles and the dashboard.
The rain was starting to let up when he sprinted out of the park. He was two miles from home. There were houses across the street but they were all dark. He should pound on a door and tell them about Melissa. He could make up a story, say he was . . . what? Walking through the woods in the rain at three in the morning, drunk. And they'd know him. He was famous. If the cops told Coach what he'd been doing-- that he was intoxicated-- Coach would kick him off the team. He'd have no choice.
Tim kept running. There was a twenty-four-hour convenience store a few blocks from his house. He detoured past it and checked the lot for cars. A guy was inside, getting cigarettes. Tim waited until he left, then jogged to the pay phone and called the police anonymously, hanging up as soon as he was certain that the cops knew where to look for Melissa.
Tim's house was dark and quiet. He let himself in and stripped off his clothes in his room. Melissa was probably okay, he told himself. Yeah, she'd probably just passed out. She'd been wasted. That was it. She was okay.