As Anya fumbled for the ignition key, she hit the accelerator, causing the car to skid towards them. She shone the headlights at them and honked the horn loudly. Before the attacker sprinted off, she heard him call out, as if as an afterthought, ‘Dirty pervert, you sick fucking bastard.’
That was when she saw the balaclava covering his face.
Slamming on the brakes, Anya opened the door and ran to Ethan. He was unconscious but breathing.
By now, some men had filed out of the club and offered to help. One phoned 911 as Anya tried to examine Ethan. Blood
poured from his head wound. His pulse was thready. He could have been bleeding internally.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ she repeated, hoping that if she said it enough, it would be true.
A
nya sat in the waiting room, silently praying Ethan would be all right. The surgeon had confirmed he had a fractured skull and a perinephric haematoma from being kicked in the head and kidney while on the ground. At the moment he was being ventilated to reduce intracranial pressure and assess whether or not the kidney needed to be removed.
His condition remained critical.
She sat with her face in her hands, which were bloodstained from where she had touched his face and head after the beating. Two uniformed police arrived and spoke quietly with the nurse. They headed over to her and sat, caps in hand. One carried a brown bag containing Ethan’s watch, wallet and keys.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, can we have a talk to you about your friend?’
Anya looked up. ‘His name is Ethan Rye.’
‘Can you tell us what happened?’
She took a deep breath in. ‘He’s a private investigator and he followed someone to that club.’
The officers looked at each other. ‘Vlada?’
Anya nodded as she remembered its name. ‘He didn’t have time to go in before he was attacked by that man.’
‘Can you describe him?’ one asked, taking notes.
She strained to remember any tiny detail that would help. ‘He looked like a football player, massive. He had dark clothing and a balaclava on his head, I think.’
‘Do you know who may have wanted to hurt Mr Rye?’
She thought back to earlier in the evening. ‘A sacked player from the Bombers, Clark Garcia, threatened Ethan earlier in the hotel. He said Ethan would pay for what he had done. The concierge and security men witnessed it.’
‘Ma’am, is your friend gay?’
Anya looked up. ‘What? No.’
‘Are you sure? He was outside a gay club, and we have reason to consider this a hate crime. We have a number of witnesses who heard the attacker call Mr Rye a pervert.’
Anya shook her head. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. He was there for work, following someone. This had to be Garcia. He would have called out to try and shift blame from himself.’
‘Ma’am, did anyone know where you two were headed this evening?’
She thought about it. They had had no idea where Lance Alldridge was headed. ‘No.’
Their point was obvious. How would Garcia have known where Ethan was going to be at that moment?
She could not accept that he had been attacked for being near a gay club. It was too convenient a coincidence for Garcia.
Anya looked up then and saw Lyle Buffet walking slowly down the corridor.
‘Officers, might I have a word with Doctor Crichton?’
Without taking his name, they stood and asked if they could get Anya anything.
‘She could use a hot coffee,’ the old man said. ‘Looks to me like she’s in shock.’
‘Yes, Mr Buffet, we’ll see what we can do.’ They handed him the brown bag. ‘You should take this for now.’ The two headed for the tearoom. They clearly knew the way.
‘Are you all right?’ He sat down next to her. ‘They called me because I’m recorded as Catcher’s next of kin.’
She tilted her head, wondering if she’d heard properly.
‘I never had a son, or any children for that matter. My wife wasn’t able to. Anyway, Catcher has been like the son I always wanted. I’ll get him the best medical care money can buy, I promise you that.’
They sat in silence for a while.
‘Where’s your wife?’ Anya asked.
‘She died of a stroke ten years ago now. She was a football widow all her married life. Since then, the Bombers have taken up all my time. Sometimes I wish I’d let her know how much … Well, you can’t change the past.’
‘It sounds like she was very tolerant and patient.’
The old man half smiled. ‘More than any man deserved. In fact, something tells me you two would have got on. You see, up until you arrived, my wife and Catcher were the only ones who ever told me what I needed – rather than wanted – to hear.’
A nurse came out and asked if one of them would like to sit with Ethan.
Anya looked at the old man with a new respect. ‘You go.’
‘I’d like that, but make sure you get some sleep. I’ll call you if he wakes or there’s a change.’ He handed her Ethan’s possessions. ‘He would want you to look after these.’ Surprised, she helped him to his feet. The owner’s strength seemed to be failing him at this moment.
‘One more thing, Doctor. Thank you for being there for him. I know you made a difference.’
Anya hoped so, for Ethan’s sake.
She returned to the hotel feeling numb and trying to comprehend the last few hours. In her room, she showered and dressed in her yoga pants in case she was called out in a hurry.
Ethan’s personal belongings lay on the bed. She opened the wallet and lifted his room key, trying to work out how anyone had found him outside the club. They had to have been followed.
She headed down the corridor and let herself into Ethan’s room. Inside was a mountain of paperwork. On the desk sat a
portable printer. Stick-on notes covered each pile, with a title or place name. She looked at the pile labelled
Clark Garcia
.
There were summaries of his previous employment history, what teams he had played for, and his criminal record, which hardly came as a shock. Being illiterate must have been difficult to mask at high school and college, yet being a footballer protected him from the usual academic scrutiny. There were photocopies of letters describing his poor attendance and justifications from the Dean and football coaches as to why he should be permitted to complete the course. A flurry of B grades followed. Garcia had cheated his way through college, with help from the influential.
A file on Janson sat underneath. She sat back on the bed and began to read. Janson attended Lincoln High School in Chatham, Tennessee, and had a C grade average. There was a scant medical record comprising vaccinations and the occasional X-ray. No mention of concussions. His parents would probably recollect better, she thought.
A single page report mentioned an incident in high school. A young woman had reportedly been sexually assaulted under the school bleachers. Charges were never laid.
A pile of DVDs sat in a box, with dates from the last week. By their position next to the desk, Ethan may not have seen them yet. They were CCTV footage from the night Pete Janson died. Anya switched on the television and inserted a DVD into the player. It was of the lobby. People came and went, and she saw the ambulance officers and police head for the lifts, accompanied by a staff member.
She watched people come out of the lift but couldn’t see anyone with a black dress and scarf. Then she saw her, sitting in the lobby working on a laptop. From the camera angle, and with her head down, all she could see was the scarf covering her hair.
Half an hour passed before the woman in the chair closed the computer and headed for the reception desk. It was difficult to see any view of her face. Replaying the tape made no difference. The woman was still anonymous. Only this time, she handed over a phone to the desk clerk.
Anya wondered why anyone would find a phone, then work for a while on a computer before handing it in.
Why hadn’t the woman given the phone to the concierge straightaway? Anya pulled her mobile from her bag and checked the outgoing calls. Nothing apart from ones she had made. Then she looked at the time on the tape and it was after she had checked with reception about whether her phone had been handed in. The desk clerk wasn’t the same one she had spoken to. Obviously, the clerk she had spoken to hadn’t passed on her query, which was why Ethan had been called. So there was a possibility this was her phone being handed in. What had this woman done to it?
The footage was a dead end, but the high school incident needed exploring. There had to be a connection between Keller’s death and Janson’s. It suddenly occurred to her that Ethan had planned to visit Lincoln High.
Maybe someone didn’t want him going and preferred him out of the way. She pushed the thought from her mind. It was most likely that Clark Garcia had bashed Ethan. He had threatened him and had motivation for the attack.
The question that plagued her was how he’d known where they were going to be.
T
he following morning, Anya woke, neck aching and head throbbing. She had spent hours going over the paperwork and CCTV footage in Ethan’s room. She checked her phone: no messages from Lyle Buffet.
The only thing to do was shower and dress; by 7.30 am, she was back in the intensive care ward. Lyle was still at Ethan’s bedside in a recliner chair, covered in a blue hospital-issue rug.
The old man seemed to have aged overnight. He woke when she entered and looked relieved to see her. Outside the private room, the day’s routine had begun with floor polishers and cleaners fussing around beds and machines.
She noticed immediately that Ethan had been weaned off the ventilator, a good sign.
‘Nurse said he’s beginning to stir. Doctors say he needs to stay in hospital to keep an eye on that haematoma. Any change for the worse, and he’ll lose that kidney. If he does as he’s told, he might just get away with keeping it.’
‘That’s positive news.’ She felt a cascade of relief.
He had not mentioned Ethan’s brain function.
‘Why don’t you sit with him while I take a break?’ He rose and passed Anya. She patted his arm gently and took the seat by the bed.
Half an hour later, Ethan’s eyelids flickered before staying open long enough to snatch glances of the room. Eventually, he managed to smile at her through his bruised and swollen face.
‘Sight for sore eyes,’ he mumbled.
He knew who she was, another good sign. She squeezed his hand and he drifted off again. His body needed time and all its energy to heal.
Buffet stood hunched in the doorway, watching.
‘Can we talk?’
Anya assumed it was about Ethan’s condition.
They walked into the waiting room and sat down on the lounge.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. Masterton and Kitty no longer want Catch working for the Bombers.’
Anya felt her blood pressure soar. ‘You’re firing him?’
Buffet looked even more weary. ‘I have no intention of firing him, but Masterton made it pretty clear he didn’t want Catcher – or you – being involved with the team’s business any further. I’ve never seen him so angry.’
Anya could barely believe the old man. ‘Angry about what? That some of his precious players are rapists, or is he worried his church will be sullied? Sacking Ethan won’t change that.’
Buffet sank into the cushion at his back. ‘Masterton doesn’t care if he’s shooting the messenger. He has Kitty’s support. I’m wondering if I have the energy to fight them.’
Anya could see that this was an ending for Buffet. His partners were uniting against him and the decisions he had made.
‘You have to understand that Janson was worth a lot of money to a number of people and his reputation was everything. Masterton, for all his faults, manages to do some good in the community. He feels a scandal like the one involving the Byrne woman could damage his charitable causes. Profits made from the team finances some of those ventures, like shelters for women and children. He helps underprivileged kids and gives work to people who most need it.’
Anya was not concerned for herself, but Ethan deserved
better. He had life-threatening injuries as a result of his connection with the team. If it wasn’t for the owners’ direction, he would never have been following Lance Alldridge. And discovering Garcia’s inability to read was part of what he had been asked to do – investigate Kirsten Byrne’s claims. Now the team owners were disavowing themselves of him. She immediately thought of Cheree Jordan firing Kirsten.
‘Masterton isn’t saving anyone but himself. He makes money on the backs of players who rape women and get away with it, but that’s supposed to be okay because he funds a shelter or two to make up for it. Talk about turning the other cheek when it suits him.’
‘The game is changing and I’m getting too old to take on new ways.’ Buffet’s face became more drawn as he stared into the distance. ‘This head injury of Janson’s. I ordered him to continue playing, as I have with so many other boys over the years. That’s something I have to live with.’
He was alarming her. ‘What are you really saying?’
There was an awkward silence and Anya wondered if he had heard her. After a few moments more, he spoke.
‘I’m thinking of selling my stake in the team before the season starts.’
That was it? No further explanation? The game meant everything to this man and he was potentially walking away from it.
Anya tried to digest what had just occurred. Ethan may have lost his job, she was heading back home and Buffet may no longer be involved with the Bombers. Ethan would be devastated when he found out.
Still stunned, she left Buffet on the lounge and headed back to Ethan’s bedside. A nurse checked the monitors and intravenous fluid lines.
‘You can make yourself coffee in the kitchen. I can come and get you if he wakes up. Sedation could knock him out for a while, and the seats in there are a lot more comfortable.’
The offer was tempting. She grabbed her laptop and handbag. Lyle Buffet had gone.
The nurse was right. The blue walls were welcoming and the lounge was much kinder to her back than the intensive care chairs.
On the coffee table lay the day’s papers.