She flicked through, barely registering the headlines. Sports coverage focused on Sunday’s pre-season exhibition game between the All-Stars and the Bombers. Capacity crowds were expected at the stadium.
The second, a tabloid, was full of celebrity gossip and seemingly defamatory articles. Then she saw it. A photo of her with something splattered on her jacket and chin, with the caption:
The woman brought in to clean up our football league, Doctor Anya Crichton.
She looked again. The picture was taken outside the court with Hannah, the day her case settled. The stains on her jacket and face were eggs.
Not averse to controversy, the so-called international expert on sexual assault has a reputation as a tough, unyielding man-hater. In a time when mothers are revered in society, this is one woman who could not even keep custody of her own child. Many are left wondering why.
Yet this crusader for women’s rights has an agenda. She did not come to clean up our prized league, she came to destroy it.
Anya felt her pulse gallop and her breath tighten. The bile continued.
At the insistence of Lyle Buffet, co-owner of the Bombers, she has spent valuable league money trying to dig up dirt on any of the players supposedly involved in a group sex incident. Team owners questioned her idea of informing players on health issues when she openly promoted promiscuity, oral and other types of sex.
Bentley Masterton, respected preacher and philanthropist, said he was disgusted that this foreigner was permitted to besmirch the good names of so many heroes of the game. He agreed that group
sex was not acceptable but conceded that consenting adults had the legal right to have sexual relations in private.In an exclusive interview, Masterton revealed that each of the players involved had expressed remorse and were now working through the issues with their families – only one was not so fortunate.
‘I believe that Pete Janson committed suicide as direct result of Doctor Crichton’s involvement,’ Masterton disclosed. It is understood she had been to his home and made accusations against him in the presence of his two young daughters.
Anya put the paper down, hands shaking. She felt the anger seethe through her every pore. Two photos of Kirsten Byrne also appeared, showing her before and after Cheree Jordan’s makeover. An acrid taste rose to Anya’s mouth.
Last night, this supposed paragon of virtue was involved in a brawl outside a well-known gay NY nightclub with her new buddy, ‘companion’ to Lyle Buffet, Ethan ‘Catcher’ Rye. It appears Rye began by showing Crichton the view from the Rockefeller Center, then the pair moved on to some of the city’s less salubrious sites.
God, how did anyone else know where they had been earlier that evening? It would have been difficult to follow them from taxis to the car in peak hour, and the street had been quiet as they waited for Lance Alldridge.
Suddenly Buffet’s losing interest in his beloved game made sense. He had already seen the papers and the implication that he was an old gay man with a young male lover. It also suggested she was a lesbian in some pathetic attempt to justify the accusation of man-hater and unfit mother. It said more about the reporter than about her, but most readers wouldn’t see that.
She needed to see what else had been written.
Something terrible must have happened to Anya Crichton as a child to spread such bile about men wherever she goes. Supposedly a
victim advocate, Crichton fails to accept that any of the women who accuse sports stars of rape could be lying. As every man knows, it’s easy for any woman to accuse a man of sexual assault.
The rest she scanned until the final paragraph.
In the few days she has been in our country, two of our most valued role models and players have died under tragic circumstances. Inside sources say that the heinous accusations she was inciting did irreparable harm to players and put unnecessary stress on them and their families. Perhaps Robert Keller fell victim to the pressure as well. So much for cleaning up the game.
True fans will be glad to see the back of Anya Crichton.
The author’s name stood out like fangs. Annabelle Reichman.
But how had she found out about last night? Ethan could not have told her – he had no reason to.
Anya shook the contents of her bag onto the table. It seemed crazy, but maybe someone slipped something inside, like a tracking device. She turned off her phone but it stayed lit for longer than normal, and she opened the back and took out the battery. Nothing seemed out of place. Ethan’s phone received the same treatment but its light shut down as soon as it was turned off.
Anya searched blogs about tracking devices on her computer. One couldn’t have been in the car because they’d only picked up the car after they’d been to the Rockefeller Center.
Think!
What if the Corolla had been followed from the restaurant? Was Clark Garcia involved in some way with Annabelle? Or was Ethan’s attacker another player who set Garcia up?
Anya continued to search the Internet.
When she found the answer, she sat still in disbelief. A site sold software that enabled someone at a distant location to listen in to every conversation a phone owner had. One of the signs was a phone continuing to stay lit after shutting it off.
What sort of sick mind devised the software, and why was
it so readily available? Reading on, it became clear that any of these programs could turn almost any phone into a listening device. More disturbing, it functioned whether the phone was switched off or not. The phone constantly transmitted and acted as a GPS tracking device.
A few minutes later she confirmed her phone had been tampered with. It was acting as a portable bugging device. She felt nauseated. Someone had been listening to every conversation that she had thought had been in confidence. The loving chats with Ben, discussions with Martin, and every word she and Ethan spoke. Nothing they had said – or done – was private.
It would explain how Ethan’s attacker found him last night. All they had to do was track the damn phone. But if they were tracking her phone, were they after her instead?
Someone had put the software on the phone. It had to be the woman in the black dress and sunglasses that she’d seen with the phone on the CCTV footage.
Whoever did it had fed stories to Annabelle Reichman. With confidential information, the reporter had then accessed Bentley Masterton for an exclusive interview. Was the mystery woman actually Annabelle? But her articles seemed so supportive of the players. Anya tried to recall what the prickly journalist looked like from her brief meeting with her in the locker room. She remembered blonde hair, but she couldn’t confidently identify the woman from the footage as Annabelle Reichman.
Following the website instructions, Anya located the source of the software on her phone. Her first thought was to delete the data and reload the factory settings, but then it would be obvious she had found it. Instead, if she left the phone by Ethan’s bedside, whoever placed it there would assume she was still at the hospital.
Anya grabbed her bag and headed for the airport.
A
nya arrived at the high school too late. Classes had finished for the day. A summer storm was in full swing. From a pay phone, she rang Linda Gatby’s number. The prosecutor was still in the office.
‘It’s Anya here. I’m in Chatham, Tennessee.’
‘Are you all right? I saw what that Reichman woman wrote, and heard about Ethan. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Not right now, but thank you. I’m looking into a possible connection between Peter Janson and Robert Keller. Ethan was investigating it and I have a feeling he was beaten to stop him coming here, to where they both went to high school.’
‘Anya, what you’re doing is crazy then. Let the police handle it.’ She could hear the anxiety in Linda’s voice.
‘It’s OK. I found a listening device in my phone and left it at the hospital. No one knows I’m here but you. If I don’t check back with you in a few hours, send out the troops. This may be important for Kirsten’s case.’
Before Linda could argue, Anya said she had to go and hung up.
The droplets of rain on the door multiplied as they raced downwards, joining forces on the way. Wind gusted through the phonebox, sending a chill through her. She pulled a pashmina
from her bag and draped it over her head. The main street had a post office, diner and bar, as well as a supermarket and specialty shops.
Thinking about the small community she had grown up in, Anya recalled that it was the postmistress who had always known everyone’s business. She hoped it was the same here.
The door jingled when she entered.
‘Storm’s gonna get mighty fierce before it passes.’ The older woman barely glanced up from her crossword. Glasses hung around her neck on a purple plastic chain. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
There was no one else behind the desk, and no one in line.
‘I know this is a little odd, but I was wondering if you could help me with an enquiry.’
‘Don’t s’pose you can think of an eight-letter word for “unsettled”. It starts with an R and second last letter is an S.’
‘Restless?’ Anya suggested.
The woman filled in the squares. ‘Been looking at that for the last hour. Restless. I’ll be damned.’ The woman sized her up and down, this time with the benefit of the glasses. ‘You’re not from around here?’
‘No, I’m actually trying to find out about something that happened several years ago at the high school. As far as I know, it involved two students named Peter Janson and Robert Keller.’
‘Why, are you a reporter?’
Anya shook her wet hair. ‘No, a physician, actually.’
The woman closed the newspaper. ‘Terrible business that, it was like those three were cursed. I remember they were such sweet boys and such talented athletes. The Jansons moved especially from Arkansas for their son’s career.’
‘Three?’ Anya wondered if they were talking about the same case.
‘Poor Nelson Short, rest his soul, was the first to go. Was a time when he, Pete and Robbie were inseparable. Whole town would turn out to see them play.’
Anya listened. Three team mates were all dead.
‘That’s terrible. When did Nelson pass away?’
The woman looked to the corner. ‘Years ago now. He’s long gone, don’t think he was more than eighteen at the time.’ She leant over the counter to speak more privately. ‘I blame the girl. She was a handful to her parents, as if they didn’t have enough to worry about. From what I hear, she started it by flirting with another boy, knowing Nelson would get jealous. The lug couldn’t control his temper. Next thing, Nelson took a punch, hit the ground and that was it. Police said his skull must have been thinner than normal, or it must have been a freak punch.’
‘At eighteen? That’s a terrible loss.’ Anya tried to sound sympathetic, given this woman had praised the three. ‘Who hit him?’ This could have been the incident involving Keller and Janson.
‘Some boy from the next county. He spent some time in jail and who knows where he is now.’
Rain pelted against the roof and shop front. ‘You might want to sit out the storm in here.’
Anya got the impression the post office was never particularly busy.
‘What about the girl?’ she asked.
‘She’s long gone now, was too good for this town. Her mother still lives on Holy Oak, couple of blocks back, one over.’ The woman seemed to stretch her memory as she pointed directions. ‘Lisa. That was her name. Lisa Fowler. Some say she did it on purpose because of a rumour someone started.’
‘What sort of rumour?’
‘Some say Pete, Robbie and Nelson were horsing around with her sister. Others say the girl lured them to the bleachers one night.’ She opened the paper at the crossword and searched for more clues.
‘May I borrow your phone book?’ Anya asked.
The woman flopped the thin publication onto the desk. It was attached via a thick cord. ‘That storm’s already turned nasty. What’s an eight-letter word for determination, starts with a T, ends in Y?’
Anya wrote down the address for Fowler, and the Short family just in case.
‘Thank you so much, ma’am, and try “tenacity”,’ she added before jingling the door on her way out.
The rain had set into a heavy fall.
She ran across the road to the diner, sidestepping puddles on the way. An older woman waited tables.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked. It was too early for the evening rush, and too late for lunch.
Anya chose a seat at the counter and took a menu from her.
‘You look like you could do with something to warm you up.’
‘Coffee would be great, and a piece of your chocolate cake, thanks.’
‘Where you from?’ The woman reached beneath the counter and pulled out a mug, which was then filled with warm coffee.
From under a cake lid, she produced a slice that could have fed four people.
‘Australia.’
‘Saw a show about the Barrier Reef on the Discovery Channel. Most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’
Anya was impressed and felt more at ease. The speakers played Frank Sinatra. ‘Music keeps the teenagers out,’ the woman said proudly.
It was hardly surprising. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Only thirty years.’
Anya decided to ask the woman while no one else was in the diner. ‘I don’t suppose you remember about ten years ago, a supposed incident involving three high school boys. Pete Janson, Robert Keller and Nelson Short?’
The woman nodded. ‘I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. People around here seem to think those boys are heroes.’ She leant on the counter. ‘These are the same ones who still call the Civil War an act of northern aggression.’
The comment was a little offputting and suggested inherent parochialism. The locals probably wouldn’t appreciate a
foreigner asking too many questions. She decided to find out as much as possible from the waitress.