ONE CUP (Part 35 *The End)

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149

Sheriff Mike Bridges

 It was a long night. Killer tornadoes, and a dozen or so traffic accidents reported throughout the county, one fatal, and a dog mauling, for starters. Add to that all this business with the ball players and the drama they brought with them, and it would have been more than enough. The real kicker was the disappearance of his own niece, but he needed to put her in the back corner of his mind for now.

The sheriff sat in the infirmary of the Air National Guard armory, where Whitney Ross was being stitched up by one of the local guard’ surgeons. The armory was being used as a temporary shelter and medical first aid station. Sheriff Bridges used his influence to persuade the surgeon to officially record Whitney’s gunshot wound as a puncture wound from falling debris. When you’ve been sheriff as long as he, you know a lot of people. You know a lot about them, and their families. The flight surgeon happened to have a drinking problem, combined with a short fuse and a wife he took it out on. Although advising the wife to leave her husband, Bridges kept the doctor out of the slammer a time or two, and he was only too glad to repay the sheriff’s kindness.

Leon, Larry Brown’s cousin and employee, was having his broken leg set. He was lucky the Prescott woman’s aim wasn’t so good.

Another fellow, named Taylor, had a serious injury to one of his eyes. Might lose it. Tornadoes are bad news.

Wallace Jackson, the billionaire owner of the Indianapolis Bobcats pulled Sheriff Bridges aside for a briefing on what had happened.

Basically, two of Jackson’s players, Mike Prescott and Lou Brannigan were dead. Prescott was killed in the tornado, and Brannigan mauled by dogs. They’d been involved in some sort of kidnap and murder plot, but details were sketchy. Prescott’s wife, Kayla, was the mastermind, it seemed, but she’d gone missing, along with the two women who were cohabitating with Larry Brown, one of the pillars of our community. A third player, the one named Garrett, was briefly taken into custody based on the request by Indy PD. With the surfacing of Whitney Ross, Garrett was released.

“Have you filed any sort of official report, Sheriff Bridges?” Mr. Jackson said.

“No sir, not yet.”

“Perhaps the facts are not as they seem. Would you be willing to concede that?”

Sheriff Bridges sensed where this was going. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Never a good idea to jump to conclusions,” he replied.

The two men talked for another twenty minutes, exchanging ideas, and theories of what might have actually occurred.

150

Ray Garrett

Whitney and the big man from the junk yard were patched up at the Guard armory. Whitney, her daughter Rylee, their friend Jackie, and I were all told to wait in one corner, closed off by a drape, much like you would see in a hospital room. The sheriff who saved me from the dogs, only to arrest and later release me, came to us. Jackie asked him, “How’s Nick?”

“The guy with the eye injury?”

Jackie nodded. “I’ve been looking for him. No one has seen him.”

“They took him straight to the hospital,” the sheriff said. “They think they can maybe save his eye.”

 “Thank you.” Jackie nodded, bit her lower lip.

“Okay folks,” the sheriff said to us, motioning us all to gather around him “We need to have a little chat.” He pulled up a folding chair, turned around, and took a seat and placing his hands on the back of the chair. “Miss Ross. You were kidnapped, threatened, assaulted, and shot. You have the right to file charges.”

“You’re damned right I do!” Whitney said.

“However,” the sheriff held up a finger, as if to make a point. “It seems you were also involved in a blackmail scheme. As were you, Miss Thorpe.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Jackie stood up, hands on her hips.

The sheriff cocked his head and said, “The easy way for us to do this is for me to talk without interruption right here. The hard way is for me to arrest you and talk to you in an interrogation room. What’s your preference?”

Jackie said nothing, sat back down.

“Thank you,” the sheriff said. “Now, there are two dead people who were involved in your kidnapping. Nothing you say will allow you to serve justice on them.

“The other person, Kayla Prescott, is on the run. She’ll be facing felony murder charges in Louisiana if she shows up again. In the meantime, while she is on the run, she won’t be able to collect any of her inheritance or life insurance. So, you tell me if my filing kidnapping charges is going to make any difference.

“After careful consideration–and I will need assurances from each of you that you agree one hundred percent—here is what I think happened.

“Mike Prescott and Lou Brannigan were both killed in the tornado. I’m certain it will be so noted in the autopsies. You were here on your of free will, Miss Ross. The missing person report was all a misunderstanding.

“If you decide to file kidnapping charges, your friend Leon will go to prison for a very long time.”

“What about Larry?” Whitney said. “He’s pure evil.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” the sheriff said. “But I’m keeping an eye on him. He’s doing something illegal, it’s only a matter of time. Bottom line, you want to put Larry away, Leon will go, too.”

“This just doesn’t seem right,” Whitney said.

“And it’s not, when you get down to it,” Sheriff Bridges agreed. “Which is why an anonymous benefactor wants to make certain you are all provided some financial assistance, just to help you get on your feet.”

“Who?” Jackie said.

“What part of anonymous don’t you understand?”

“How much?” Whitney said.

“Half a million for you,” said Bridges. “Half a mill for Miss Thorpe.” He turned to me. “Hundred grand for you. Sorry.”

“How do we know this isn’t some sort of a scam?” Jackie said.

“Yeah!” Whitney chimed in.

“The money is in my cruiser. You can count it. Then I need to get busy. I’ve got a niece I need to go find.”

And that’s how things were. Facts are changed. People go on with their lives. Somewhere along the way, you hope you did something right. I can’t speak for Jackie or Whitney, but I didn’t waste any time worrying about it.

151

Ray Garrett

By now you know I didn’t get back to the ballpark in time for the last game of the season. My one and only claim to fame, if it can be called that, is I joined the ranks of the phantom players—guys with names like Ed Kurpiel, Ike Futch, and Harry Saferight—that few dozen who made a major league roster but never played. Like them, I never got my one cup of coffee in the bigs. It seemed so important to me then. So insignificant now.

My Cessna, the airplane I learned to fly in and hoped to have many an adventure in, was destroyed when the tornadoes ripped through the field where I landed. You could say I didn’t accomplish anything by flying over to attempt to save Whitney, and I guess you’d be right. I didn’t rescue her, or anyone else. I learned a little about myself, though. I learned that I was willing to put my life on the line. And I learned that sometimes, it’s out of your hands, no matter how hard you try.

There was a moment of silence before the beginning of the first game of the playoffs, honoring and remembering Mike Prescott and Lou Brannigan. Each of the Indianapolis Bobcats players wore a black armband on the sleeves of their uniforms.

Like most of you, I watched it on television. Rumors were already circulating, but the story being spun by the league and team officials was that both men were killed in the tornado while attempting to rescue a little girl who’d gone missing. Kayla Prescott was said to be mourning in private and could not be reached for comment. That part was true. No one knew where she was.

The game, the entire series, reflected the mood of the Bobcats, who were stunned by the loss of their teammates. Perry McGuire pitched a two-hit shutout for the Yankees, supported by seven runs posted by his teammates in Game One. It didn’t get any better for the Bobcats. They were swept in the American League divisional playoff series by New York, who went on to win the ALCS, only to lose to the Milwaukee Brewers in the World Series.

I went back to Illinois for a while, but it didn’t work out. I spent a lot of time training at the local airport over the winter, adding a flight instructor rating to my flying credentials.

And I stayed in touch with Whitney, who, believe it or not, moved to Tallahassee. She’s working for a photography studio there. I drove down for a weekend visit, and while there, got hired as an instructor at a flight school. I’ve rented an apartment not far from hers.

It turned out Jackie was Bobby Ogden’s sister. She’d moved to Indianapolis, following the Prescotts, intent on avenging her brother’s death. How Jackie was able to manipulate herself into a position to do so, I still don’t understand, but the point is, she did it. She took them down. Not quite the way she planned, though.

Jackie moved away from Indy, along with Nick Taylor, the private investigator who helped her set up the whole blackmail sting.

No family came forward to claim Lou Brannigan’s remains. No funeral. Nothing. Nobody seemed to care. His ashes, along with those of Mike Prescott, were scattered over the stadium, or so I heard.

There was some speculation that Jackie and Whitney could face prosecution, but nothing ever came of it. Whitney hadn’t technically done anything illegal. No sex for money, and she wasn’t involved in a blackmail scheme. She lawyered up, and refused to testify against Jackie, so it all went away.

Kayla was the one who’d tried to have Ian eliminated. Mike Prescott had nothing to do with it. He died without even knowing. Ian had gone all those years torturing himself, believing he was the cause of his friend’s death. His playing career ended when he retired soon after the Bobcats were eliminated in the playoffs. During the off season Ian was hired as a pitching coach for the Chicago Cubs, who are looking pretty good this year.

Ian called me a couple days ago. “G’day, mate,” he said when I answered. “How’s life on the farm?”

“I’m not there,” I said. “Living in Tallahassee now.”

“What’s in Tallahassee?”

“Whitney,” I said. “And Rylee.”

“Ah. Good on ya.” There was a moment of hesitation. “You workin’, mate?”

I told him about my job as a flight instructor. “I’m enjoying it,” I said, “Learning a lot by teaching. Building up my flight time so I can go on to bigger and better things someday.”

“Ever miss the game, Ray?”

“Every day, Ian,” I said. “Every day.”

“Well, you know I’m a pitching coach now, with the Cubs.”

“I heard. How you liking it?”

“Lovin’ it, mate,” he said. “Reason I called, we need a bullpen catcher. I thought of you straight away. Pay’s good. All the perks. Great hotels. Job’s yours, if you want it.”

“Rylee thinks I’m cool, Ian,” I said. “And I love her. I even bought her a puppy. Her mom protested, but not too much. She named it Snowflake Junior. I hope Whitney agrees to the three of us becoming a family. I’m gonna pop the question this weekend. If she says yes, I’ll be a family man, and I won’t want to be travelling.”

“Understood,” Ian said. “Thing is, I need an answer today. I could probably put them off another twenty-four hours. Beyond that, no promises. Any chance you could ask her today? Her answer might affect your decision.”

“I still have to say no thanks on the job offer,” I said. “If Whitney isn’t ready, I’ll stick around. Try to change her mind. It’s like all my life, I’ve been looking for her.” I remembered how she first appeared to me in my dream at the rest stop. “Thanks for thinking of me, Ian.”

“No worries,” he said. “And, Ray . . . I’m truly sorry. I let you down, mate. Another shadow to follow me around now.”

“Like you just now said, Ian. No worries. I forgive you, and if Bobby Ogden were here, he’d forgive you, too. Do us all a favor and forgive yourself.”

After we ended the call, I sat there, thinking about how much my life had changed in such a short time. About what really matters. Family. Friends. Puppies. Whitney told me recently she still considers Jackie her friend. I’m not so sure. When I expressed my thoughts on the subject, Whitney reminded me Ian had at one point turned against me, yet he and I remained friends. I guess it’s up to each of us to decide who to forgive and what to forget.

One other thing worth mentioning.  Whitney’s middle name is Nicole.