Big Leagues (36 page)

Cat took a step farther. She reached into the
pocket of her dress and clasped the cylinder of the syringe. “I
think I know all I need to about the company policies.” She took a
shaky step nearer the door. “Get out of my way. I’m
leaving.”

Otis broadened his stance, his large frame now
filling the doorway both vertically and horizontally. “You ain’t
going nowhere. Sit your little ass down.” He lightly pushed her
shoulder back with his unarmed hand.

Her hand clenched around the barrel of the
syringe. She ripped the tube out of the knit pocket and brought her
arm up. Before Otis could react, she jammed the sharp needle into
the corner of his left eye. The needle sank into the gooey pit with
a sickening slurp.

Cat screamed and recoiled at the sight of his
punctured eye, which was spurting blood and soaking the front of
his white shirt red. Otis staggered backwards and let out the howl
of a tortured animal, his agonized cry mingling with her own
shrieks. He pulled out the syringe and flung it against the wall as
she gave the wrist of his gun hand a chop, loosening his grip. The
weapon hit the floor with a thump. As Otis stumbled back, Cat
seized the moment to slither past his hunkered body.

“Oh no ya don’t, you little bitch.”

Holding his mangled eye with one hand, Otis
grabbed her arm with his other and yanked a hold of her jacket.
Like a wide receiver juking away from a defender, Cat twisted her
way out of the sleeves and left the coat in Otis’ arms. The loss of
tension caused him to fall back. She ran for the reception area,
feet vibrating against the floor and knees wobbling like Jell-O.
She looked behind her to see if he followed. She’d seen him hobble
to his feet, hand still clamped over his eye. He didn’t appear to
be on the chase. Turning her head back, Cat increased her speed.
The stairs were in sight now. As she rounded the corner of a
cubicle, she slammed straight into another body.

She staggered backwards and opened her eyes.
The room was shrouded in a fuzzy haze. Her eyes regained their
focus just in time to register the presence of Erich König as he
whipped his arm up and smacked the back of his hand across her
forehead.

The jolt snapped her head back. Something—his
signet ring?—had ripped into her brow bone. Tears sprang into her
eyes. Erich’s shove sent her backwards, where she was caught up in
the bulky arms of Otis and held firmly by the shoulders. She kicked
the heels of her boots against the floor, scrambling for purchase
as he dragged her back toward her office. His grip yanked at her
hair with every step as they passed each desk in the fourth floor
bullpen. Once they reached her office, he tossed her toward her
desk chair. Her back hit the armrest first and she flinched in pain
before sliding down into the leather seat with a painful
plunk.

Otis pointed a bloodied finger in her face.
“Stay down!”

Cat was choking on bile as the room filled with
the scent of sweat and blood. Erich’s powerful form filled the
office doorway. He was twisting his neck around like a slugger in
the on-deck circle loosening up for a power swing. Despite the
skirmish seconds earlier, Erich’s attire was only slightly mussed.
He nevertheless straightened his tie and smoothed the sleeves on
his suit. Otis’ crimson hand covered his gory socket, and his
remaining good eye glared at her.

“I told ya we shoulda let the mugger finish the
bitch, Boss.”

“Halt die Schnauze!
” Erich whipped
around to Otis, eyes afire. “Shut up! You will speak when you are
ordered to speak.” Cat could barely understand his orders due to a
thick, seldom heard accent. Otis nodded obediently.

Erich approached her desk, tossed her prized
Ron Santo frame behind him to make room, and sat in his usual spot
on the oak surface. The card hit the ground and the glass
shattered. A twinge of anger cut through Cat’s pain and fear. Her
eyes shot to the shard-covered card, and its significance surged
through her.

The night she received the memento had been one
of the coldest Januarys on record for the Windy City. Ailsa
McDaniel had bought two sets of two tickets, one for a round trip
to Metra and the other for the annual event. They’d bundled up in
parkas, scarves, hats and mittens to wait outside the hotel, and
she’d stood in line at the fan convention for four hours in hopes
of meeting the baseball legend. The line had been too long, so the
booths had closed before she even reached the table. Her
grandmother had led her back out into the bitter chill, promising
her crestfallen granddaughter they’d get to the convention earlier
next year. They were almost to the train station when the beloved
player had flagged them down. Cat knew he couldn’t have done that
for every kid who waited in his line; perhaps he’d noticed the
tears streaming from her sad eyes—eyes that had already shed too
many over the past thirteen years. “Oh, you save that card, little
lady,” he’d said. “I’ve got another one just for you.” The towering
hero pulled a card from his jacket pocket and added an autograph.
“
To the best Cat to ever cross my path.
” He’d swirled his
signature before placing the card in her awestruck palm, and it was
on that January evening so many years ago Cat decided she’d do
whatever it took to make baseball her life. The rare rookie card
could have fetched enough money for a semester of journalism school
if auctioned on the memorabilia market. Instead, Cat kept her
treasure on her nightstand all through college. She’d waded through
shrimp veins every night but had fallen asleep to this precious
reminder of her ambitions.

Cat’s gaze left the card and settled on
Erich.

Interlocking his fingers and placing them
quaintly on his lap, Erich said, “You are a vexing individual.” His
accent had gone into hiding again. “I am at a loss as to what I
should do with you.”

Somehow Cat was able to summon an air of false
confidence. “Hmm. Maybe you could go to your secret lab and cook up
a homemade prescription for me, too.”

She shifted her eyes back and forth between the
icy demeanor of Erich and Otis’ sullen stare, noting that the
bloodied gun had returned to the guard’s meaty paw. Cat refused to
cower. She braced her shoulders and ignored the stabbing pain that
jolted down her back.

Erich’s soothing delivery rivaled a Vin Scully
broadcast: “I must admit. I am astonished. Why, Mr. Derhoff had
these walls decorated with an Ivy League diploma and years of
writing commendations. Nonetheless, he did not get beyond a few
meddlesome inquiries. However, when I elevate the kewpie doll from
Little League, she places my entire organization in jeopardy within
a matter of weeks. I did not give you enough credit.”

His mouth curled into a thin smile, reminding
her of a dog about to turn on its owner.

Except this is the other way around.

Cat felt another shudder coming on.

“Sadly, your cunningness does not extend far
enough. Let me impart some wisdom to you, Catriona. I took you from
meaningless box scores and gave you a sportswriter’s paradise, the
opportunity to cover a championship team for millions of fans. But
you, you … Otis, what am I looking for here?”

Otis shook his head. The blood was beginning to
coagulate around his swollen eye in hard, dry clumps. “Uh … I don’t
know, Boss.”

Erich snapped his fingers. “Ah yes.
Einem
geschenkten Gaul schaut man nicht ins Maul
. Do you know what
that means?”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Her
translation was barely audible.

Erich stomped his foot on the carpet and threw
up his hands in Otis’ direction. “Now, see, that is exactly what
makes this entire matter so heartrending. I really do fancy you,
Catriona. Do you know I have had Mr. Snow in my pocket for the last
six years and the only German he speaks is
der
Wienerschnitzel
?”

Sprawling over her desk so that they remained
eye-to-eye, he went on, “While Mr. Snow may not speak German, he
did get one important concept through his thick head:
Beiß nicht
die Hand, die dich füttert
.” He turned to Otis and translated,
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Cat’s eyes flashed. “Does that hand feed him a
designer stimulant, too … or is that only for your on-field
employees?”

Erich’s facial muscles tightened, making him
appear much older than his rumored early forties. “My, my, my. We
have been diligent. I do not recall your résumé including
credentials in chemistry.”

“What can I say?” she improvised. “Everyone
needs a hobby, right?”

“I really wish you had not told me that,
Catriona. You have entirely eliminated the option of negotiation.”
He hung his head. “Otis?”

Otis’ sole eye blazed with blood
lust.

Cat’s heart jumped to her throat at its gleam.
“Are you gonna k-kill me?”

Erich looked back at Otis and gave him a
one-shouldered shrug. “I know. It is lacking in originality. For
all your keen work, you really do deserve a more poetic demise. I
am afraid we cannot spare the time.”

Her eyes from Erich to Otis and back again.
“You won’t get away with this. I’ve already alerted the
commissioner.”

“Ah, that is correct. I appreciate the
reminder.” Erich reached over the desk and punched the speakerphone
on her cell phone, followed by the send button. He tapped his
fingers on the desk while he waited for the extension prompt. Four
rings sounded and the recording picked up. Cat watched with a
sickening disgust as his skinny finger struck the pound sign,
followed by a four digits.

“One, eight, seventy-two.” He tilted his head
at her and added, “His wife’s birthday. Lovely woman. Great cook.
Not a scholar, however. Of course, sometimes a mind can get one in
trouble.”

The cell phone blared the messages through the
silent office, finally coming to hers after a jarring
beep.

“Hi um, th-this is Catriona McDaniel, the
senior r-reporter—”

Erich winked at her. He hit another
button.

“Message deleted.”

Cat’s heart sank with the robotic operator’s
confirmation.

He grinned. “Ah, technology.” He threw the cell
phone behind him, and it hit the carpet with a soft thump. Erich
wiped his palms against each other with loud smacks.

“See? Away with it.”

“W-well …” Cat scoured her mind for something
to say. When a starting pitcher found himself out of juice and down
in the count, his last resort was to stall. Meetings on the mound,
throwing over to first base, faking an injury, all tactics to give
the bullpen time to warm up.

Benji.

Her own relief man. Benji was still waiting for
her, probably perusing the sports websites for the alleged trade
news. He’d be worried when he didn’t find anything. Maybe it
wouldn’t be too late for her.

“Brad Derhoff. You killed him.”

Erich chuckled. “Ah yes, in the American action
film, this is the denouement where I am expected to divulge
die
Leiche im Keller
.” He made a condescending tsk-tsk with this
tongue. “Again, Catriona, we are on a tight schedule. Those
skeletons will remain in the closet.”

“So what, you’re just gonna shoot me right
here?”

Erich adopted a look of surprise. “No, of
course not!”

Cat watched him warily.

“I would never shoot you.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

“Otis will.”

She flashed over to a grinning Otis. His finger
rubbed the trigger of the gun.

“Then he will dispose of your corpse in the
desert.” Erich paused to consider it. “When you do not arrive at
work for a few days, I will be immensely concerned and phone the
police.”

A lone tear spilled down her cheek.

“After we show them your excessive hours, the
late nights, the mugging, we will sadly arrive at the conclusion
you simply could not handle the demands of this position. You must
have run away. Maybe back to Porterville, perhaps Chicago.” Erich
tilted his head thoughtfully. “I will regret the loss, of course,
and in retrospect I will deduce I am to blame, for I should not
have taken a gamble on someone as inexperienced and unqualified as
the young Catriona McDaniel.”

Erich was so occupied with bragging about his
plan that he didn’t notice Cat’s tears had dried, and that both she
and Otis were now focused on the fourth person to join the late
night conference.

Dustin Carlyle closed his eyes and took a deep
breath, but the unchanged scene was still there when he reopened
them. Otis Snow was the first to draw his attention. It was
impossible to miss the menacing guard, with his bloody left eye and
crimson-soaked uniform. Otis had been Erich’s right-hand man for as
long as Dustin had worked at Hohenschwangau. He didn’t know much
about the guard, but since Dustin’s first day as junior reporter,
he’d had a feeling Otis was the kind of guy who’d be more at home
in a prison yard than a baseball park. Eying the guard’s bloody
hands wrapped around a handgun, he felt fully
vindicated.

Dustin then shifted his gaze to Catriona. She
was trembling in her desk chair, and her green eyes pleaded with
him for aid. He was too overwhelmed by confusion to scoff at the
irony of the situation. He had spent every waking hour plotting the
demise of her career, and now here the senior reporter sat, begging
him to be her savior.