Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder (2 page)

R
hodes was delayed on his way to the grandstand, however, but the sight of two men standing near the fence that surrounded the stadium.  They were at the far north end, and with the lights directed at the field and away from the parking lot, they were almost hidden in the gathering darkness.

Rhodes recognized one of them anyway:  Hayes Ford, a short, sharp-featured, mousy man who was Clearview’s leading gambler, not that anything had ever been proved against him. 

Everyone knew that Ford took bets on the Friday night games, but no one had ever been able to catch him at it.  One year Rhodes had even brought in an undercover officer from a neighboring county, and he had attempted to place a bet with Ford.  But the rodential gambler had seemed somehow to sense the presence of law and had refused to take the proffered money.  In fact, he had pretended to have no idea of what the officer was suggesting, as if he were shocked — shocked! — to hear that someone might actually be placing wagers on a sporting contest.

Rhodes thought about that episode as he started toward the men, who were now in close conversation.  If a bet was being discussed right now, maybe there would be money exchanged.  And if there was, maybe Rhodes would see it.

He should have known better.  He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Ford looked up and glanced in the sheriff’s direction.  As soon as he saw who was coming toward him, he said something to the other man, who immediately walked away in the direction of the high fence that surrounded the field.  When he got to the fence, he turned in the direction of the end zone, though Rhodes didn’t think he would be admitted to the field through that entrance.

The man was considerably taller than Ford, probably well over six feet, but that was all Rhodes could tell about him.  He couldn’t see the man’s face.

Rhodes didn’t see any use in going after him.  He would probably go on around to the other side of the field and enter the stands on the other side, mingling with the crowd before the sheriff could get to him.  So Rhodes kept on walking toward Ford, who stood waiting patiently, his hands in the pockets of a dark-colored windbreaker.

When Rhodes got a little closer, he could see that the jacket was blue trimmed in gold, and he knew that on the back there would be a gold bobcat head surrounded by gold letters spelling out “Clearview Catamounts.”  One thing you had to give Ford credit for.  He had school spirit.

“Who’s your money on?” Rhodes asked just as the Garton band struck up the school song.  The notes were muffled by the grandstand between the bands and the parking lot.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sheriff,” Ford said, ducking his head and brushing at his pointy little nose.  “That’s a kind of insulting question to ask a fella.  I don’t put my money on anybody.  I’m just a fan like you.”

“Sure you are,” Rhodes said.  “Who was that you were just talking to?”

Ford looked around.  “Talking to?  There’s nobody around here to talk to.”

“You know what I mean, Ford.”

Ford ducked his head again.  “Oh, you must be talking about that fella that was here before you walked up.  Just a friend, Sheriff.  Nobody you’d know.”

Rhodes didn’t push it.  He knew it wouldn’t do any good.  “Why don’t we go in to the game?” he asked.

Ford was about to answer, but there was a huge cheer from the stands as the Greyhound band finished playing.

“We better just stand here,” Ford said as the cheering died down and the strains of the Clearview alma mater drifted into the night air.  “Wouldn’t be respectful to walk while the school song’s being played.”

Rhodes didn’t see it that way.  He left Ford, who was singing the Clearview school song in a ragged baritone, and started toward the main gate.

I
vy wasn’t at the gate when Rhodes got there.  She had gone on into the stadium.  Rhodes got to his seat just in time for the “Star Spangled Banner,” which he sang along to, though he had never been able to hit the high notes.

“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Ivy said as cheers erupted around them.

They sat down on the hard wooden bench.  Most of the people around them were still standing, yelling loudly and waving Catamount pennants.  The cheerleaders were on the other side of the field, bouncing around in front of the student section of the bleachers, but that didn’t affect the crowd’s enthusiasm.

“I wouldn’t miss the kick-off,” Rhodes said.

The teams ran on the field and the Greyhound kicker set down the tee.

Rhodes gave a satisfied nod.  “We’re receiving.”

Ivy smiled at him.  “Are you thinking about ‘Will-o’-the-wisp Dan Rhodes’ again?”

“I never think about that guy,” Rhodes told her.

But that wasn’t true.  He did.

Probably everyone who had ever played football had memories of at least one special game, and the one Rhodes recalled was the first of his junior year, in fact his very first varsity game.  It was also his last varsity game, his last game of any kind, but that was beside the point.

The point was that in those days, Rhodes had been slim and fast, neither of which he was now, and he had been the Clearview Catamounts’ kick return man.

He remembered every single thing about the opening kick-off of that first game:  the way the ball sounded when the kicker’s foot struck it, the way the ball turned over in the lights as it arced toward him, and the way the ball stung his hands and nearly knocked him down when he caught it.  People who’ve never taken in a kick-off have no idea how hard the ball hits when it comes down.

In spite of the force with which the ball struck him, Rhodes caught it cleanly and started straight up the field.  From the stands the field might look cluttered up with players, but down on the grass it wasn’t like that at all.  Twenty-two teenagers don’t take up a lot of room, and a football field is a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide, five thousand square yards when you figure it up.  There can be a lot of gaps between teenagers, and Rhodes found every one of them.  He zigged and he zagged, he hip-faked and dodged, and suddenly he was in the open, running for his life.

No one caught him until the instant he crossed the goal line, when two players crashed into him from behind.  He’d been fast, but there were others who were faster.  They hadn’t kept him from scoring, though.

Rhodes was so elated by the touchdown that he didn’t even feel his leg break.  He hadn’t even known it was broken until he tried to stand up and found that he couldn’t do it.  The trainer and the assistant coach had finally strapped him to a stretcher and carried him off the field.

The story in the newspaper the next day referred to him as “Will-o’-the-wisp Dan Rhodes” and called him the hero of the game, which the newspaper called a “defensive struggle.”  Clearview had won by a score of only six to nothing because in the excitement of the kick return followed by the injury the Clearview kicker had missed the extra point.

Rhodes’ broken leg kept him out of the rest of the games that year, which was just as well, since the six to nothing win was also the last Clearview victory for a long time.  In fact, the team lost several games by more than fifty points.  Rhodes liked to think that the team would have won more had he been playing, but he knew he was only kidding himself.  Even a will-o’-the-wisp couldn’t make that much difference.

The next year, though Rhodes’ leg had healed completely, he had lost most of his speed.  He tried out for the team again, but the coach told him that there really wasn’t any place for him.  He was too small to play in the line and too slow to play in the backfield, either offense or defense. 

So he had gotten a job after school and determined not to worry about football, but of course he’d never forgotten about being the will-o’-the-wisp, though just about everyone else had.  Ivy liked to twit him about it now and then, but no one else ever mentioned it, which Rhodes supposed was just as well. 

He wouldn’t want to be like some of the men he could see from where he sat, Jerry Tabor for one, who still wore his fraying, thirty-year-old Clearview letter jacket and stood as near the sidelines as he could as if hoping that someone would remember when he was one of the best running backs in the district instead of a not-very-successful used-car salesman for Del-Ray Chevrolet.  These days, Tabor seemed to feel that he somehow shared in the team’s glory, and maybe he did.  The team’s success reminded people vaguely of Tabor’s glory days, and he’d been interviewed by the newspaper and invited to speak at several pep rallies.

The Clearview kick receiver this year wasn’t as fast or as tricky as Rhodes had been.  He got only about ten yards before being swarmed by Garton Greyhounds.

“Want some popcorn?” Rhodes asked Ivy.

“Only if there’s no butter on it,” she said.

Rhodes sighed, but he went to get the popcorn.

Chapter Two

T
he game wasn’t as satisfying as Rhodes had hoped.  Both teams were so intense that a fight broke out practically every time there was a hard tackle.  Nothing serious, nothing that required the ejection of a player, but tempers were high and Rhodes was afraid that it wouldn’t take much to set off a real melee.

He was right.  Late in the third quarter, with the score tied at twenty-one, the Garton punt returner broke free from the pack at the thirty and sprinted down the far sideline.  A Catamount player had an angle on him, however, and caught up with him at about the fifty.  He barreled into him, sending him flying into the Greyhound bench.

Rhodes wasn’t sure, but it looked to him as if the runner might have stepped out of bounds just before getting hit.

Unlike Rhodes, the Garton bench
was
sure.  The Catamount tackler disappeared under a pile of red and white jerseys.

The Catamount bench cleared in an instant as players charged to help out their teammate.  The entire Catamount squad, including the trainers, tore across the field toward the heaving pile of Greyhounds.  The coaches were right behind the team.  Rhodes hoped they were trying to calm things down, but it was hard to tell.

The Greyhound coaches were trying to drag players off the pile, or so it seemed.  Later, Rhodes wondered if they might not have been encouraging them.

Jerry Tabor, his frayed letter jacket flapping, clambered over the fence that separated the field from the stands and started after the coaches.  Rhodes could see his mouth working, but he could not hear what he was yelling because of the crowd noise.

“Uh-oh,” Ivy said, but Rhodes was already on his way out of the stands.

C
rossing the field, Rhodes was surprised at how little certain things had changed in all the years since he’d played football.  The browning grass crunched under his feet, the sound of the crowd was still a dull roar, and the noise that really stood out was the thudding of pads and helmets.  It was too bad that the thudding was taking place in a fight instead of in the course of a game.

Ruth Grady, one of Rhodes’ deputies, was already in the middle of things when Rhodes arrived.  She was short and stocky and well able to take care of herself in most situations.  She had shouldered her way into the middle of the fighting that was breaking out along the sidelines and was trying to get to the pile that still writhed in front of the Greyhound bench.

The situation bordered on bedlam.  Players were screaming things about each other’s lineage and mental capacities as they tried to punch each other out.  It wasn’t easy to punch out someone wearing a football helmet, but there was some damage being done to players who hadn’t had the presence of mind to put their headgear on.  Most of the damage was inflicted by players who also had their helmets off but who were swinging them at other unprotected heads.

The officials were trying vainly to separate the brawling players, but they were having no success at all.  In fact, one of them was sitting on the grass with a dazed look on his face as if he might have been clobbered by a helmet.

The Clearview coaches had managed to grab a few of their players and muscle them away from the main part of the fighting, but the players were still struggling, trying to get back to the fray.

Jerry Tabor was engaged with a woman who had come out of the Garton crowd and run onto the field.  She would be easy to pick out of a line-up if it came to that:  the hair on one side of her head was dyed a garish red, while the other side was pure white, the Garton colors.  Her face was also painted in contrasting shades, white on the side under the red hair and red under the white. 

Jerry was trying to get her off the field, but he wasn’t having much luck.  She kept kicking him in the shins.  Rhodes didn’t know who to rescue first, the downed Catamount player or Tabor.

Suddenly he heard the opening notes of “The Star Spangled Banner.”  The Clearview Marching Catamounts to the rescue, he thought, as the cheerleaders bravely tried to get the crowd to sing along.  But the national anthem didn’t do a bit of good.  The fight continued as if the band were not playing at all.  Rhodes suspected that the only person in the stadium who was standing at attention was Hayes Ford.

Rhodes started throwing players aside, trying to get to the center of things.  He could see Ruth Grady grabbing at shoulder pads as she tried without much success to unpile the irate Greyhounds still atop the hapless Catamount tackler.

Then Rhodes heard another sound that cut through all the grunts and groans and screaming and even the blare of the national anthem.

Rhodes looked around.  The ambulance that usually parked in the south end zone in case of emergency was headed across the field.  The piercing siren got everyone’s attention, and the fact that the ambulance was bearing down on them at about twenty miles an hour did more to stop the fighting than anything else could have.  Players, officials, and coaches scattered for the fence, jamming together in the gate.  Some of the more agile ones, like Jerry Tabor, who had abandoned the painted woman, went right over the fence.