Double Trouble (14 page)

Two outs, one on base.

The next batter stepped up and whiffed the first two pitches.

“Batter, batter, batter. Sw-
ing
, batter!”

Stop, Jeremy
.

The batter swung at the third pitch, a hard crack. PJ was on her feet in a second, but it fouled out of the third-base line.

One more. PJ held her mouth shut, not wanting to rile Karla. She sent out the signal and patted her glove all the same.

Karla sized up the batter, narrowed her eyes, and roundhoused the ball. It came in fast and high, a perfect arch.

The batter stepped back, waited for it, and swung.

It connected with a tinny crack, as if the wood caught only the edge. As PJ jumped to her feet, the batter tossed her bat and took off for first.

The ball sailed high into the infield, just a few feet from PJ. “I got it!”

She raced after the ball, hearing in her periphery, “Mine, mine!”

The sun glinted into her eyes, dotting her vision with black, stealing the ball, but she judged it and a second later it appeared just beyond her hand. She dove, arm outstretched, yes,
yes
 
—

It would have been a stunning catch, with PJ landing prone in the grass, her prize in the leather. Except a body hit her just as the ball touched her glove.

She landed in the dirt with a bone-jarring grunt. The ball thudded into the grass and rolled away.

Karla groaned at her feet.

“Pick it up!” Stacey came diving in from short.

PJ hit her knees and crawled toward the ball just as Stacey scooped it up and threw it to first.

But the runner had already rounded first and was halfway
to second. She slid into second as the first baseman picked the ball out of the air.

Just as the leading run touched home.

“Safe!”

A cheer went up from the Hornets’ side of the bleachers.

“You!”

PJ rolled to her back as Karla landed on her, knees on either side of her ribs. “What, you gotta be the star?”

“Karla, I
 
—”

Karla grabbed her mask and with a snarl ripped it off.

Unfortunately, and to Karla’s horrified shock
 
—an expression that PJ relished despite the obvious disaster
 
—her wig skewed aside, even as PJ reached up to hold it in place.

And then it was just Karla holding the mask, her mouth open in a wide-eyed snarl as she said in a low, horrified whisper that felt like a knife to the heart,
“You’re not Dally!”

PJ didn’t know what was worse
 
—her cover being blown, at least to Karla and the team, losing the game after the Hornets took the lead, or looking up into the stands after Stacey shoved Karla away (probably saving her life) to discover that Jeremy had vanished.

With the blonde, who no doubt had been Dally and was probably right now plotting how to ambush PJ in the dead of night and leave her bleeding in some alley.

She already felt mangled after the chewing-out she’d received from the coach, Karla, and even sweet Morgan.
“What were you doing playing catcher in the most important tournament of the season?”

Worse, she’d been banished to the sidelines, her face burning, her jaw aching from Karla’s follow-through, sweltering under her stupid wig that she’d managed to keep attached to her head. Stacey had rounded them up for a quick huddle
while PJ pulled herself back together, and maybe, hopefully, no one in the stands or on the opposing team had heard Karla’s under-the-breath accusation.

As the game ended, the team’s disappointment rang in her ears, and the sun poured out wrath upon her shoulders. She just wanted a soak in the tub, a bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream, and a compensatory phone call from Jeremy, not necessarily in that order.

And to make matters worse, Morgan, her
 
—er,
Dally’s
stand-in, had not only missed two fouls but been flattened by a slide into home during the bottom of the fifth inning in the third game and sprained, if not fractured, her ankle.

PJ had gone in and finished the game for Morgan, holding her breath as Karla slammed pitches into her glove for the last strikeout.

She shook her hand, realizing she had no business pretending to be Dally Morrison.

She was way out of her league.

Again.

At least she knew how to buy pizza. She dearly hoped eight large double pepperoni and mushrooms and six supremes counted as an “emergency business expense.”

The pizza parlor was a dive that resembled one of the untouchable bars in Kellogg, the kind with rusty pickups in gravel drives and neon beer signs the only hint of color. Inside, however, it reminded her of Hal’s Pizzeria, with the window overlooking the kitchen, as well as the cherry red booths and the twang of eighties tunes from a glowing jukebox.

“So let me get this straight.” This from Morgan, who sat sandwiched between two loyal fans. They had consumed a
large deep-dish, enjoying the boon wrought by their attachment to Morgan. She had her bandaged ankle propped on one of the lucky men’s legs. “You’re Dally’s cousin from Chicago, and you’re filling in for Dally while she’s visiting relatives in Mankato?”

PJ glanced at Stacey where she sat crammed into a red booth, levering out her own deep-dish pepperoni. Stacey gave PJ a quick smirk. Thanks to the fast-thinking redhead, PJ hadn’t had to cop to the truth and in fact only had to nod her head to Stacey’s tall tale, woven before PJ even had a chance to open her mouth. Thankfully, it also meant that because they packed out the pizza joint, for a brief respite, she could take off her wig. It lay like a skunk beside her on the booth seat.

PJ gave a short nod, painfully aware that her circle of lies was not only widening but spiraling a knot of guilt deeper into her chest. It hadn’t seemed so hard to change identities when she’d done it anonymously. Now she was actually producing embellished fabrications that she had to keep straight. For a good cause, however. Namely, Dally’s life.

She certainly hoped Dally remembered that, wherever she was, conjuring up ways to inflict pain on PJ.

What was the key to a good lie
 
—base it on truth? She turned to Morgan’s question. “Actually, I’m more like house-sitting. But I did play some ball in high school, so . . .”

Morgan’s footrest groupie slid out from the seat, gently putting down Morgan’s foot and grabbing her empty cup. He picked up PJ’s also. “Diet Coke?”

PJ nodded.

“I guess it makes sense, Dally not wanting to lose her position, but you’d think she could have told us. We’re her team,
after all.” Morgan took a bite of her pizza. “Good thing you know how to play softball, PJ, or we would have been in big trouble.” Not a hint of sarcasm in her tone, and PJ wondered if she’d actually had her eyes open while watching the game.

Karla apparently had. And confirmed it by shouting, “She’d better learn to be a real catcher before the next game or you’re playing, Morgan, busted ankle or no.”

Morgan turned a shade paler. She leaned forward. “You do know how to call pitches, right?” Her voice trembled, and she shot a glance at Karla. “She sorta scares me.”

“Get in line,” PJ said, gesturing to the welt on her jaw, where Karla had connected before Stacey had pulled her off. Apparently, once a punch left the pocket, it had to complete its trajectory. At least according to Karla. Two games and six hours later, it had stopped throbbing, and now only ached when PJ opened her mouth. Like, to consume comfort pizza.

Dally forgot to mention the hitting when she covered the game rules.

Morgan’s fan returned to the table, setting the drink down before PJ.

Morgan’s voice lowered. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll teach you how to call pitches if you’ll play.”

“I thought you wanted to play.”

Morgan sat back. “I do. Just . . . enough to warm up. But I’m a mess during the actual game. If you couldn’t already tell.” She gave a resigned shrug. “This is my third injury this season.”

“She’s a great cheerleader, though,” one of her fans said.

PJ pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “I’m sure she is.” She reached for a piece of pizza. “By the way, that’s a deal, Morgan.” A pepperoni escaped off the piece and PJ grabbed
it and tucked it into her mouth. “So, do you know Missy Gaines?”

Morgan didn’t even blink. “Sure. We’ve played together for years.”

“But she’s not on the team this year.”

Morgan lifted a shoulder. “She and Dally have an old rivalry for the same position. Dally beat her out this year. But she still comes to our games. In fact I saw Missy just last Saturday, talking with Dally after one of our games. It looked like they were getting into it. Then Missy took off like she wanted to run Dally down with that old Impala of hers.” She leaned close again. “She scares me too.”

“Did you hear anything they said?”

“I know I heard the word
die
.”

Two witnesses to Missy’s threats
 
—Stacey and Morgan
 
—and a note. Had Dally and Rick gotten back together recently enough to stir up trouble?

Maybe she needed to have a little face-to-face with Rick, even slap down the note she found at Dally’s. Or better yet, talk to Dally herself. Preferably from a safe distance, like over the phone.

She pulled the cell phone from her bag, stared again at the blank listing of calls received. She’d dialed Jeremy twice after the game and again only netted the cryptic monotone message.

She’d give him a monotone message. . . .

As the door opened, the hues of dusk swept into the room. A bulk filled the door, and the form seemed familiar. PJ watched the man, or rather oversize college student, stride across the room straight for them.

He wore a look that matched Karla’s as he lumbered up to their table. “Morgan?”

Although she’d been smiling already, her entire face lit up. “Sammy!”

With a look, Sammy made Morgan’s two bookends practically vaporize. He held her ankle as he slid in, barely fitting under the table. Then he leaned in and kissed Morgan on the lips. “Hey, babe.”

PJ couldn’t place the guy, but she knew she’d seen him before
 
—or at least the impressive girth of his shoulders. Add to that the angular jaw, those hazel eyes, the high and tight haircut deserving of the Marines. No wonder Morgan’s fan club ran for the hills. Only he had a smile for Morgan that didn’t match the menace of his frame.

“This is my boyfriend, Sammy,” Morgan said, her eyes shining.

He held out his hand to PJ. “Sammy Richland.”

Morgan had a boyfriend? Then what was all the flirting with her fan club?

Or maybe Morgan didn’t consider it flirting. Maybe she wasn’t cognizant of her own powers. She wrapped one arm around Sammy’s and gave a pout. “You missed my game.”

“Sorry, sweetie. I had some stuff to take care of.”

As he said it, PJ noticed the slightest sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the air-conditioning of the restaurant. Steroids?

Oh, that wasn’t fair. Just because the guy had the build of a tank didn’t mean he didn’t come by it honestly. “What do you do, Sammy?”

“He fixes cars
 
—he’s amazing. Mostly it’s antiques. He tears them apart and then puts them back together again.”

Sammy lifted a shoulder, the slightest blush appearing on his face. “It’s a hobby. I’m hoping to open my own shop when I get enough cash together. For now, I pick up cars where I can, fix them up, sell them again.” He tossed a clump of keys on the table, a shiny black Dodge logo glinting in the mix.

And bingo, just like that, PJ placed him. “You’re Gabby’s grandson.”

His face lost his grin and he nodded. “You know my grandmother?”

“I, uh, sorta live next door.”

“She’s Dally’s cousin,” Morgan said.

He leaned forward. “Really.” His eyes ran over her, suddenly not friendly at all.

PJ nodded, aware that her gesture felt stiff.

“So, what did my grandma tell you about me?”

It was the way he asked it, softly with the edge of a filet knife, so sharp to almost not be noticed, that chilled her. And when he added a smile, she didn’t believe it for a second, because his eyes bored into her, giving her roughly the same look he’d given Morgan’s fan club before they beamed away.

Nothing.
Oh, she hadn’t spoken aloud. “Nothing,” she managed. Followed by a smile.
C’mon, smile.
Smile!
There it was.

He sat back, snaked an arm around Morgan.

PJ realized she’d been holding her breath. “I think it’s time for me to get home and get a bath,” she said to Morgan.

She wasn’t sure whose eyes
 
—Karla’s or Sammy’s
 
—burned into her neck as she replaced her wig, waved to her team, and exited into the cooling, dark night.

With the shadows trailing her and the breeze shimmering in the trees, the wig didn’t feel nearly as horrifying. Still, the
heat from the day radiated through the cement walk, reeking of oil and weeds that lined the path home. She cut into the alleyway, her feet scuffing up dirt and pebbles. The rottweiler next door met her with a black wet nose shoved through the chain-link fence. He growled.

“Yeah, get in line.”

She wasn’t sure what Sammy was afraid she knew, but suddenly she had a horrible feeling that Granny Gabby didn’t have the first clue who her precious Sammy really was.

Or where her jewelry might have disappeared to. It fit together with a resounding smack inside her head, just like one of Karla’s fast pitches into PJ’s glove. Sammy might be stealing from his grandmother for drug money. Or . . . what if he had something to do with Boone’s car-theft ring?
“I pick up cars where I can, fix them up, sell them again
.
”
Was that a euphemism for stealing?

Okay, even she could see the stretch there, but at the least, she’d have to keep an eye on him.

Gravel crunched behind her as a car rolled down the alley. She scooted over to let it pass.

It stopped behind her.

She heard feet scuffing toward her and was just turning when a hand came over her mouth.

“Hey!”

And then an arm snaked around her waist. Her equipment bag thumped to the ground in the middle of the alleyway. The ground fell away and she kicked back. “Hey!”

It came out
Mma, mma
! Followed by her ineffective punch that landed in midair. She threw another and this time hit something, but her attacker didn’t slow. Her ankle caught on
the edge of the back fender right before her assailant shoved her . . . into the trunk.

And closed it.

* * *

She was not going to cry. Not. Going. To . . . PJ wiped the moisture from her cheeks, aware that she still trembled. She was exhausted from kicking first the trunk and then the seat, hoping this was the kind of car trunk that folded down for skis and the like, but no, not a hint of a budge.

They’d been driving for nearly an hour, and on the highway, no less, at speeds that most likely could get her killed even if she did manage to jimmy open the trunk and leap to freedom.

And what was that smell? Putrid, as if she’d been thrown in next to someone’s year-old gym bag filled with sweaty socks and soiled shoes. And on top of it all, the cloying stench of ointment that smelled vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Maybe she’d died and gone to olfactory hell.

Why hadn’t she hung on to her bag? Then she’d have a cell phone
 
—and yes, she’d most certainly call Boone. Beg him to forgive her, maybe even take him up on that librarian suggestion.

She might even say yes. A brilliant, write-it-in-the-sky
Yes! I’ll marry you.
Because clearly he was the only one who cared that she might die protecting
 
—or in place of?
 
—a woman who didn’t in the least deserve it.

Okay, that might be a little strong. Maybe Dally had saved an orphan from getting run over or donated a kidney or
something. Still, it seemed unfair that PJ might be taking the fall for someone who would never appreciate it, never realize the cost to people like . . . Davy. And Connie.

And even Jeremy. Who would never realize what he’d lost either.

She tasted salt and wiped again.

She hoped Jeremy felt bad when he found her mangled, murdered . . .

So maybe that wasn’t the best line of thinking.

The driver turned off the highway, judging by the way the car slowed. She pulled off the wig and curled into a ball, suddenly dreading the end of this ride.

“Help!”

Sometimes she hated how her instincts always, regardless of how she tried, landed her in the middle of trouble. Or in this case, in the dark, smelly, humid tomb of a trunk.