Inside Threat (11 page)

“Got film today.” Riley slid the plate with its half-eaten omelet across the table to Skeeter, who accepted it with a nod.

As he brushed his teeth, he wrestled with whether Skeeter's story really applied to Khadi and him. For it to be true, Khadi would have to be using him—for companionship, for affirmation, for something. She may have loved him, but it wasn't a real love. It was a “what-can-you-give-me” kind of love, not the other way around.

But that just didn't sound like her. Nothing about her ever said
user
to him. No doubt about it, there was real love there—once.

He stepped into his bedroom and went to his sock drawer. Running his hand underneath the balled-up pairs, he found the strip of leather he was looking for. He pulled it out and held it in front of him. Hanging at the end of the leather thong was a ring that Khadi had given to him the last time he had seen her. It had belonged to her grandfather and had the words
truth
,
integrity
, and
honor
inscribed on it in Farsi.

As he watched the gold slowly twist, he thought,
I understand what Skeet's saying. I don't want to just grab any little bite and explode it into some big thing. But there's no doubt that what we had was—is?—real.

Truth, integrity, honor—I've forgotten a bit about those words lately.

He was replacing the ring among his socks when he stopped and pulled it out again. Taking the thong in both hands, he slid it over his head and tucked the ring under his shirt.
This may be as close as I get to her today, but at least it's closer than I was yesterday.

Monday, September 12, 8:20 a.m. EDT

Ashburn, Virginia

There were the expected things—a Gatorade bucket in his locker, a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free card, a pile of dollar coins, a musical greeting card that played “They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!”

But two items did stand out from the crowd. One was an underwater phone—a device that Riley could not think of a single practical application for. The second was a guillotine that was supposed to allow you to cut off your hand, then magically have it reappear attached to your wrist. The trick looked pretty cool. However, as hard as he tried to find volunteers, he couldn't find anyone willing to give it a shot.

Despite the joking around Riley's locker, the mood in the locker room was fairly subdued. Everyone knew what was in store for them, and when the time came, Riley filed down the hall with the rest of the team to the main amphitheater to watch film. If you had a good game, film time was wonderful. There was praise from the coaches. There were high fives from your teammates. It was a fun event and a great ego boost.

However, if your game was bad, three hours in the film room could seem like the worst eight hours of your life. Every mistake was played and replayed. You were expected to give answers to unanswerable questions, like “Why'd you let that happen?” and “What were you thinking?” It was frustrating and humiliating.

Because of the horrendous game the team had played, the film time went much as expected. The only positive for Riley was that the whole team had stunk, so he wasn't consistently singled out. However, he did get his share of onscreen lowlights.

Sitting in the cool air of the amphitheater, he often found himself wondering what had happened. His mistakes were rookie mistakes—missed coverages, bad reads, weak tackles. At one point, he watched as an easy interception bounced right off his numbers, eliciting a groan from the entire room.

As much as he told himself he didn't really care about football, he was still embarrassed.
I can't believe that however many millions of people watched me suck this badly! I've got friends and family who saw this. And I can't imagine what the blogs are saying. I guess my only hope is that my on-field suckiness will be overshadowed by my off-field stupidity.

Mercifully, the film got to the fourth quarter, and he tuned out the analysis. He closed his eyes, put his head back, and slowly twisted back and forth on his swivel chair.

But then, after the final play, he felt an elbow to his arm. He looked up to see the screen filled with him dumping the phone into the Gatorade bucket.

A few players hooted, then quickly fell silent as Coach Medley glared at them. Next came the coin incident with Jonny Wiens. One player called out “Presto” when Riley pulled the coin out, causing snickers throughout the theater.

The film ended, and the lights came up to full.

Coach Medley stood in front of the team, arms folded, looking straight at Riley. Finally, he said, “Gentlemen, I think Riley has something to say to Mr. Bellefeuille, Mr. Wiens, and the rest of his team.”

What? What is this? Come on, Coach, this isn't how to play this! Don't be forcing my hand this way!

All eyes were on Riley, and he was steaming inside.

He eased himself up. With a penitent look on his face, he slowly pivoted so that he had a chance to look at everyone on the team. “Mr. Bellefeuille, Jonny, my fellow Warriors. It was a strange day all around yesterday. Things were done, and stuff was said. And I guess . . . I guess I probably need to clear the air. When I was with Jonny, the word I said was
abracadabra
, not
presto
, as is currently being reported in the press. I just wanted you all to know that.”

The theater erupted in laughter. Riley gave small, contrite waves and nods as he settled into his seat. Looking around at the team, he spotted Coach Medley glaring at him. With a smirk, Riley locked eyes with him until eventually Medley turned away.

All around him, players were calling out to him and giving him thumbs up. Apparently, the fear of retribution had flown out the window. Riley took it all in with smiles and waves. But inside he was thinking,
Well, that's strike three, son. It's going to be interesting to see if you've just struck out.

Monday, September 12, 6:50 a.m. CDT

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Allen Barr turned his dusty, dimpled grey Ford Taurus left off of NW 39th Street into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. He circled around to the back of the store because at this time of day the front parking was always taken. He was ten minutes early for his meeting, but past experience told him that it could take that long to find an open table.

After finding a spot, he turned the key and pulled it out. The car answered by rumbling for a few seconds. Then it knocked a little before finally settling into a long series of clicks.

That can't be good,
Allen thought.
Then again, what can you do? Unless the car fairies come down in the middle of the night to fix it, it's just going to have to keep complaining every time I shut it down.

Since his divorce three years ago, money was extremely tight. Alimony and child support took a significant portion of his paycheck each month. But he didn't begrudge it. He was still madly in love with his wife, and he knew that he was the reason they weren't together.

And his kids—they were the light of his life. Two girls and a boy, all under ten. He was striving to rebuild a relationship with them, and so far it seemed to be working.

No, Allen didn't care how much of his check they took or how hard he would have to work. The entire blame for his current life's situation fell on his own shoulders. He had made his bed . . .

Two men in flannel jackets and gimme caps walked out the front doors of the donut shop, the second one holding the door for Allen, who nodded his thanks and stepped in.

There are few things like the smell of a donut shop,
he thought as he deeply inhaled the thick, doughy sweetness. Quickly scanning the restaurant, he saw two tables open with only one customer in front of him.
This just might work out!

When it was his turn, he ordered an iced chocolate bismark, a strawberry cheese Danish, and two coffees. After paying, he said, “Thanks, Lenny,” not expecting any response. In return, he received just what he hadn't expected. In fact, it was the same response he received every day from the store manager.

Lenny is not a man who is happy in his work,
Allen mused.
Lord, bring some happiness into his life. Bring somebody or something. Lenny needs a little boost of love.

A two-seater was open, and Allen took the seat facing the door. He set the Danish and a coffee on the table in front of the other chair. Marty would complain that he paid again, but Allen felt it was only right. After all, Allen was the reason they were here. He was the one with the problem. He was the one who had blown his life. He was the one who had destroyed his family. Having Marty there to hold him accountable during the rebuilding process was certainly worth a Danish and a cup of coffee a day.

About five tables away was a four-top. A member of Oklahoma City's finest was seated in each chair. Allen watched until one of them caught his eye. Almost imperceptibly, Allen nodded and gave a thumbs-up. The officer nodded in response and turned back to the conversation.

The first time he had seen Officer Donny Marden in the donut shop, he had almost turned and walked back out. But then he thought,
That's what the old Allen would do. Man up!
So he had instead walked straight up to the man and introduced himself. Marden vaguely remembered him and seemed a little suspicious of the interruption. But after Allen described his journey and the changes he had made, the policeman had actually stood up, shaken his hand, and wished him luck.

That was huge for Allen, because Officer Marden had technically been the one who had pulled the pin on the grenade that blew up his life—although Allen knew that when it came down to it, it was all his own fault. It was Officer Marden who had pulled him over that night on I-44. It was he who had given Allen the field sobriety test. It was Officer Marden who had put the cuffs on him. But it was Allen himself who had fifteen minutes earlier gotten in the car knowing full well that he already had two DUIs behind him.

That arrest had cost him his license and ninety days in jail. It was also the final shove that sent his job and his marriage plunging into the abyss. In the weeks that followed his arrest, he spun so far down into depression that alcoholic homelessness or suicide seemed his only options. Not that there was much difference—one just being a slower way to reach the same end.

One day, as he sat in that county cell wallowing in self-pity over what he had made of his life, he heard a voice from the other side of the bars.

“Allen? Allen Barr?”

Without answering, he looked to his left and saw a man with a gentle face and biceps the size of his own thighs.

“Hey, Allen, I'm Larry Soady—one of the chaplains here. Sorry it took me a few days to get over to you. How're you holding up?”

Allen looked around his small cell, then back at the chaplain. “Now that's a stupid question.”

Chaplain Soady smiled. “Yeah, I guess life looks a little brighter from this side of the bars. Anyway, I just came by to see if there was anything I could do for you?”

“Get me my family back. Get me my job back. Get me out of this place.”

The smile stayed on Soady's face. “Well, my friend, I can't help you with those things, but maybe I know someone who can.”

Allen's anger flared. “Yeah, I know. I've heard it all before. ‘Jesus loves me, this I know'; ‘There's no sin too great'; ‘Shall we gather at the river?' Yada, yada, yada. Just stow it! You can keep your Jesus and all your happy little promises that go along with him. My philosophy is God helps those who help themselves.”

Soady tapped his wedding ring on the bars and said, “Maybe it's time to start thinking about a new philosophy. Listen, anytime you want to talk, shoot me a kite and I'll be here.”

Over the next two weeks, Chaplain Soady came by every couple days—always with a smile on his face, always unfazed by Allen's attitude. Finally, either by sheer determination or maybe pure stubbornness, he wore down Allen's defenses.