Spirit of a Champion (Sisters of Spirit #7) (2 page)

"See that." Her father clicked off the picture.
"The Killer's last fight...he used his left more than he usually does. He
might have injured his right shoulder." He turned, hesitated. "Would
you file that in my collection, please?"

She nodded.

He walked out and Stormy followed him into his office, wondering
what to say without breaking her promise. 

Trophies filled a cabinet—those of her father, Elston
"King" Drake, and of her brother, "Prince'" Jerry. Photos
graced the wall, showing scenes from their fights and victories. All displayed
except her father's last two fights, when he had been knocked unconscious by
his opponents while trying to make a comeback.

A white sign hung above the photos, computer-printed on an eight
by eleven piece of paper. "NEVER GIVE UP"

Would that motto kill her brother?

CHAPTER TWO

Her father sat behind his large oak desk which he’d gotten when
a lawyer went out of business, and scribbled on a notepad. He signed his name
to a check and placed it with the note. "Give this to the housekeeper,
will you?"

"Sure."

"Thanks. You've been a great help these last few days.
Enjoy the house. Stay as long as you want."

"Thank's Dad. I'm going to put my resume′ out on the
internet. See if I get any more offers."

"Great."

"I've got my old lifeguarding job this summer. It's
relaxing after school all winter. As soon as I start getting paychecks again,
I’ll find an apartment so you can have the house to yourself."

“No need. You can stay here. Jerry will be back in Reno. I’d
like to have you.”

“Thanks. I might do that.” She’d need some money saved so she
could move to her teaching job. And to live on until her first paycheck came
in.

“You’ll be gone for good as soon as you start work at one of
those universities. Or get married.”

“Not for good. I’d come to visit.”
She wouldn’t be like
her mom, who had left him and never come back. Her dad had his faults, but none
that would drive Stormy away.

He laid down his pen. "You're coming to the fight, aren't
you?"

"Yes."

"I'll get you a ticket, ringside."

"Thanks. I'd like to sit with Amy."

"Will do. See you there." He stood up and pushed in
his chair.

"Dad...." Stormy said, stepping in front of him, so he
had to stop.

"Yes?"

"About Jerry."

He looked puzzled. "What about him?"

She twisted her hands. "He's been checked by a doctor,
hasn't he?"

"Of course."

"And everything's fine?"

"Sure."

"I was just—"

Elston scowled. "Now don't go being like your mother. She
worried every time I went into the ring."

"I know." It was the reason their mother had left him.
At the same time she left her two children to be raised by an endless line of
housekeepers—an act Stormy could never understand. Her leaving so
suddenly still hurt Stormy, catching her at unexpected times.

"But I think Jerry may have something wrong...." She
trailed off, wondering how she could warn her father and still keep her
promise.

"Stormy." Her dad wagged a finger at her. "Stay
out of it."

"Just make sure he's checked, okay?"

"Fighters get more physicals than anyone, except possibly
astronauts. Don't worry. He's in better shape than he's ever been."

He motioned for her to go ahead. Stormy preceded him out the
door, then watched as he ran up the stairs.

Her father still maintained his fighter's form, working out with
his son whenever possible. He acted as Jerry’s manager and had been elated when
the promoter they worked with had set up this bout with the world's heavyweight
champion. Jerry was good, better than his dad had been, and had earned the
right to challenge the champ. 

She walked over to the front door and looked out into the clear
Idaho sunlight, waiting for the cab. She couldn't shake the feeling of doom.
Her stomach felt tight and her mouth dry.

The Killer had never killed anyone as far as she knew. It was a
nickname, earned by the potential harm that dwelt in those lethal blows. That
knowledge did nothing to ease her thoughts.

The well-marked car entered their long driveway. "Your
cab's here," she called out, feeling time running against her.

Father and son came down together, laden with bags and
suitcases. They were very much alike in looks and mannerisms. Handsome.
Confident. Even their boxing styles were the same, smooth and
graceful.  

Her brother nodded his head as he passed. "Keep cool,
Storm-a-long."

"You do the same," she countered. "Take
care."

They loaded the cab and were gone in a minute. She watched them
drive away and said a prayer for their safety. If only she could talk to
Jerry’s doctor herself and be reassured.

Stormy re-entered the empty house to the ringing of the phone.
Was there any sound more pleading? She ran over and picked it up.

"Hello."

"Mr. Gerald Drake, please."

"You just missed him. May I take a message?"

"Yes. Have him call Dr. Lloyd Williams. He has my
number."

"Doctor?”
She couldn’t believe it. She was going to get a chance to talk
with him!
“About Jerry. Is he all right? Those soft spots on the brain you mentioned.
Would he be killed if he—"

"Who is this?"

"His sister. If there's something wrong with Jerry, my dad
needs to be told. He's Jerry's trainer, as well as his manager."

"I've told Jerry. That's as far as I go."

"But—"

"Confidentiality, you know. I'm his personal physician, not
a ring doctor."

"Will they check...?"

"They should. It's on their shoulders. Not mine."

"But Jerry is determined to fight, anyway. Can't you stop
him?"

"I'm sorry. I told him of his condition. I did what I
could."

"But...you're saying, he really is in danger."

"I can't say anything to you."

"How about to his wife, Amy?"

"Not unless he gives me permission...which he didn't. I've
spoken too much already. Where can I reach him in Vegas?"

"At the Old Ranchero Inn."

"Thanks."

"One more thing. Are you Ted's doctor too?"

"Who?"

"Ted Smythe.” She spelled the last name out. “His sparring
partner."

"Nope. Never heard of him. Is that all?"

Not really.
Her body had just turned to ice in the summer heat.
"Yes."

"Goodbye." He hung up.

A shudder swept through her as she put the phone down. What was
Jerry thinking of? Did he want the title so much he was deluding himself?

 She had to talk to her brother again. Had to make him see
sense—or to at least consult another doctor before the fight. The sooner
the better. She didn't have much time.

Stormy dialed the airlines to see if there were any flights that
would take her to Las Vegas today. There was—although she would have to
go through San Francisco. She asked them to hold a seat, then went over to put
away the DVD.

Instead she sat down and watched the fight herself. It lasted
one and a half rounds. It was like witnessing a murder.

The Killer never let up. His opponent had no chance to recover
from the merciless onslaught of blows; most of them to the head and face.

The Killer didn't believe in outlasting his victim. He didn't
use body blows which would wear the other boxer down. Instead he literally
knocked him senseless.

Sickened, Stormy turned off the DVD player and took out the
disk.

Whoever had given the Killer his nickname had known him well.

She had to stop the fight whether Jerry wanted her to or not.
Somehow.

Was she doing the right thing? After all, Jerry had made her
promise. And to Stormy, a promise was something that shouldn’t be broken.

She fretted about it all the way to the Boise airport. She had
only promised not to tell her dad. Jerry hadn’t made her promise not to tell
anyone else. Still, she knew he didn’t want her to.

Finding an isolated spot in the lounge, she called her cousin,
Perri. Although Perri and Hugo were newly married, she and Stormy still
remained as close as sisters. They always talked over everything important and
right now Stormy desperately needed to share her problem.

As soon as Perri answered, Stormy said, “I’ve found out
something that might kill Jerry, but he made me promise to not say anything.”

“Is it pretty certain?”

“Very.”

“So what are you going to do?’

“I don’t know. I’m headed to Las Vegas, but, well, I promised
him.”

“Not to say anything, or not to do anything?” Perri asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. Look Stormy. I know you always try to keep your
promises, but if it’s life or death...”

“It is.”

“Then you can’t keep still. A promise shouldn’t cause the death
of someone. If Jerry dies because you kept your promise, how are you going to
feel?”

“I’d never get over it.”

“Right. So tell me what’s going on.”

Stormy told her, happy to have “permission” from Perri.
Actually, she had known the answer, she just needed her judgement verified.

Perri heard her out, asking just a few questions. Then she said,
“Look, Hugo and I are in Washington D.C. right now. We’re flying home in six
days. We always fly in and out of Vegas, so I’ll let you know when we’re coming
in. We can meet in the airport. Our car is there.”

“Okay.”

“Do what you can in the meantime. I’ll talk this over with Hugo.
He might be able to do something while he’s in Washington. You never know about
him.”

Stormy thought that was a strange thing to say. “Thanks. See
you.”

She walked to the ticket
counter, made sure the seat was still available and paid for it. It was times
like these that she wished she hadn’t cut up all her credit cards. She wasn’t
going to have much cash when she got to Vegas.

Kyle Wayne Torrin brushed back the long hair that had fallen in
front of his eyes as he glanced around the airplane. He had purchased a coach
ticket rather than first class when the ticket agent told him the plane was not
over-booked. She had been right, there was room to spare, especially on the
aisle seats which he preferred. Also the very front row, near the bulkhead, was
empty of all but a very agitated-looking redhead with the best pair of legs he
had seen in a long time.

No ring on her left hand.

Grinning at his good fortune, Kyle ignored his assigned seat
number, threw his carry-on bag into the overhead bin and plopped himself down
next to her. The flight between San Francisco and Las Vegas was a short one,
but he decided he would get her name and phone number before the plane landed.
And maybe the hotel where she planned to stay.

An inveterate goal-setter, Kyle mentally made a list. Goal
number one was her name. Two, address. Three, phone.

"Hi." He spoke brightly, smiling at her. "Headed
for Vegas, or going further?" He projected enthusiasm and good-will.
Sort of like a
used-car salesman
,
he told himself.

She lifted her head to stare at him, dark eyes burdened with
some kind of deep emotion, then lowered them as if what she saw had not made
any impression on her whatsoever. Her shoulder bag was in her lap, and she
twisted the strap tightly, then released it, then twisted it again as far as it
would go.

He thought for a moment she was not going to answer him, and
wondered if he had something stuck between his teeth. Not one to give up, he
cast about for the next logical thing to say.

"Vegas."

She spoke!
Her answer, one word, did not offer much encouragement, but
Kyle did not require much.

Her voice, a low alto, reminded him of his mother's soft tones.
He leaned forward, turning slightly to get a better look at her. Her hair was
red-gold, spun carmel candy, cut to fall just below her ears. A curly mop
perched above gamin features.

"My name's Wayne—what's yours?"

He didn't use his full name. Some people recognized it, some
didn't, but he had enjoyed his short holiday, traveling incommunicado through
Japan, and was reluctant to give it up. Once his hair was cut short again,
people would recognize him...and he would need to stay aware of his
surroundings to keep himself from being mobbed in public places. Fans—any
fans—were not always the gentlest of people.