Intent to Kill Read Free Page A

while checking his crumpled roster card. The sun had set, the lights were up, and the National Anthem had been sung. It was sixty-two degrees, with not a cloud in the raven sky, and a light breeze was blowing out over the left-field wall. The night was perfect for a ball game.
    Where the heck are you, Chelsea? Ryan thought as he settled into position. The PA system crackled with the introduction of the Mud Hens’ first batter. A wiry young man from Puerto Rico stepped up to the plate, crossed himself, kissed his gold crucifix, tugged at his crotch, spit in the dirt, and then glared at Ivan with contempt. Ivan wiped his brow into his sleeve and looked over at Ryan, who gave him a little nod for encouragement. The first two pitches popped like gunshots in the catcher’s mitt. A rumble of approval emerged from the crowd, and on the third pitch the batter chased after a knuckle curveball that he couldn’t have hit with a tennis racket. Gone in sixty seconds. The PawSox faithful cheered, and one of Ivan’s fans started the strikeout count by hanging a card with the letter K on the fence by the bullpen.
    Ivan was unbeatable when he started out this strong. If Chelsea didn’t arrive soon, she’d miss the entire first inning.
    Keep your head in the game, James , Ryan told himself. But it was hugely disappointing. The final game of the season. The principal owner of the Red Sox in attendance. Ryan could feel the electricity in the air, the excitement of the fans. Ten thousand people had managed to arrive on time. How many of them were married to a player on the field who had dreamed of baseball since he was five years old and was now on the short list for the major leagues?
    At the crack of the bat, a screaming line drive sizzled down the third-base line. Ryan went completely horizontal, diving to his right, and snagged it for the out.
    “Attaboy, Ryan!” his manager shouted from the dugout.
    Ryan dusted himself off and fired the ball off to the second baseman. Ivan gave him a look that said Thanks for saving my ass . Half the crowd gave him a standing ovation. The play was a defensive gem worthy of the ESPN highlight reel.
    And Chelsea had missed it.
    Two outs. The Mud Hens sent their third hitter to the plate, a big left-hander who rarely hit the ball to the left side of the field. Ryan shifted a few steps closer to the shortstop, then glanced over to the dugout to make sure the manager was happy with the defensive adjustment. The manager wasn’t looking at him and was instead talking on the telephone, which was odd. He used the phone only to communicate with the bullpen, which usually meant a change of pitchers. Surely they weren’t thinking of taking Ivan out of the game.
    Ryan checked the seats behind home plate one more time. No Chelsea.
    He glanced again into the dugout on the third-base side. The manager was still on the telephone. He was pacing now, but it wasn’t the thinking man’s long, deliberative walk from one end of the dugout to the other. These were spasmodic bursts, no more than two or three steps in one direction before he turned and marched back the other way. Clearly he was upset.
    Ivan hurled the first pitch to the new batter. Ryan heard the pop but didn’t see the ball hit the mitt. His focus was elsewhere, his gaze shifting back and forth from the empty seats behind home plate to the PawSox dugout. His fingers tingled with a strange numbness. The familiar game noises—the jabbering of fans, the hawking of vendors, the stadium music—suddenly sounded foreign to him. Things didn’t seem to be moving at the right speed. He was picking up a very bad vibe.
    The manager was still on the phone.
    Chelsea’s and Ainsley’s seats were still empty.
    Ryan knew his manager’s mannerisms well, and the old man didn’t appear to be upset. He seemed distraught. Finally, the phone call ended. The manager signaled the umpire for a time-out and called a player off the bench. After a moment of surprise, the kid,