The Red Zone Page 9

  "Storm the tower!" he barked. "Ready, BREAK!"

  Eleven pairs of hands clapped as one. The defensive players made their way to their positions. The call was for an all-out blitz. Almost everyone would race for the quarterback. There wouldn't be enough offensive men to block everyone; so the quarterback would go down. The danger was that the quarterback would find an open receiver before he got hit, that he would pass for a touchdown. Because the defense was blitzing, the cornerbacks were isolated, one-on-one, man-to-man, with the receivers. They had to react to the hiccup-quick moves of the receivers and keep their bodies positioned between the receivers and the quarterback.

  Luther took three quick steps toward Antone as he made his way toward the sideline, the perimeter of the formation. He reached around the smaller player and grabbed him by the face mask, pulling him face-to-face, the metal of their rubber-coated masks clanging mutely.

  "Stick to him, Antone," Luther urged. "You cover this guy for two seconds! Just two seconds, and I'm buying you a big lobster dinner."

  Antone smiled broadly and winked.

  "You know I will," he said in the cocky manner of a Pro Bowl player.

  "Yeah," Luther said, then jogged off to his own position directly opposite the center and the quarterback, who stood crouched behind him.

  When the quarterback started his cadence, Luther edged up toward the line, coiling his muscles, ready to spring. Other defenders did the same, lining up all across the field in two-or three-point sprinter stances facing the quarterback. The ball was snapped quickly and the blitz began. Luther threw himself forward. There was nowhere to get through, so he launched himself up and over the struggling linemen. He could actually see the quarterback, and even though someone knocked his feet out from under him, Luther's leap was so powerful that he would come down directly on top of him. But that was only after the quarterback had launched the ball, downfield, into the waiting hands of the receiver who was racing past Antone Ellison toward the end zone.

  The game was over. The Marauders had lost.

  Chapter 16

  On Monday morning, they came for Charlene at Lord & Taylor. She was behind the register, checking out a forty-something woman wearing a Rolex. The woman was purchasing two pairs of jeans and a belt. Charlene was happy for the commission. She wanted to be able to earn enough one day to support herself and Jamal on her own. Its not that she didnt appreciate Luther, or doubt that he would be there for them. Its just that one never knew. If nothing else, Charlene had at least learned that over the last nine years of her life.

  Charlenes customers eyes shifted past her and Charlene turned to see what had drawn her interest. Two men were approaching the register. They were dressed in dark suits and sunglasses and couldn't have stood out more if they were wearing clown costumes. The woman with the Rolex knew right away they were police, and when she realized they had come for Charlene, her mouth fell open. She hurriedly grabbed her bag and stepped away from the register. Detective Lawrence took out his badge and Charlene felt adrenaline race through her heart.

  "Are you Charlene King?" Lawrence asked from behind his dark glasses.

  "Yes," Charlene nodded. She was too afraid to speak. She could only think something had happened to Jamal. Tears welled up in her eyes. Still, she waited.

  "Would you mind coming with us, Ms. King?" Lawrence asked. "We just want to ask you some questions."

  Where Charlene came from, no cops ever wanted to just ask questions. The cops were there to harass people, to abuse people, to put people in jail whether they deserved to be there or not.

  "Jamal?" she said weakly.

  "Excuse me?" Lawrence said.

  "Is it my son?" she said. "Is he all right?"

  "Oh, yeah," Lawrence said in an offhand way. "No worry there. No, we just want to ask you a few questions about--"

  Gill, Lawrences partner, gave him a nudge.

  "We just want to ask you a few questions," he repeated. "Would you mind coming with us? I don't think you want to make a bigger deal out of this than it is, Ms. King. The fact is, we have some questions that you probably know the answers to. It will look a lot better for you if you just come with us."

  Charlene's eyes darted nervously around the store. Two other clerks were watching in shock, and her manager had a scowl on his face as he approached the register. Charlene was the only African-American in the women's clothing department. Her co-workers were assuming the worst. Her hands trembled as the manager completed the transaction for the woman with the jeans and closed the register.

  "Charlene, what's going on?" he demanded. He was a short prim man. Like the two policemen, he wore a suit and had a grim expression on his face.

  The detectives looked blandly at the manager, then at Charlene. She was wearing a miniskirt and a matching navy blue tailored jacket. Lawrence couldn't help admiring Charlene's long shapely legs and the way the material of the jacket was stretched taut around her breasts. When it came to a good-looking woman, Lawrence was color-blind. He wouldn't say anything to Gill, though. Gill was a spectacular bigot.

  "I have no idea, Mr. Parks. These men are with the police and they've asked me to go with them," Charlene said, absently tugging her skirt down as she spoke. "They just want to ask me some questions."

  "Is she in any trouble?" the manager asked with a scowl, pursing his thin lips.

  Gill said nothing. He looked at the man with total disdain. He hated fairies, too.

  Lawrence shrugged noncommittally. "We just need to ask her some questions."

  "Is it all right if I go, Mr. Parks?" Charlene said pathetically. She didn't want to lose her job over this.

  "If you must," the manager sniffed, turning to walk away, "then you must."

  "Come on," Lawrence said, satisfied. He knew that Kratch wanted him to create a scene.

  Charlene walked between them, keeping her gaze on the floor until they were out of the cool interior of the store and into the warm morning sun.

  They got into the car, Charlene in the back, Lawrence and his partner in front. Lawrence sat in the passenger's seat and turned around to speak to Charlene. For the twenty-minute drive to the station, Lawrence questioned Charlene about her past and about her son and ultimately about her relationship with Luther Zorn.

  "You've got kind of a checkered past, Ms. King," Lawrence said sadly.

  Charlene gave him a panicked look. She knew her past was checkered. She knew her husband and the other men she'd been with had been in and out of trouble, even jail. And now she knew from the way things were going that something was wrong with Luther. She was so scared, she was afraid her hands were shaking. She tucked them underneath her legs and bit her lip in an attempt to control herself.

  "Ms. King," Lawrence lied, delivering his final line, "I probably shouldn't be saying this, but from what you've told me about your son and how important he is to you, I think you'd better tell the lieutenant the truth about everything he asks you. If you lie, you may become an accessory ... to murder."

  Charlene winced as though Lawrence had struck her. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she choked them back.

  "Did Luther kill someone?" she whispered in horror.

  Lawrence looked to his grim-faced partner and then back at Charlene. "It's quite possible, Ms. King.

  "Just tell the truth," he said, directing his attention back to the road, "and I'm certain everything will be fine. If you don't, I'd hate to think of your boy in some foster home somewhere ..."

  Charlene didn't conjure up any horrible images of brutal foster parents wielding leather belts and wooden paddles. Instead, her mind was filled with the image of Jamal, coming home from school, tossing his backpack on the kitchen table and smiling at her, happy and safe for the first time in either of their lives. For either of them to lose that, to lose each other, would be worse than death. To her it was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.

  "Tell me about the red zone," the doctor said, his soothing voice washing over
Luther like a quiet stream.

  "The red zone," Luther said languidly. "How many times do I have to talk about the dream?"

  He was lying on the big leather lounge chair with his eyes shut, his hands gently cleansing themselves of anxiety.

  "You're still having it," the doctor reminded him. "As long as you're having it, you need to talk about it. It's part of who you are. We need to reinforce the bridges between the conscious and the subconscious until the free flow of information and emotion prevents things from rising up uncontrollably."

  Luther was comfortable with the doctor's jargon. He had spent a lifetime listening to it.

  Luther sighed. "My brother and I are playing with trucks. He has a beat-up old brown one; the paint is chipped and you can see the metal underneath. Mine is gold with red and green jewels on it, brilliant like a king's crown. We're on the floor of our bedroom, but it's dark, and the floor of the room is floating in space. My father is there. Just suddenly, he's there. And he has a hair dryer and he starts swinging it around and around his head by the cord, like a cowboy with a lasso. He comes at me, but I hold up my truck and the dryer explodes when it hits. My father is incensed and he keeps swinging the cord that has another dryer on it now, only it's shiny metal and its edges are sharp like razors. It spins faster and faster and he turns on my brother. My brother stands up and holds up his truck like mine, only his gets cut to pieces and the dryer keeps coming. My brother screams, but you can't hear it. You just see it. The metal dryer hits his head again and again and again and chunks of his head go flying everywhere like scraps of meat. My father keeps swinging and swinging until there's nothing left, just his body, only now I'm my father . . . everything is red. I see in red, like through glasses. It's the red zone."

  The big room was quiet for some time, as if the doctor had been lulled to sleep by a bedtime story. The fan turned lazily above them. Luther opened his eyes to see the doctor looking at him in a strange way.

  "What?" Luther said.

  The doctor's hands were in front of his face, placed flat against each other with the tips of his fingers barely touching his nose. If the doctor wasn't a self-proclaimed atheist, Luther might have thought he was praying.

  "So the dream is different, isn't it? Everything is still red, but you are your father now," the doctor said quietly.

  "Yes," Luther said, shutting his eyes and lying back. "I am."

  Kratch had wanted Charlene scared and desperate before he started talking to her. He wanted her to be thirsty. He wanted her electrolytes to be depleted. Little things like that always helped. Lawrence had done a good job. He could tell that she was scared already. She was too scared to have even asked if she could use the bathroom. She would sit until he came for her. Every so often, Kratch would send Lawrence in to tell her it would be just a little longer. He let Charlene sit for a good three hours in the glare of the bright white room before he entered and politely introduced himself.

  "I'm going to videotape our interview, Ms. King," Kratch said mildly. "I hope you don't mind."

  That seemed to alarm Charlene, but she nodded her head anyway.

  "Good," Kratch said, turning to the mirror that covered the wall behind him. "I am Lieutenant Donald Kratch and I'm here with Ms. Charlene King. Ms. King has consented to this interview being videotaped. Is that correct, Ms. King?"

  Kratch turned to Charlene and watched her patiently until she said, 'Yfes."

  "And I have in no way coerced you to speak with me here today, have I, Ms. King?" Kratch said.

  "No," she whispered, trying her best to resist another furtive glance at his wandering eye.

  "You came of your own free will?"

  "Yes."

  "Ms. King," Kratch began, focusing his attention on her now and not the mirror, "how long have you known Luther Zorn?"

  Charlene felt herself coming unraveled. Here it was. She knew what was coming. She had used the time they gave her to think. In some way, she was now going to have to betray the man she loved, her savior.

  "About two years," she whispered, staring not at Kratch but at her folded hands, which twitched nervously on the table in front of her. Her nails were painted perfectly, half white, half pink, split diagonally along the length. Luther loved her nails like that. Since Kratch had walked into the room she had tried not to take her eyes off them.

  "Please tell me how you came to know him and the nature of your relationship, Ms. King," Kratch said pleasantly.

  Charlene felt ashamed as she told the story of how Luther had saved her. At the same time, she was happy to heap praise on Luther. They needed to know that. They needed to know how good he was.

  "So you're not only very appreciative of all Luther Zorn has done for you," Kratch said, "it appears you're very much in love with him, is that correct?"

  "Yes," Charlene nodded vigorously "Luther is a great man."

  "Now," Kratch said, the tone of his voice shifting ever so slightly, "Ms. King, in light of your feelings for Luther Zorn, I know you may not want to answer what I'm about to ask you honestly. I know how much Luther means to you, but it's very important that you tell the truth, Ms. King. It's very important."

  Charlene looked up with her lower lip clamped firmly between her teeth. Her tears were evident now. Suddenly, Kratch's questioning took on a new tone. The inquiries came abruptly.

  "Was Luther Zorn at your home last Wednesday night, November the seventh?"

  "Yes"

  "Did Luther Zorn spend the night?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he there in the morning when you woke up?"

  Silence. Charlene may have worshipped Luther, but she would die before she put her son in jeopardy She knew how important her next answer was. She knew about the owners death. She knew when he'd been killed. It was on the news. She'd put it together in the three hours she'd been sitting there.

  "I know Luther wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone!" she blurted out suddenly

  'Was he there in the morning, Ms. King?" Kratch demanded.

  "No," she whispered.

  'What time did you get up?"

  "Seven o'clock."

  "Do you know when he left?"

  "No," she said, "not for sure."

  "Do you have any idea, Ms. King? I want you to tell the truth, please. It's very important, Ms. King."

  Charlene was sobbing now, but she choked out the words. She wanted to go home.

  "I woke up," she moaned. "It was fbur-oh-seven. He was gone."

  "So, Luther Zorn was at your home on Wednesday night when you went to sleep, but sometime before seven minutes after four in the morning, he left your house?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know where he was going, Ms. King?"

  "No."

  "Do you know if he was driving his car, Ms. King?" "Yes. He came in the Viper, and it was gone in the morning."

  "Thank you, Ms. King," Kratch said, calmly, as if a storm had suddenly passed. "YouVe done the right thing."

  Chapter 17

  Charlene dreaded what might happen if Luther found out what she had done. For all the generosity he had shown her, she still knew that something deep and dark was lying dormant in Luther. Something that could hurt her. Something that, she suspected, if disturbed, would be more horrifying than any of the brutality she'd known in her past. That was saying a lot. She thought she saw this thing from time to time in Luther's eyes, lying there, coiled up, resting, but always there. She sensed its power, and she was afraid that now, after what she'd said to the police, she would feel its sting.

  When Tuesday rolled to an end, Charlene began to relax. If Luther was coming, he would have been there by now. Luther was a creature of habit. Monday, the day after most games, was an easy day for Luther, where his work for the Marauders consisted of nothing more than watching film of the previous day's game and lifting weights. Tuesday was his day off. So, if she was going to see him at all, it was most likely to happen one of those two days. After Tuesday, his demanding practice schedule kept him a
way at least until the weekend. That was Luther's pattern. If she saw him again this week, it would be one of his rare Friday nights. It would be late. Luther, of course, had his own keys to the house, and on Friday nights, he might simply appear. He would usually be intoxicated. On those occasions, he would rise early the next morning and return to Palm Beach for a light practice on Saturday if the game was home, or head to the airport if the team was traveling. Charlene would wake and wonder if he had been there at all, or if it had just been a dream.

  When Jamal was tucked away in bed, Charlene poured herself a glass of Chablis and sat down on the couch. She took a sip of her wine and exhaled deeply Some of the tension left her. She checked the listings and turned on an old Bette Davis movie. It was Luther who taught Charlene to enjoy the old black-and-whites. At first, she had no interest in anything but color movies. But, because she would sometimes find herself sitting quietly beside Luther during an evening, she finally let herself enjoy the old ones. Now they were a habit. But the last day and a half of worry left Charlene tired, and soon she was asleep.

  When she woke, it was almost three A. M. She yawned and rolled her neck, kneading it with her fingers to work out a kink. She shut off the TV and started for her bedroom. The wineglass, still half full, sat on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch.

  Charlene went to the bedroom and removed her comfortable sweat suit before pulling on a big old jersey that belonged to Luther. It came all the way down to her knees, and the mesh material was worn smooth on the inside. It even smelled like Luther. She had actually pulled the covers up around her chin when the thought of the wineglass hit her. It would be fine to get it in the morning. The only problem was, what if Jamal got up before her? It wasn't a big deal. She'd had a glass of wine. Charlene rolled on her side with that comforting thought, proud that she'd rationalized herself out of having to move. One half a glass of wine. It was certainly not a major thing.

  Ten minutes later, Charlene threw back the covers and cursed out loud. Every time she was just about to fall back into her sleep, the notion of Jamal finding the glass of wine would bump against her consciousness, ever so slightly, like a balloon gently bumping against a windowpane, and suggest that she was setting a bad example. Here it was, a weeknight, she had work in the morning, and she'd been drinking. She knew it was only half a glass of wine, but it would look bad sitting there in the morning light, the small semicircular smudge from her lips on its rim. She was sure of that now as she padded out to the living room in her bare feet. She picked up the wineglass and took it to the kitchen, where she dumped it out in the sink and placed the empty glass carefully in the dishwasher.