It was a tense day until show time. Grant was pissed at me, and I was pissed at me, and I was pissed at him. It was a real triumph of camaraderie and good feeling.
We made it till that night without talking to one another. Come showtime, we still weren’t talking, but there I was in the room anyway, waiting for him to go on. His match had been pushed back even further, going on just before Rigg and Spitfire. In fact, that morning he’d spent some time working with people other than Blake; it looked like the boy was moving up in the world, or at least the ranks of his regional promotion.
For a moment when I saw Blake watching their training earlier in the day I wondered about bitterness as a motive, but there would’ve been no reason for him to be bitter back at the start of this tour, when Grant was distracted and lazy in the ring.
Hell, if anything, the guy looked proud. He probably should be.
Later that night, in front of a thumping crowd, I watched Grant turn in the performance of the tour so far. He had them in his hands by the time his intro was over. His match with Blake was crisp, clean, and they both sold every bit of it. They both even went off the ropes at one point, something they’d practiced, but hadn’t done before.
Despite myself, and my determination to be angry and hate everything around me—something I was perversely good at—I was impressed. And I was determined to tell Grant and Blake that when we got back.
Grant went straight to his dressing room, and I started to follow him, when one of the stage hands grabbed me.
“Guy here to see you,” he said.
I assumed he meant Grant, and that I should vet him, so I followed him just a few steps away.
When the wheelchair rolled up, I reminded myself to not sound patronizing, and generally not to act like an asshole. That was proving to be difficult for me, lately.
The man in it put his hand out, and I shook it.
“If you wanna see Grant, we can probably do that,” I said, “but it might take a minute. And I’ll need to…search any bags or anything.”
The man in it—he looked about my age, clean shaven, with thick arms and shoulders full of muscle mass and definition, and atrophied legs—chuckled a little.
“Not here to see Grant. Here to see you, Jack.”
Then I looked again, closer, and he held up his all-access pass on its lanyard.
“David Rackham,” I said, as I read the words. “Holy shit.”
“Those aren’t exactly the words I would’ve thought you’d say, but you know…”
“Jesus, David. David Rackham?”
“Last time I checked.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here. Well, not far, anyway.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Well,” David said, staring at me from under his Phillies cap, “you might not be shocked that your name is a little memorable to me. That I notice it if I hear it.”
“Yeah. I guess…you would.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice taking on a little edge. “It’s hard to forget the guy who broke your back.”
I winced. David smiled up at me, but it was, to put it mildly, a sarcastic smile.
“Look, David…can I call you David?”
“Why not.”
“I feel like you and I ought to sit down and…” I stopped, and put my hand over my eyes.
He actually laughed, but it wasn’t a particularly mirthful sound.
“I owe you. Something. A talk, an apology, a…”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “You do.”
“I guess that’s why Grant sent you the tickets. Smarter than I give him credit for,” I muttered.
“Grant?” He dug into a pocket of the fleece jacket that sat over his lap and pulled it out. “No. No Grant. The tickets and passes came from…Troy? With a note to make sure to say hello to you, and how glad he was to see you on TV. They even sent a note addressed to you. I didn’t open it,” he added, as he held out the small envelope.
My heart and stomach couldn’t decide whether to sink to the soles of my shoes or exit through my mouth. My hand was shaking as I reached out to take the card-sized envelope he was holding out to me.
“David, I’m sorry, but I gotta go.” I dug in my pocket and tossed a card at him, then turned and bolted down the corridor.
The door to Grant’s dressing room was hanging wide open and no one was in it. Two chairs were overturned, and a towel lay in the middle of the floor. I looked for the exit signs, followed them down the maze of corridors. I felt a draft.
A black-shirted staffer was slumped against a wall near the emergency exit, which was open—but no alarm was going off. I didn’t see any blood, and he had a regular pulse and shallow breath. Probably had taken a big blow to the head.
I raced outside. In the parking lot, I heard engines revving. I drew my gun as I ran, which did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves or steady my heart. I saw taillights moving under the lamp-posts, and I heard the rumble of bikes as they headed for an exit.
Three of them, around something larger. A van.
Goddamn it. Everything suddenly made sense.