VICTOR LAY ON his couch in the dark living room. Last he knew it had been 1:00 A.M. An hour ago. Or maybe two. Or three. Who knew? His mind was rubble; confusing thoughts crashed in his skull after having run into Jon Merryfield. Twice.
He sat up and turned on the end-table lamp, picked up the previous day’s newspaper from the table and read the story about Brad, again. He’d read it dozens of times.
But Brad’s was not the story that opened old doors in his mind.
It was the photo at the bottom of the front page. The photo of Jon Merryfield.
Mr. Attorney.
Mr. Successful.
Mr. Look at Me.
Mr. Champion of the Weak.
Hard as Victor tried to quell his envy, Merryfield’s success made him sick.
Victor stared at the photo of Jon.
The bird’s shadow fluttered across his mind now, as it had earlier.
It battered around, flapping its wings, trapped in Victor’s brain.
And Victor caught it.
Finally. He snatched it.
He stared at the photo.
Coach. How are you?
Of all the times Jon had passed Victor in town, Jon had never said a word to Victor. Never so much as given any indication that Victor was alive.
Until now
Coach. How are you?
Why?
To taunt.
But it was more than taunting.
An old icy fear started to crawl around inside Victor again, after all these years.