Dan heard the wheeze in the man’s voice and was gripped by a horrible suspicion. “Hardesty? It’s you, isn’t it, you crazy son of a bitch!”

“Your team isn’t going to win the championship without my boy.”

The fact that Hardesty made no attempt to deny his identity magnified Dan’s fear as nothing else could have. Only a man who didn’t care if he lived or died would be so careless.

He knew he didn’t have much time, and he spoke quickly, his voice commanding. “Listen to me. Ray wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“You were jealous of him. That’s why you cut him.”

“This is between you and me. Phoebe doesn’t have anything to do with it. Let her go.”

“Don’t call the police.” Hardesty coughed, a dry rattling sound. “I’m watching on TV, and if I see anything unusual going on, you’ll be sorry.”

“Think, Hardesty! You’ve got an innocent woman—”

“Any more points go on the scoreboard for the Stars, I’m gonna hurt your girlfriend.”

“Hardesty!”

The line went dead.

Dan stood there, stunned. He heard the cheers of the crowd and everything inside him went numb as he remembered the series of plays he had just called. He spun toward the field. Standing in mute horror, he watched as the ball arced through the air and sailed directly between the uprights for a Stars’ field goal.

The scoreboard flashed, and Dan Calebow felt a cold hand grip his heart.

In the subbasement of the dome, Ray cursed and slammed his foot into Phoebe’s chair. She let out a cry as it flew across the slippery floor and crashed into the end wall. Her shoulder caught the impact and shards of pain shot through her body. She tasted blood in her mouth where she bit her tongue.

Afraid of what he would do to her next, she fought against the pain and forced the chair back around so that she was facing him. But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he was staring at the television and muttering to himself.

A close-up of Dan filled the small screen. He looked frantic, and since the score now favored the Stars 173, the commentators were making a joke about it. The sight of him made her feel as if she had been ripped open. She might die today. Was she going to be watching his face when it happened? The idea was unbearable and she forced her numb fingers to begin working at the knots that held her to the chair. As she bit back the pain her movements were causing her, she remembered their last conversation and the unshakable conviction in his voice when he had told her he would never throw a game.

I don’t do that, Phoebe. Not for anybody. Not even for you.

24

On the sideline Dan called Jim Biederot over. He hoped the quarterback didn’t notice the unsteadiness in his voice. “We’re making some changes in the next series, Jim.”

By the time he’d finished giving his instructions, Biederot’s eyes had narrowed into indignant slits above the black smudges that angled across his cheekbones. “Those are goddamn running plays! I’m hitting every receiver I look at.”