Break Point Down Read online

  After a while he shook it off. No time for poetry—it was a busy day, and he'd wasted too much of it waiting for Zack. Call him later on his cell.

  Turning to find a foothold, he noticed movement in the hollow, and odd, agitated sounds. It didn't sound like a bear. What then? Peering down into the dense vegetation, he carefully moved down a few feet.

  A smile broke through and his muscles relaxed. Through a canopy of leaves the dark eyes of a tiny fawn stared up at him in terror. The little guy appeared to be stuck, and was frantically trying to free himself. Kitt looked around to see if he could spot the mother, but nothing else moved.

  Quickly climbing down, he was surprised to see an abandoned truck on its side in a deep depression under an overhanging rock. Some boulders partly covered it. The fawn's foot was jammed in a rusty hole. He mulled it over for a moment. The fawn was small, but in a panic he might deliver a pretty good kick. Better come at him from behind the truck and see if he could break out some of the rusty metal and enlarge the opening.

  It took a while to free the struggling animal, but after fifteen minutes the small deer hopped about on three legs, gingerly putting down the fourth foot about every other step. He quickly disappeared through the foliage, and Kitt knew he'd be back, because there was no way out of the hollow except the way he'd come. Better give the little guy a break and clear out first. He looked over the toppled truck. It was old and trashed. Strange place to dump a wreck. Why drive it way up here just to junk it? Not much of a rig for off-roading. Couldn't have been easy to maneuver it up this high between boulders and bushes, no road or anything, shoving it way under the huge boulder. The way it was lying there—someone was hiding it. Did Zack know it was here?

  An uneasy feeling stirred somewhere inside him. He knew this rig. He studied the small patches of peeling red paint showing through the rust, the dented doors, and a chill ran through him. The Bronco. Thor.

  The right rear fender was missing.

  Suddenly frantic, he yanked open the cab door, its rusty hinges squeaking a loud lament. The glove compartment didn't reveal much besides a screwdriver and a map of the city, but behind the driver's seat was a long, flat box. He rummaged through it. A booklet of column paper with rows of names and dollar figures. Columns for points against serve. Break points converted. Aces. A receipt for a room at the Grand Hotel. A sheet of paper in Jeff's fading handwriting. He made out his name and read no further. A small vial of pills. Photographs of Kari, with a detailed description, stapled to a bill from a detective agency. An Internet printout about acids. Dazed, he stared at the collection. A large folder contained newspaper clippings about child prostitution and runaway children, plus a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Wynne was on it, and so was Kitt. Pulling out a manila envelope with photographs, he had to fight off a violent nausea at the sight of Thor in his death struggle, and Kaz.

  Trophies.

  He buried his face in his hands. The refrain beat on the inside of his skull. It was Zack. All the time it was Zack. It was Zack, who visited Jeff in jail and wormed some more information out of Kitt's despondent brother each time, paying him in deadly pills. He'd come and put his arm around Kitt's shoulders to comfort him over Jeff's overdose. Helped him make posters about Kari. Joined him as a coach for the kids.

  Clenching and unclenching his fists he cramped up in agony.

  “No!”

  A chuckle sounded from the top of the boulder. Kit whirled around and stared up into Zack's malevolent grin. He took a deep breath.

  “So it was you.”

  “Should have stuck to tennis, boy scout. Made a mess of everything else.”

  In a fury he scrambled up the boulder and lunged for his old coach, but he stopped dead in his tracks as he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

  “You'll never learn, will you,” hissed Zack.

  So this was it. After all this time it was out in the open, too late. As though prompted from outside him, his mind began to catalogue memories and dreams and feelings, laying them out for a last review and presentation before the God he'd sought to know, an accounting of what it had all added up to. Struggles, glimpses of truth. A tiny bit of faith. But here it was, and he couldn't even feel scared. No panic. No despair. Just that unfinished feeling of work left undone, years not lived. An emptiness he should have filled, with love and life and Shay.

  Shay.

  He closed his eyes and saw her running toward him, sun-streaked hair flying in the wind, her voice singing out his name.

  “Kitt, I love you!”

  Zack raised the revolver.

  “Say your prayers, boy scout. No more aces for you.”

  Kitt looked him in the eye without flinching, but inside he wept. In the stillness his lips soundlessly formed the words. I love you, Shay. Please, God, hold her close.

  The sound of tiny feet galloping on rocky soil ratcheted through the silence and a reddish brown flash streaked past him, momentarily startling Zack as the fawn seized his opportunity to make a break for it and rejoin the motionless figure of his mother silhouetted above a small hill. Kitt's frozen veins twitched as his blood began to flow again, and kicking off the boulder he propelled himself upward to pounce on his attacker. A shot ran out as Zack went down, but Kitt felt nothing. His knee on Zack's chest, he quickly immobilized the older man, and kicked the gun out of his reach into the hollow. Panting, he stood back, oblivious of the blood that dripped from his scalp where the bullet had grazed him. Zack got to his feet, cursing. His eyes measured the distance to the hollow, but Kitt was way ahead of him. Anticipating opponents' moves had been his bread and butter for years.

  “Don't even think about it.”

  To stop him, he aimed a hard kick at Zack's shins. With surprising speed Zack swung around, whipped out a knife, and flung it straight at Kitt's throat. Kitt ducked the projectile, and threw his full weight at his assailant, pinning him with his face on the ground. He didn't let go this time, and tuned out the stream of obscenities that bubbled up from the dirt. Blocking Zack's every move to free himself, Kitt controlled him with his weight, using one hand and his knees, then yanked a cell phone from his pocket.

  It seemed an eternity before he heard the sirens approaching. Uniformed police officers came running up the hill and he saw Shay's car tearing up the road.

  “Kitt! Kitt!”

  He held her in a crushing embrace as Zack was led, handcuffed, down to the squad cars.

  “How 'd you know?”

  “I had this bad feeling. I called and you didn't answer your cell, and you weren't at the tennis center. So I came up here and I heard the sirens, and—oh, Kitt, you're bleeding!”

  An officer walked up to him.

  “We better get you to the emergency room.”

  “Nah. It's just a scratch. He missed.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Kitt sighed.

  After dinner Jack MacPhie and Roger Delaney sat with Kitt and Shay in the living room.

  “So it's finally over,” sighed Shay.

  “It looks that way,” nodded Roger. “The mementos in that truck—those alone should be enough to do him in. Trying to kill Kitt pretty well clinches it.”

  “When I recognized that truck—I just freaked out. We'd actually warmed up to each other lately. He helped out with the tennis kids.”

  ”An act. Putting it together with everything we already knew—it all makes sense. Zack hushed this up, but he'd been filling in for Zeller's coach for a couple of months to set you up.”

  “So he knew Kurt's nasty little secret and used him. Why didn't Kurt say so?”

  “Blackmail. Police think Garner had been pimping for Kurt. He had the goods on Kurt, but Kurt couldn't prove anything on him. They searched Kurt's homes and computers, found lots of pictures. We assumed he was behind the attacks, working alongside the gamblers, each using the others.”

  “So he's just a little pervert.”

  “In the past he'd used coac
hes and hitting partners as pimps. That gave Zack the idea. A private eye. A phone call to the hospital.”

  “So he offered Rick the exo, through an agent, I suppose. Rick know about any of this?”

  “No. Sargent's so clean he squeaks. We looked at him pretty hard.”

  “I'm glad. So he had his apes there to make sure I'd never play again.”

  “Right.”

  “Kari knew him. He had a go-between?”

  “A street pimp. He wanted her for one night—after that, the pimp could have her. She'd been hanging out with friends, and they were scattering. She was getting hungry.”

  “He was going to destroy that child just to get at me.”

  “Garner is a certified nutcase,” said MacPhie. “Lost big money gambling on you and went batty. You became a fixation. That's what brought him down. He wasn't thinking smart.”

  “Was he there that night in the hotel?”

  “With a camera. He hadn't counted on the rest of us tagging along. He ducked out and we didn't see him. The plan was for you to barge in after his photo session—and oblivion, courtesy of the zoo. Dump you somewhere by the road. Just in case, he had the pictures.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case you had some functional brainpower left.”

  “He was going to kill me?”

  “Let's say he meant to handicap you. You could die. You could have your brain put through the blender. Or you'd be in a wheelchair and he'd have the pictures to taunt you. Kurt was there to take the rap. He had them all covered. All except the chance that you might survive relatively sane. Using the expression lightly.”

  “That was to be the grand finale, but it bombed, so he turned his attention to Shay. Figured that's where he could hurt you worst,” added Delaney. “He didn't factor in kids talking. Kari torpedoed that project.”

  “She could have got the acid bath.”

  “That would have suited him fine. You never know what sets people off. For him gambling was the jump-off point. Greed, addictions, the usual. It escalated from there.”

  “When Jeff extended Garner's contract a few years ago, they were already in this together?”

  “Of course. They started the gambling operation way back. Coaching you became a front. You quit and Jeff got desperate.”

  “Jeff, Wynne, and Zack.”

  “Yes. The others had their fun, lost their money. Annoying, but not devastating. Probably playing the ponies now.”

  “Jeff worked with both of them?”

  “Sure. He probably figured you'd reconstruct his life for him. Wynne was in charge of operation bankruptcy.”

  Kitt thought that over for a minute.

  “As for the violence,” added Delaney, “Wynne didn't instigate it, but she knew who, why, and what, and supplied information. It fit into her plans. Garner was probably flying solo the night of the exo, and again with Shay. I doubt Wynne would have gone along with that.”

  Kitt said nothing for a long time.

  “Jeff was in a fix,” Roger pointed out. “When you retired, Garner, Lloyd-Rutgers, and some of the others turned the screws. Get him back or else. That may be where Zack went psycho. If he'd been rational, he might have tried persuasion, or he could have switched to other players. He'd have lost some cash, but it wasn't the end of the world. He developed an irrational hatred for you, and Jeff got dragged into that. Part of Jeff probably wanted to get back at you.”

  “That trophy box. He had something there from each of his stunts. A picture of the Bronco, some spray paint. Bullets. Pictures. An article about acids. Lots of stuff. There was this bottle of weird-colored pills. I'm thinking that's the stuff Jeff used. You suppose he knew Jeff wanted to kill himself?”

  “All we know is he was pumping Jeff for details of your life. But his obsession with you may have extended to Jeff. Lots of stuff we don't know. The pills may have been payment.”

  “And Jeff saved them up.”

  “Apparently.”

  After a brief silence, Roger resumed quietly, “So this morning he saw your truck. The cleaning crew was gone. He figured you were out exploring, so he got out his gun, and went after you.”

  “How could he have thought he could get away with it?”

  “Zack Garner is a few bottles short of a six-pack,” observed MacPhie. “And he had nothing left to lose once you found that box. If you didn't find it—he could walk away and let Zeller hold the bag. If you did, he was going to kill you, put you in your own truck, and dispose of it. Maybe drive it off a cliff—who knows. Anyway, it's over. You can start thinking about the fund-raiser.”

  “What do deer eat?” asked Shay. “I'm going out there with a big bag of deer goodies. That fawn repaid you big-time.”

  The sun was hot on this autumn day on the Park Strip. Rick strolled over and grinned at Kitt.

  “You got my assistant a little steamed with your e-mail.”

  “How come?”

  “Lots of publicity at stake for your fund-raiser. He had sponsors lined up and media. Big interview. And you tell him you're not going to be there because you've got this final.”

  “First things first.”

  “He asked me if you knew how much money was involved. Beginning of a glorious new career. Reminded me of myself a year ago.”

  “Don't tell me you caught on.”

  “I've tried for the better part of two years to get you back. Used every trick in the book. When you were living in your truck—well, I got it. You're not coming back. An exo here and there. A fund-raiser. But no more pro tennis.”

  Kitt looked at him and smiled.

  “And you're here.”

  “I'm still your friend.”

  Kari was running rackets back and forth, relaying instructions from Kitt. Tripping over a canvas bag, she grabbed Kitt's arm and giggled, and he looked at her in wonder. Her eyes lit up with that mesmerizing kaleidoscope of shattered sunshine.

  Diamond dust.

  Three majors this year. Shay. Kari. The Copy Kitts. He didn't have time to think about it as he huddled with Tommy for one last pep talk.

  Shay clutched Kitt's hand as he stood, rigid and tense, watching Tommy double-fault twice in the opening game. Kari covered her mouth with her clenched fist, hardly breathing. Kitt's hands were aching for that racket, to smoke a few first serves by that smug grin at the other side of the net. The inactivity was driving him crazy. He stared at the racket, at Tommy's hands, willing him to serve hard. It hurt to watch him fumble and miss, time after time. Kitt wanted to take the racket and smash the ball into the dust in front of those expensive ROCA shoes across the court. More than that, he wanted to hug Tommy and tell him it was all right—he didn't have to win, just fight.

  The first set was gone in fifteen minutes. Tommy served into the net and over the baseline. He volleyed into the stands and his crosscourts crossed in front of the net on his own side. In frustration, he threw his racket and earned a warning for racket abuse. His eyes were dark with despair.

  “Calm down! Calm down!” Kitt whispered to himself, clenching a fist in his pocket.

  But Tommy sat with his face in his hands during the changeover, and Kitt knew exactly what he was thinking. A set and two breaks down. He was going to lose, and that cocky grin at the other side of the net had become a smirk. The cheers were for his opponent, and the adults with their drinks and their sunglasses sat back on their bleacher pads, patronizing smiles on their faces as they laughed together and gave their kids the victory sign. Kitt frowned as he saw Tommy's body language, which said he was letting down his coach, his team, his neighborhood. After all the hours and the days of hitting balls against the side walls of warehouses, the weeks he had spent doing nothing but serve, serve, serve—he was getting smoked.

  “Time,” called the referee.

  Tommy had never made eye contact and he didn't now, but Kitt was sure he'd seen his glance dart over to the little group of Copy Kitts who were cheering him. Play the best you can, Tommy. The very best. Thin
k. Watch. Give it what you've got.

  The second set became a dogfight. Taking advantage of his opponent's initial surprise at the changes in his play, Tommy quickly broke serve, twice in a row. The crowd was quieter now, but still confident of their man. Kitt was breathing again. Tommy wasn't going to be double-bageled. The crowd had thought the ghetto kid was going to get blown off the court. Not so fast, Tommy isn't through yet.

  In the next game he had a brief setback when he had a double break point against his serve, but he came through it and they wound up going to a tie-break. Some uneasiness was beginning to show in the opposing camp. The smirk across the net had faded.

  Did Tommy remember what he'd taught him about taking advantage of out-of-control-angry opponents? Watch their reactions when things go wrong, find out what sort they are. Some players could make anger work for them—for others the wheels came off. They lost focus. Kitt figured Josh Duncan for that kind. He'd missed some easy shots when he started to get mad, and twice he'd thrown his racket. He argued with the referee about calls that went against him, and afterward he'd spray a few shots. Did Tommy see it?

  Slowly the body language was beginning to change, the intensity in Tommy's eyes that said he could do more than make a good showing here. The tight lips, that told Kitt that Tommy suddenly wanted very much to win. The new shoes that had seemed to bother him throughout the first two sets, skipping and dancing and flitting about quickly now as he dove and ran for balls nearly out of his reach.

  The stunned crowd had ceased to cheer when somehow Tommy arrived at match point. He fidgeted with the strings of his racket, stepped up to the serving line, and then back again. Kitt's fists were so tight they ached. He stood again at championship point at Wimbledon, at Roland Garros, at Melbourne Park, at Flushing Meadows. The crowd was waiting for him with bated breath. His body throbbed with the ecstasy of the ultimate exertion. His last victory was suddenly there, the hushed crowd, the tears, the nostalgia, and the thrill of the perfect serve.