The Rules of the Game

By J.E. Irvin

When teacher Cammie Rose finds an old photograph hidden in her father’s den, she begins to question her family history and the truth about all the men in her life, including the one who is stalking her. Soon, she begins a deadly game of cat and mouse with the mystery figure. As the ghosts of the past rise, Cammie races to discover the identity of her tormentor before she becomes his next victim. In this return to Hopewell, the setting of her award-winning The Dark End of the Rainbow, J. E. Irvin introduces a compelling new cast of characters, a decades-old secret, and a killer who threatens to break all the rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com
• Release date: Nov 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370606115

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The Rules

of the

Game

J. E. Irvin

ABSOLUTELY AMAZING eBOOKS

Published by Whiz Bang LLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida 33040, USA.

The Rules of the Game copyright © 2016 by J.E. Irvin. Electronic compilation/ paperback edition copyright © 2016 by Whiz Bang LLC.

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For my daughters, Dana and Melissa,

who taught me that good coaching,

like good teaching, begins in the heart...

For all the teachers who sacrifice

their time, money and lives

for their students…

Sports teaches you character,

it teaches you to play by the rules, it teaches

you to know what it feels like to win and lose -

it teaches you about life.

- Billie Jean King

What hand dare seize the fire?

- William Blake

The Rules

of the

Game

Friday, October 25:

Tiger

THREE DAYS AFTER HIS ARRIVAL back in the States, Tiger returned to the airport, carrying the soiled sweats in a fast-food bag, a rental car receipt and the girl’s ID. Cap pulled low, shoulders slouched, he stuffed the bag in a trash can and, pretending to look for his suitcase, slipped the ID onto the baggage carousel, where it wedged itself between the conveyor belt and the wall. As he headed for the restroom, he drew attention. Maybe they recognized his face from the newspapers. Maybe it was the dog. A man offered to shake his hand. A middle-aged woman with curious eyes turned to watch him pass. A teenager, giggling, asked for his autograph. One little girl flirted, then hid her face in her father’s leg, warned by instinct not to start the game too soon. Lifting one hand, he tugged the cap lower. Her scent still lingered.

At the car rental counter, he signed off on the paperwork, returned the keys and headed outside. His phone vibrated against his hip, reminding him of the job hinted at in the text, a respectable position providing a cover story, a purpose, a convenient excuse to be back. It was also intoxicating and scary. All those adolescent bodies circling around him every day. He would have to set some ground rules. Snugging the dog’s leash closer, he ignored the bite of the leather against the blisters on his thumb.

Outside, the rain pounded, thickened, promised snow by nightfall. Crossing to the cabstand, he huddled under the awning as the vehicles rolled forward. The first one waved him off, choosing to load a family of four into the van. A suit with an attaché case and a VIP face beat him to the second. When the third cab pulled up, he loaded the dog, slid onto the seat and handed a card to the driver. Then, coughing, he settled lower. Only the crown of his hat was visible in the rear-view mirror.

No luggage? The cabbie gave him a sideways stare as he flipped the meter.

Tiger pointed at the card.

You got larin, lorin, some kind of gitis? The man scratched his forehead. Oh, that means you can’t talk. No prob, man. I know right where this place is at. That dog bite?

Shaking his head, Tiger commanded the dog to lie down. When he closed his eyes, the scene unfolded, his part ad-libbed until he worked out the play.

He tosses the school notebook into the flames, along with the girl’s underwear and the cheap backpack stuffed with notebooks, a sweater and a pair of red tennis shoes. While the fire blazes, dancing its way through the remnants of her life, he digs the grave. The sandy soil offers little resistance, like the ragazza when he offers her a ride. So easy, so trusting and naïve, a girl seduced by her own invincibility. They were all alike. He enjoyed being their first. But he’d never killed one on purpose before.

Gripping the corners of the tarp, he lowers her down, layers the hot coals over her naked chest and covers it all with dirt. He flings the shovel out over Lake Piedmont, where it splashes on the dark surface and disappears.

The cab pulled up to the front of the Stay-a-While Inn, a multi-storied building comprised of temporary residence apartments. When he arrived from London, rented the car and checked in, he’d been reluctant to go straight home. Now he couldn’t wait. Stripping, he balled his underwear and the cap and stuffed them in a plastic bag. Tomorrow, on his way to Hopewell, he could lose them in a trash bin. In the shower, he lathered away the guilt, remembering, reliving, searching for mistakes he might have made.

Scrubbing off the ash and the dirt and the blood in the shallow waters, he slips into his jacket, pulls on sweatpants. Dark circles appear where the fabric clings to his wet thighs. He checks the campsite one last time, the taste of wood smoke on his tongue, and retraces his path through the forest. The thick fall of leaves dulls the swish of his footsteps back to the put-in where he left the rental car. When he whistles, the dog runs out of the tree line, a dead rabbit dangling from its mouth.

Brushing his teeth, he debated the pros and cons of going out for dinner. The dog flopped on the carpet, its eyes mournful and pleading.

Sorry, girl. He rubs her ears. No more hunting tonight. 

The adrenaline rush was gone, replaced by fatigue and the certainty that the game was finally underway. Now that he had mastered the art of the kill, he could stalk his real prey. And when he had her, he wouldn’t hesitate. Too bad about the Italian girl. She was just a pawn on the board. It was the queen he was after. He rubbed his eyes to forestall the tears, the display of weakness. Didn’t he make the girl happy before she died? Didn’t he tuck the card beneath her coiled fingers, the apology inked in short, firm strokes. Not that it mattered. It was too late for I’m-sorries. He’d tried that the first time. It wouldn’t bring anyone back.

Examining the raw and blistered skin on his palms, he acknowledged the next inevitable step. He needed a place to heal, a place to hide. Revenge, he’d heard, was a dish best served cold. Twenty-three years had passed. His dish had become a glacier.

Time to go home.

Friday, October 25:

Cammie

AFTER THE HALLS EMPTIED, Cammie Rose stepped back inside the classroom, laid the student folders next to the computer and stared at the screen, which stared back, cursor blinking, electronic mind unimpressed by the magnitude of tasks confronting its weary human operator. The learning disabilities caseload had doubled since Elaine George broke her leg and went on med leave. Cammie missed her friend and co-worker. El always understood the need for a little ‘attitude adjustment’ at the end of the week. A glass of cabernet would be so very welcome tonight.

Bringing up the IEP program, she typed in her password and waited for the files to load. Each student required an individual education plan. On the other hand, she needed an ILP, an individual life plan, preferably one that took her far away from Hopewell High and the tenuous situation in which she found herself. She stared at the blinking icon. Next student? NO, she wanted to type, NEXT LIFE. Too many students, too many reports. Picking up the desk plaque commemorating her first five years at HHS, she considered what the next five years might bring.

Going back to school was always a wise career move, especially if she wanted to advance into administration. Except grad school cost money she no longer had. She could play the Internet dating game, take a chance on cyber love. Like that was going to happen. She touched the bruise over her eye, hoping she hadn’t rubbed off all the makeup. Or she could accept Dean Craig’s invitation to become his assistant coach, bide her time, move up to the head position when he retired. Which meant following in her father’s footsteps. She batted away the panic flapping around that idea. What else? Oh, yeah, she could stay at Hopewell High until they gave her a party and a wall clock and wished her happy golden years. She couldn’t see that happening either. Her latest teaching evaluation, out of sight in the bottom drawer of her desk, stated she had a confrontational demeanor and an anti-authority attitude. She should probably cross retirement off her list, too.

And that, she said, addressing the empty desks, about sums it up.

The desks refused to comment. As she worked, the room darkened. Sleet tapped, knocked, then pounded against the windows. A siren, distant but growing in volume, drew her to the glass. She didn’t see any police cruiser lights, no EMT ambulance, no sign of an accident. Only a few teachers’ cars remained in the lot, hers among them. The run must be heading farther down the Pike. Returning to her desk, she unwrapped an energy bar and switched the screen to her online banking site. Her savings account, once robust, had dwindled since Rob talked her into loaning him cash for his no-way-to-lose investment scheme. What the hell had she been thinking? Unless he paid her back, an unlikely prospect now, she wouldn’t be able to cover her father’s December bill at the nursing home. Feeling sick to her stomach, she logged out and returned to the paperwork. She had almost finished typing up another student plan when Allie Centers rushed into the room. 

Did you hear? Clutching her backpack to her chest, her startling blue eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, the girl gulped in air.

I should be wearing glasses, too. Alarmed, Cammie rocked to her feet, knocking her thigh against the desk. Great. Another bruise.

Did something happen at practice?

It’s Coach Craig, Miss Rose. I think he had a heart attack.

Slow down, Allie. Here. Cammie held out a bottle of water. The siren roared as the emergency vehicle approached the school. Tell me what’s going on?

Allie sat, but she didn’t relax her grip on her pack. Inside, Cammie knew, was the playbook that served as the girl’s lifeline. We were running drills and Coach, he, like, grabbed his shirt and the next thing, he just fell over. I called 9-1-1 and then the squad came and told us to leave and then I ran here. What if he dies, Miss Rose?

Cammie gnawed her thumbnail. When her father had his stroke, Dean Craig had taken over the girls’ basketball program. As recently as yesterday, he had cornered her in the mailroom and reissued an invitation to serve as his assistant. If she had accepted, would it have made a difference? She shook her head, as if to deny the outcome would change it.

The EMT’s know what they’re doing.

But people die of heart attacks all the time.

Yes, they do, but that doesn’t mean Coach Craig will die. Before she could say more, the overhead speaker whined. Anyone still in the building, the secretary droned, please come to the main office. Principal Hanson wishes to speak to you.

Allie wiped her eyes. Can I come, too?

Grabbing her keys, Cammie put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Of course you can. He’s your coach, after all. By the way, she tapped Allie’s notebook, added any new rules to your list?

Not yet. The old ones still work. Get eligible. Stay eligible. Win state. The girl tugged her ponytail. Except how are we going to do that if something happens to Coach?

We’ll worry about that when we find out what’s going on. Can you tell me how you’re doing in your classes?

I have my interim report here somewhere. She unzipped her pack and rummaged inside as they walked. Cammie sighed. She cared about all her students, but Allie Centers had been her favorite for the past three years. Their mutual passion for basketball had cemented a bond that began the first day the girl stepped into the LD classroom, dragging her backpack and announcing to everyone that she intended to make varsity her freshman year. No one could fault her determination, but they had work to do academically. In addition to her dyslexia, the girl had a serious organization problem, one they’d worked on, but not quite solved, over the last three years. Locating the crumpled printout, Allie clutched it to her chest.

Well? Cammie said. What’s the verdict?

Pursing her lips, the girl glanced at it before handing it over. I made it, barely. English sucks.

Reading the report, Cammie noted a check in the box that read Extra Help Required.

No, it’s just challenging. She handed it back. If you want help, you know where to find me.

At the end of the hall, they merged with a small crowd of teachers, students and custodians filing into the main office. The principal waved them closer, raised his hands for silence and scrubbed at his face.

Listen up, people. You heard the sirens. The fact is Coach Dean Craig has suffered a serious cardiac event. He’s being transported to the hospital as we speak. Holding up his cell phone, Ed spoke above the murmurs. Players, practice is canceled. Now, you all need to go home and wait for further information. As you can see if you look outside, there’s a storm underway. It’s already bad and predicted to get worse. According to my weather app, a significant snowfall is expected by morning. So, go home, everyone. Slowly, carefully and right now. And pray for Coach Craig’s quick recovery.

It’s too early in the season to be having a storm like this, Cammie murmured.

My brother says it’s because of global warming. A boy wearing a Hopewell sweatshirt stepped up beside the girl. Hey, Allie.

Although Cammie didn’t know Drew Walsh well, she recognized his face. Once a promising athlete, an accident had left him with a distinctive patch of white hair and a permanent limp. Now, instead of playing basketball, he served as manager of the girls’ team.

Hey, Allie said. You ready to go?

He shrugged. If you’re still willing to give me a ride. Do you believe in global warming, Miss Rose?

I do, Drew. Who’s your brother?

Before he could answer, one of the varsity players yelled over the press of voices. Hey, Hanson, who’s going to coach our team?

Uncertain for now. The board and I will make a decision about a coach by Monday. Now, go home, everyone. And drive safely. The principal did that shooing thing adults do when they want teenagers gone. Grumbling, the group shuffled toward the exit.

Her question to Drew forgotten, Cammie noted the tears welling in Allie’s eyes. You going to be okay?

The girl shook her head. I don’t know. My dad’s deploying Sunday and now Coach Craig is gone. Everyone I care about is leaving me.

I didn’t know about your father. She hugged the girl, then shook her gently. But he’ll be all right. And Coach is getting really good care. The best, actually. So you should listen to Mr. Hanson and go home. I promise to call if I receive any updates.

Will you still help me practice my shot? And come to our games? If we have any.

Stop. Everything’s going to be all right. Cammie hated the lie even as she pronounced it. How could she make such a promise? I’m committed to our sessions at the Fitness Center, so no need to worry about that. And you know I’m pretty busy coaching the junior high team right now, but I’ll be at your games. You can count on that.

I am counting on that, Miss Rose, more than you know. Allie started to add something else, then hesitated. Can I stop by next week?

Of course. Any time.

Watching the girl head out the door with Drew, Cammie shivered. Allie reminded her so much of herself when she was a senior. Had it really been ten years ago? Her phone buzzed. She checked the display. Rob. Demanding to meet her. When the screen went dark, she watched her reflection waver in the glass, the black eye he’d given her during their argument last night hidden beneath the fall of hair and the tears creasing her cheeks.

~~~

Gripping the wheel to control the skid, Cammie coasted up Elaine’s driveway. Her friend’s convalescence had taken its toll on the well-tended lawn, and the sleet was finishing the job. Dead annuals sagged in the flower boxes, the evergreens needed trimming and leaves covered most of the mulched flowerbeds. She should volunteer to help with cleanup, but she didn’t have the energy for yard work. Juggling her purse and the wine, she let herself in.

Red or white? she called out.

One of each, Elaine shouted back. Or just bring me the whole damn bottle. Hope they’re screw tops. I can’t find my opener.

Where are you? Shrugging out of her coat, Cammie liberated two glasses from the cupboard and pulled the corkscrew from her pocket. Never hurt to be prepared.

In the dungeon. Come quick. Elaine made a choking sound. I’m dying of thirst. And curiosity.

Tucking one bottle under her arm, Cammie headed down the short flight of stairs that led to the family room.

Trilevels, she said, handing a glass to her friend, aren’t convenient to ladies with broken legs.

We gimps agree. Taking a sip, Elaine closed her eyes and sighed. That is a wonderful chardonnay. California?

Cammie lifted her glass of cabernet to toast her friend’s talent at wine tasting. Before they met, she knew nothing about nose or varietals or bouquets. Elaine, who grew up the pampered child of a wealthy California family with vineyards in Temecula, had instructed her in the finer points of the grape.

Can’t fool you. Cheers. Cammie collapsed into a recliner. So, how are things with you and the Chipster?

Elaine stared into her wine glass, then gulped it down. Tense. Some tools got stolen at work, more than a few, actually. He’s been trying to get them back before going to the police.

He going to talk to Janeece?

Elaine shook her head. He’d rather not have to confide in a friend.

Not to mention the best shortstop on our mutual softball team. Cammie cradled her glass in her hands. I know how he feels. But that could affect his job, couldn’t it?

It could, but you know Chip, always smoothing things over. He thinks everyone has a good heart.

So he does, El. That’s a valuable trait in a husband. Does he have any suspects?

If he does, he won’t discuss them. But I don’t want to talk about him tonight. Tell me all the Hopewell gossip. Elaine poured herself a second glass. Start with that shiner you’re wearing. Is that one of Rob’s love taps?

He said he didn’t mean it.

Bullshit. He’s a one-man train wreck aiming straight for you. I’m sorry I ever introduced you two. And I hate that he’s Chip’s cousin. Elaine scowled. Next time I see the bastard, I’m going to beat him with my crutch.

No need to worry about me and Rob Martin anymore. Cammie brushed invisible lint off her jeans. I’m done with men.

So you say. Until the right one comes along.

When’s that? Hopewell has about this many eligible bachelors. She held up three and a half fingers.

Elaine snorted. Who’s the half?

That guy who works at the STORE N GO up on the Pike. I’m not sure if he counts.

What about the money?

Frowning, she refilled her glass. I have to get it back. I just don’t know how.

Chip loaned him some, too, you know.

No way.

Way. It was supposed to be an investment in some new venture. Like Rob’s ever going to pull that off. He’s got the worst head for business. Elaine picked at a loose thread in the sofa cushion. We had a big fight about it.

So did we. She lifted the hair off her neck so Elaine could see the rest of the bruises.

Geezus, girl, that’s grounds for abuse. You should have called the cops.

And ruin my reputation as a kick-ass athlete? No way, girlfriend.

I have to pee. Hoisting her leg off the couch, Elaine adjusted her crutches and hobbled over. I’m serious, Cam. You should call Janeece. She may be wallowing in her own drama, but she’s a good cop and a good friend. And don’t give up hope on the man front. At the risk of being all Pollyanna, the right guy’s out there. You just haven’t met him yet.

Cammie twirled her wine glass. Think I’ll know him when I meet him?

Your heart will. Elaine hobbled down the hall to the powder room. Now, fetch us some cheese and crackers, wench. When I’m done in here, you can tell me all the school gossip. There must be something juicy going on.

Dean Craig had a heart attack.

What? Elaine turned back. When?

After school, during practice. The squad took him to the hospital.

Holy hells. I’m sorry to hear that.

He asked me to be his assistant coach again, you know.

What did you tell him?

I said no.

Friday, October 25:

Tiger

HOME. THAT PLACE WHERE, when you go there, they have to take you in. Parking at the bottom of the hill, Tiger walked up the gravel drive toward the Null Cabin. A bronze marker proclaimed the building Warren County’s oldest existing structure. Sleet pecked at his face. Cold air curled up his pants leg. Shivering, he inhaled a whiff of decay and the faint trace of skunk. When he reached the cabin, he stepped onto the limestone block that served as a porch and looked out over the valley. The dog foraged among the groundcover, happy to be out of the car.

Below, Hopewell spread out like a giant mushroom, butting up against its neighbors, Springboro and Franklin. Separated by the expanse of the Interstate, the three municipalities huddled, crab-like, beside the highway. The ribbon of Clear Creek trickled through the town, sparkling in the frigid air whenever it caught the light from the strip mall along its border. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he scanned the town’s small business district, then moved on to the historic Victorians ringed by the fifties-era ranches. This was his territory. He grew up here, running through the woods, poking at crawdads in the streams that crisscrossed the fields, playing hoops in the park. Evading the rages of the grandparents who raised him. A complicated childhood, followed by an adolescence of contemplating slights and hungering for recognition.

Barking twice, the dog raced back to settle at his feet, the growl in her throat warning any approaching animal to beware. He commanded her to stay and turned to examine the new high school across the way. The town had commissioned it to replace the old two-story structure that had housed Hopewell’s teens since the 1930s. A two-story central core flanked by two broad wings, it perched on the crest of the area’s highest hill. The old high school now served as a sixth grade building, its original use unknown by newer residents. Closing his eyes, he recalled the smell of chalk dust, of gym sweat, the cafeteria odors that defined his days until that summer after his junior year. Following the glow of highway lights, he identified the façade of Martin Luther Christian High School, two miles beyond the town’s limits, the school that Coach said had superior ballplayers and elite connections, the school to which they banished him. And he remembered the girls. How they encouraged his initial fumblings in the dark, welcomed his growing prowess, taught him about the mysteries of their bodies and the deceit in their souls. No matter what he demanded, they never said no and always agreed not to tell, as long as he promised to meet them again.

Precipitation fell harder, morphing from a slushy mix to ice that coated the leafless trees. Raising his arms, he embraced the night and the land below.

My playground, he murmured. The dog looked up, its muzzle slick with moisture. Below, along the highway, an ambulance raced north, lights flashing, its siren a trumpet call announcing disaster.

Ready or not, Hopewell, he murmured, his voice cajoling and triumphant. I’m back.

The dog startled into a crouch. Squatting to soothe the animal, Tiger licked his lips, remembering the taste of the girl, her taut nipples, the juice between her legs. He stuck out his tongue, welcoming the cold curl around its warm surface. Patting the dog’s head, he reminded himself of the rules. Lie low. Look, don’t touch. Put the plan in place. His grandfather’s sole piece of advice invaded his thoughts, punctuated by a slap upside the head.

Don’t shit where you sleep.

Friday, October 25:

Cammie

BY THE TIME Cammie left Elaine’s, the temperature had fallen, transforming the rain into thick, slushy ropes and then to an icy cowl that blurred the view of the newly established Arboretum from Cammie’s townhouse window. Glad to be home, she called June.

So, Mom, everything all right with you?

Her mother’s self-medicated drawl oozed over the line.

No complaints, Cameron. Got my music and my pills and a frozen pizza I can stick in the microwave. She paused. I thought you were coming to see me.

Guilt at her failure to perform her daughterly duties nestled in her gut. She stared into the face of the growing storm. I went to see Elaine, Mom, my teacher friend who broke her leg. You remember. I told you yesterday.

I broke my leg once and your father said, ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, June,’ and refused to take me to the hospital. He finally agreed to drive me to the emergency clinic after I crawled around the house for an hour. Then we had to go to the hospital. It was a big mess.

I remember. Her father’s transgressions had been well documented over the years. The time he forgot to pick Cammie up from soccer. The year he failed to file their income tax return. Her mother’s broken leg story. Despite his attempts to change the pattern later, the damage had been too great. Now, there was no more time to set things right.

Well, her mother said, her tone brighter, did you get your save-the-date postcard in the mail today? My friend designed everything on the computer, some company out of Vermont. I think it’s quite clever.

Glancing at the bold yellow summons announcing the upcoming nuptials of her mother’s best friend’s lawyer daughter taped next to those of two college friends, Cammie fought an urge to throw up. Yeah, Mom, I got it.

It’s not too late, honey, her mother said. You’ll find someone.

That’s what Elaine said. Eager to change the subject, she brought up one her mother wouldn’t like. Did you think about what I said? About selling the house?

Oh, dear, I can’t imagine living anyplace else. What if your father gets better? What if he wants to come home? Besides, where would I go?

Cammie gritted her teeth. Her father was never coming home again, and her mother’s refusal to face that fact had boxed them into a corner. June Rose suffered from an inability to accept the truth. She thought the checkbook was a faucet. Fill in the lines and the money magically appeared. From her daughter’s account. Which explained the current state of Cammie’s own finances.

All right, Mom, don’t cry. I’ll come see you tomorrow.

Fine, honey. Come for supper. I’ll fix your favorite chicken salad. Just a hint of a pout. In the background, the host of a game show asking the next