Peter Abrahams - The Fan

She thought. Gil knew what she was thinking: knife collector, 325i, it fit. There were lots of things that didn’t fit, though, and Gil could see she wasn’t finished with them. She started to frown. At that moment, Gil heard the heavy wings beating overhead again, going the other way this time. Nig, at the foot of the bed, heard them too. Whether the sound reminded him of some nocturnal fright in his past, whether he was reacting to something else, or nothing at all, Nig suddenly began to howl.

A loud and startling intrusion that filled the trailer with bestial noise. Claudine jumped. Gil jumped too-right across the room and full force against her legs. She fell, lost her grip on the gun. Gil got his arms around her, started to shift his weight on top. Then Nig landed on him, and sank his teeth into the back of his thigh. Claudine squirmed away.

She ran across the room and out the door. Gil scrambled up. Nig bit him again, the other leg this time. Gil took the thrower off the kitchen table and sank it to the hilt in Nig’s head.

Then he was out the door too, bloody thrower in hand. Claudine was halfway across the yard, already past the pickup and the 325i. She had no keys, he realized. He ran after her, gaining at first. In seconds he was close enough to hear the high-pitched noise she made at the beginning of every breath. But then they were in the woods, where the ground was rough, and she had shoes on and he did not. He ran as hard as he could, but stopped gaining. Her frosted hair flashed on through the trees. There were trails in the woods, trails she probably knew and could probably find, even in the darkness. She was going to lose him. Without thinking of the proper form, without calculating distance or rotation, Gil drew back the thrower and let go.

How much time passed? Half a second? Three-quarters? It seemed much longer to Gil. Then he heard her say, “Oh,” and she crumpled and fell.

Gil hurried to the spot, bent down, and saw that he had been perfect. He rose and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. His hand encountered gouges in the bark. He looked, and discovered the deer-heart-sized circle he had carved, and the deep marks of his practice session.

“Yes,” he said.

He carried Claudine back to the pickup, laid her on the front seat. He put Nig in there too. If it was blood they wanted, let them find a confusion of it. Of course he knew who they would look for first. Boucicaut, even in death, a rock for him.

Gil went inside, showered and dressed, retrieved the bag of knives; then climbed into his car and drove away. He was coming into his own.

The custodian of the cemetery called the police station next morning.

“Been some digging again,” he said.

“What kind of digging?” asked Claymore.

“Just digging. No vandalism or nothin’. Everything put back, like. But digging, all the same.”

“Probably just some kids,” said Claymore.

“Maybe, but why would kids dig up the same place twice?”

“What do you mean, the same place?”

“The same grave, like.”

“Whose grave?”

“Renard, R. G.”

“I’ll be right over,” said Claymore.

“ Coming up on the All-Star break now, Bernie.”

“Sure was fast, Norm.”

“Faster for some than for others.”

“Slow going for the old town team, is that what you’re trying to say?”

“You got it.”

“Good a time as any then, Norm-what’s your midseason assessment?”

“In two words, Bernie? De pressing. They’re dead last and going nowhere.”

“What the heck happened, Norm?”

“More what didn’t happen.”

“Like?”

“Like Rayburn, Bernie. It starts and maybe ends right there. Wasn’t Rayburn supposed to be the missing piece of the puzzle, the big bat in the middle of the lineup that was going to put them over the top?”

“Don’t look at me, Norm. Who warned everybody he wasn’t the Messiah? Taking nothing away from his great career, of course, but he’s been stuck in this woeful slump so long now, it’s maybe getting to be time we asked ourselves if slump is still the right word.”

“The implication being?”

“Just that all good things got to end. All things must pass, right? George Harrison.”

“Not my favorite Beatle.”

“Who was?”

“Ringo.”

“Me too. Where were we, Norm?”

“Bobby Rayburn.”

“Right. He’s no kid anymore, is he? Lose a little off your bat speed, it gets around the league pretty quick.”

“Trade rumors are already percolating.”

“So I hear, from reliable sources. But it may already be too late for them to get anything for him. It’s like the stock market-by the time John Q. Public gets wind of something, the insiders have already discounted it.”

“Except they don’t spit tobacco juice on Wall Street, Bernie.”

“Might be an improvement if they did. Let’s go to the phones. Who’s out there? Gil? Gil on line three. Go ahead, Gil.”

Dead air.

“Gil?”

Dead air.

“Looks like we lost Gil. Let’s go to-”

“Hello?”

“That you, Gil?”

“Am I on?”

“You’re on, Gil. What’s up?”

“Trade rumors?”

“Say what?”

“There are trade rumors about Rayburn?”

“Just speculation at this point, Gil.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“The usual kind-unconfirmed. What’s your point?”

“You said reliable sources.”

“I may have.”

“Like who?”

“Like people close to some of the principals. I can’t get more specific than that, Gil, without violating a confidence. I’m sure you understand.”

“Bernie here, Gil. I take it from your tone you don’t think trading Rayburn would be such a good idea.”

Dead air.

“Gil? You still there?”

“It would be a disaster.”

“Isn’t that putting it a little strong, Gil?”

“Not strong enough. Not nearly. Bobby Rayburn’s the best thing to happen to this team in years, and all they’ve done is screwed him up and down.”

“Who’s they?”

“Everybody. Look how they mishandled the rib thing. And they didn’t exactly welcome him to the team, make him feel at home, did they?”

“That’s a new one on me. You hear anything like that, Norm, not welcoming him to the team?”

“Never. Can you give us an example maybe, Gil?”

“I could.”

“Well?”

Dead air.

“Gil? You still there?”

“I’m still here. But what’s the use?”

“What’s the use of what? I don’t get you, Gil.”

“Just get this, Bernie. I’m sick and tired of you taking shots at him all the time. When’s it going to stop?”

“Right now. Let’s go to Chuckie in Malden. What’s shakin’?”

Jewel Stern walked into the control room, pressed the talk-back button when Norm went to commercial. “What was that guy’s name?”

Bernie, sitting opposite Norm in the studio, pressed his button. “Gil.”

“A regular, would you say?” said Norm, emptying packets of sugar into his coffee.

“Not quite,” Bernie said.

“Gil who?” said Jewel.

“No last names here,” said Norm. “You know that.”

“Just like in porn movies,” Bernie added.

Fred, at the controls, raised his hand. “Coming to you in three, two, one.” He stabbed his index finger at the glass.

“That’s a pretty thought,” said Jewel. “Think I’ll take a shower.”

And Norm and Bernie were both laughing as they came out of commercial.

“We’re back.”

“Ain’t sports a gas?”

“Wee-ooo. Let’s get right to the phones.”

Gil saw he was doing eighty-five, eased off the pedal. Assholes, Bernie and Norm, but they were right about one thing: the team was going nowhere. Driving south, remembering from time to time to ease off the pedal, Gil listened to fans from all over the region searching for the reason why, listened to Norm and Bernie, the supposed experts, searching for the reason why. None of them had a clue.