Creature by John Saul Read Free Book Online

beers to Jenkins but wasn’t surprised when the other man refused it. Popping the top of his own beer, he settled his heavy frame back into his recliner and indicated another chair for the Fairfield coach. But Jenkins remained on his feet.
    “I came over here to tell you I’m going to be filing a complaint against your team, and Jeff LaConner in particular,” he said. “It seems like every year your team gets rougher, and now I’ve got a boy who’s seriously injured.”
    Collins held up a conciliatory hand. “Now, hold on,” he said. “I know you’re upset, and I agree we better talk about this. But I don’t think you want to start talking about complaints, or lawsuits, or whatever else you’ve got in mind. Football’s a rough game—”
    “We know that,” Jenkins said, his voice icy. “And no one expects that there won’t be some injuries now and then. But this one was absolutely inexcusable.”
    Collins frowned. “It was an accident, Bob. You know it.”
    “It wasn’t an accident,” Jenkins objected. “I saw it perfectly. Your boy was going down, and he deliberately threw himself onto Rick.”
    Collins took a deep breath, then rose and walked to the television set, on top of which sat a video-cassette recorder. “Why don’t we just take a look?” he suggested.
    Jenkins gazed at the other man in surprise. “You’re kidding. You mean you tape your games?”
    “Every one of them,” Collins replied. “How can you correct errors if you can’t even show the guys what they didwrong?” He pressed the play button on the tape deck and a moment later an image of that afternoon’s game flashed onto the screen. As both men watched, the penultimate play of the game unfolded before them.
    “Right there!” Jenkins suddenly said. “Play it again. You got slow motion?”
    Collins rewound the tape a few feet, then started the play over again, this time in slow motion. As they watched, they could both clearly see Rick Ramirez tackling Jeff LaConner. Jeff twisted slightly, then collapsed heavily onto Rick. And for just a split-second, before the rest of the two teams piled onto the heap, both men could see Rick’s head twist at an unnatural angle. They watched the tape again, and then once more.
    “Well?” Collins finally asked.
    Jenkins was chewing his lip thoughtfully, but Collins could see that much of his anger had drained away. “I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice betraying his pain at having to make the admission of uncertainty. “But it looks to me like he deliberately threw himself on Rick,” he insisted.
    “And it looks to me like he lost his balance,” Collins replied, rewinding the tape yet one more time. “Let’s watch it again.” Once more the image came on the screen, and once more the two men watched in silence. When it was over, Collins spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “Look, Bob, I know what you’re thinking, and I know how you feel. But all that happened there is that Rick—what’s his name?”
    “Ramirez,” Jenkins replied almost tonelessly, his eyes still fixed on the screen, where Rick’s head was frozen in a painfully grotesque angle.
    “Ramirez,” Collins repeated. “Well, it looks to me like he just did his job, maybe a little too well, and wound up under LaConner when he went down. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
    Jenkins nodded slowly and finally turned away from the television set. “Maybe,” he said softly, “I’ll change mymind about that beer.” He picked it up from the coffee table and jerked at the tab on its top, then took a long swig. “It’s been a bad day. Rick … well, if I had my way about things, Rick would be my stepson.”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Phil Collins groaned. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. If there’s anything I can do—”
    Jenkins abruptly met Collins’s eyes. “There is,” he said. “You can tell me what kind of insurance your school carries and if you’ll fight a claim on this