Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller by David C. Cassidy Read Free Book Online Page B

outfield, past the warning track, past the fence, past the picnickers in the hollow there, past the footpath along the river, and then fell from orbit and into the Little Sioux with a sploop, that no one was close enough to hear.
    Jones stepped lively to first, rounded second, and headed for third. He’d known, maybe even when he was on-deck, he was going to hit a homer, he’d just known. He turned at third with a swagger, the ball long since bobbing for breath in the Sioux, and as he made his way toward home, corked a taunting laugh to that shaken face on the mound.
    That was it. The gangly kid had taken all he could take and wasn’t going to take any more. He charged from the mound, eyes aflame, trying to fling his glove off. He was moving so fast his cap blew up and off. He let out a horrible growl, something akin to the sound one might hear when a bear has taken enough of the smartass kid at the zoo who’s been rattling the bars of his cage.
    Halfway to the plate the runner sped up, but the pitcher was on him before he made it home. The kid dove into him, knocking him off stride, but it was only enough to slow him. Jones kept on, turning round, walking backwards at a brisk pace. He was egging the kid on with his hands.
    “ Come on, dickwad. Ya fight better than ya pitch? ”
    Both benches cleared. It looked like the mayhem after the final out in the World Series. Teenage boys standing and watching, some yelling for Jones to drop dead, some for the pitcher to, pockets of boisterous fans rising from their seats. The pitcher was fuming, standing there with his glove still caught on his wrist, his brown hair all over the place. He struggled to catch his breath, and just when you thought he might not charge the batter, he did. He bolted hard and was met broadside by Coach Plummer. The man threw his arms round the boy, his high pants riding up even higher. His weight bowled them over. They hit the dirt hard, dust flying up like ghosts from their graves. Jones started laughing; some of the others did, too. The infield and outfield had come in, most of them shaking their heads. The umpire and the catcher both stood with their masks up, agog.
    “ Enough, ” the coach said, his big body pinning the boy. “ ENOUGH. ” He waited for a sign of capitulation, and finally received it in a dour nod. The man got to his knees, rose, and started dusting himself off.
    All eyes were on Ryan Bishop now. He wasn’t a pitcher, suddenly; wasn’t Number 23, wasn’t a ballplayer anymore. He was just a boy, a bad one at that, a troubled one with a chip on his shoulder. He lay there unmoving, spilling with anger and embarrassment. Awkward silence engulfed him like cold rain.
    Benny the shortstop made a move toward his teammate, but the coach waved him off.
    “No, son. No. Just give him space. Everybody just give him space.”
    William Jones chuckled, and with a satisfied grin, stamped on home plate to make it official. Game over. I win. Technically the game wasn’t over, the Tigers had last at-bat, but no one wanted to play. Some of the players had already started packing up.
    “Damn you, Jones, wipe that smirk off your face.” It was the Madness coach. He rounded up the rest of his team, most of them moving through the gate and into the parking lot with their heads low. A few of them straggled behind to watch the show, then followed the handful of disappointed parents who’d made the trip from Mason City. Jones’ dad—the man in the red ball cap—threw his arm round his son and congratulated him on a great game, going on about how proud he was, how damn proud.
    The field emptied as Coach Plummer asked his team to clear out. He reminded them of the next practice two days from now, told everyone to be on time. Ben Caldwell said he’d wait for Ryan in his pickup; he was giving him a ride home. Plummer waited for the shortstop to leave them.
    Ryan Bishop was sitting up now. Stewing.
    “You okay, son?”
    The kid nodded. “Yeah. No