Wildcard. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ is more a favor than a punishment, as I see it. But he also blackballed the guy around town. Guy lost his job, couldn’t get another. He finally had to move to Oregon and start over. All because his wife took a job.”

      Tom shook his head. Having grown up in small towns, he could see how it had happened. Close-knit communities were a two-edged sword. They could rally around someone in times of grief, as the townspeople had done with him and his father after his mother died. But they could also cut someone out of the herd over the most trivial matter. Or, as had been the case with his father two years later, the not-so-trivial matters.

      “So why did this group get flagged?” Tom asked.

      Miriam shook her head. “Damned if I know. I didn’t see anything that connects Dixon to Grant Lawrence. But the computer spat it out, so we have to go through it. No stone unturned, right?”

      “Yeah,” Tom said, looking at his watch. He took three more files from the pile. “Look, it’s almost ten. I’m going to make this my bedtime reading. And you need to get some sleep, Miriam. Sitting here all night stewing isn’t going to do the Bureau, Grant, Terry or me any good.”

      “You’re right,” she said, reaching for a handful of files to take home with her. “Life will be better in the morning, right?”

      Tom forced a smile. “At the very least, it’ll be a different day.”

      Watermill, Long Island

      Edward Morgan flipped through the channels until he hit on an all-sports network running classic NFL films. This particular episode was the famous 1968 “Heidi Bowl” game between the New York Jets and the Oakland Raiders, so named because the network had cut away from the final minutes of the game so as not to overlap its scheduled broadcast of the movie Heidi.

      “Oh, God,” Rice said, looking at the screen. “I remember that damn game. Freshman year. In fact, we had a bet on it.”

      “Twenty bucks,” Morgan said. “I got stuck with the Raiders, even though the Jets were my home team, because Joe Namath was an Alabama graduate and there was no way you were going to root against an Alabama man.”

      Rice nodded. “Cost me twenty bucks, too.”

      “I seem to remember you got that money back in the playoffs,” Morgan said. “And we made a killing when the Jets won the Super Bowl. You had half of the brothers betting the Colts.”

      Rice laughed. “Pledge year got real easy after that. They all still owed us money.”

      They fell silent for a few minutes, watching the game film. It had been a bizarre time for Harrison Rice. Most of his high school friends had been drafted and were headed for Vietnam. Rice’s father, a banker in Birmingham, had forced his son to forgo football in his senior year and focus on his schoolwork. While obeying his father had hurt at the time—Debbie Mays had dumped him for someone who could get her a letter sweater—it had paid dividends. His grades had shot up enough that he could follow in his father’s footsteps at Yale, and the student deferment had kept him out of the rice paddies.

      As the country had torn itself apart, Rice and Morgan had pulled all-nighters, studying economics and finance, Morgan poking fun at Rice’s Alabama drawl, while Rice needled Morgan about his silver spoon childhood. Rice was a big man, and had been even then. Morgan was slight and half-a-head shorter. They were in many ways as different as night and day, and yet in the late nights pouring over expectation curves and compound return formulae, they had forged a bond.

      Rice had gone back to Birmingham after college to work in his father’s bank, then moved into state politics. Morgan had gone on to Harvard Business School and a stellar career in international finance. But they’d always kept in touch, had always been the anchors to which each could turn when the pace of achievement became too frantic and one of them needed to get away and decompress. Just like tonight.

      “What a shame about Lawrence,” Edward said.

      “Yes,” Rice agreed. “I wanted to win. But not this way. Never this way. Christ, he’s got two little girls who are probably already scarred for life from all the shit that’s happened. And now this.”

      Edward nodded silently and seemed about to speak, then stopped and looked at the television. It was what he had always done when there was something he wanted to say to someone but was afraid of offending him.

      “Oh, come on,” Rice said. “You know that doesn’t work with me. It never has.”

      “Well, it’s just…that’s exactly it. The girls. Their mom is dead. And all the mess last year. Why put them through the hell of a presidential campaign? Why not at least wait four years for life to settle some? I’m not saying he deserved what happened. Hell, no. Nobody does. But why take the risk?”

      Rice could see his point. He’d had the same thought last night. Once the wave of sympathy passed, he was sure the press would pick up the same theme. A psychiatrist would probably say it was a way of dealing with the sense of collective grief. Blame the victim. Nihil mea culpa.

      “Well, let’s just hope he pulls through,” Rice said. “The girls need him. And frankly, the country needs men like Grant Lawrence. I don’t always agree with him, but I can’t question his convictions or his courage.”

      Edward shook his head. “You’re not talking to the press here, Harrison. It’s me. Don’t tell me a part of you didn’t jump for joy when you realized he was out of the race.”

      “Of course it did,” Rice said. “And that part of me makes me sick. I don’t like to think I’m the kind of man who could feel that way.”

      “None of us does,” Edward agreed. “But we are. At some level, we’re all looking out for number one.”

      “So what are you saying?” Rice asked, anger rising in his belly. “That I should be celebrating because a friend of mine was shot? Sorry. I can’t do that. It was wrong.”

      “Whoa,” Edward said, holding up a hand. “I’m not saying that at all. All I’m saying is, you didn’t pull that trigger. You didn’t make it happen. And yes, it’s a damn shame. But it’s also an opportunity.”

      “A curse, you mean. Even if I win, I’ll be living under his shadow. Every decision I make will be weighed against what people think Grant Lawrence would have done. It’s almost not worth it.”

      “That’s bullshit, Harrison. And you know it.” He paused for a moment. “Look, remember that high school game you told me about, the one where you finally got to play because the starting quarterback got hurt?”

      Rice nodded. It was the only time he’d played in three years of high school football. Homecoming game. Junior year. Brad Mellows had sprained an ankle halfway through the fourth quarter, and the coach had nodded to Rice. He remembered the churning in his stomach as he’d strapped on his helmet and jogged onto the field. They were three points behind and driving down the field. On the first play, he’d almost tripped over his own feet as he’d handed the ball to the fullback, but big Buck Ledger had bulled his way to a first down.

      Rice had called an option on the next play, and as he’d swept around the right side and prepared to pitch the ball to Gary Thomas, he’d seen a crease form in front of him. He’d tucked the ball in, turned upfield and burst into the open. Seventeen yards later, he’d crossed the goal line, winning the game and, briefly, Debbie Mays’s heart.

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