Now, as he stood with the rest of the team facing the stands, it was happening again.
His eyes were fixed on the two of them, his fury tingeing their images with red. He could almost hear them talking together, and he was sure they were talking about him.
"Little prick," he muttered out loud.
Next to him, Robb Harris turned to glance at Jeff out of the corner of his eye. He thought Jeff had spoken to him, but now Jeff was looking away. From the expression on his face, it seemed Jeff was angry about something. But what? He'd been fine a few minutes ago, when they'd all been in the locker room, putting on their uniforms. Puzzled, Robb glanced around to see what Jeff was staring at.
All he could see was his sister, sitting on the bench next to Mark Tanner. But that was no big deal-Jeff had told him only a couple of days ago that he didn't blame Linda for breaking up with him. Now, though, he was glaring furiously at Mark, and when Robb glanced down, he saw that Jeff's hands were curled like claws, the knuckles white, the tendons standing out like steel wires drawn too taut.
The last notes of the fight song faded away, and the rest of the players turned, ready for JeffLaConner to lead them off the field and back to the locker room.
But Jeff didn't move. He stood where he was, as if rooted to the ground, his eyes still fixed glassily on Linda and Mark.
"Come on, Jeff," Robb whispered. "Let's go!"
Jeff didn't seem to hear him. Finally, Robb nudged him. "Will you move your ass, man? What the hell's wrong with you?"
It took a moment before Robb's words seemed to penetrate Jeff's hearing, and the bigger boy swung around to face him.
"I'mgonna get that little bastard," he said. "I'mgonna smash him up so bad, nobody's ever going to want to look at him again!"
"So what's up?" Blake Tanner asked Jerry Harris. They were sitting in theHarrises ' oak-paneled den, and though Blake had been there for almost an hour, Jerry still hadn't gotten to the point. Andtherewas a point to this visit, Blake was almost certain, for when Jerry had called him after dinner that evening and asked him to drop by, there had been something in his voice that told Blake it was to be more than just a visit between friends.
Nor did he think it had anything to do with the office, for even in the few short weeks he'd been in Silverdale, Blake had learned that if something came up in the office, Jerry Harris left it there. Of course, they talked business all the time, no matter where they were, but if the situation was primarily social, important issues were never brought up. Nevertheless, as he walked the six blocks from his own house to theHarrises ', he wondered what might be on Jerry's mind.
It was Ricardo Ramirez, he decided first, and Blake shook his head sadly as he thought about the boy. Rick was still in the hospital in Silverdale, his head held perfectly still in the metal embrace of a Stryker frame. Given his condition, Blake had come to think that the fact the boy was still in a coma was a kind of left-handed blessing, for at least Rick was totally unaware of how serious his injuries were. As far as the specialists MacMacCallum had called in could tell, Rick was nearly totally paralyzed from the neck down, and without the respirator, he would die very quickly. But his heart was still strong, and so far Maria Ramirez had refused even to consider the possibility that her son might never wake up. Indeed, she was at his bedside every day, holding her son's hand, murmuring softly to him in Spanish, certain that somehow, even through his coma, he could hear and understand what she was saying.
The trust fund was all set up, a massive insurance annuity that would continue paying every possible expense both Maria and Ricardo could possibly incur for the rest of their lives. Though Blake was certain that Maria didn't yet understand the full extent of her affluence, he was also certain that she would never abuse it. Indeed, after his initial shock at the instructions Jerry Harris had issued on his first day at work, Blake had come to believe that Ted Thornton was correct in his policy, for without the aid ofTarrenTech, Maria Ramirez would have had no resources at all. And now Maria had a trust fund and nothing to worry about in the future except the welfare of her son.
If her son lived.
But when he'd gotten to theHarrises ', Jerry made no mention of the Ramirez family, or anything else pertaining to business. Instead, he seemed more interested in how the Tanners were adjusting to Silverdale. And now, finally, in answer to Blake's question, Jerry mixed them each a third drink and got to the point.
"I've been thinking about Mark," he said.
Blake's brows arched questioningly.
"I've been wondering if you've had a chance to look over what we're doing at Rocky Mountain High," Jerry went on, "the sports center."
Blake shrugged noncommittally. "Other than the fact that we fund a lot of it, I don't know that much about it yet."
"It's sort of an experimental camp," Jerry told him. "Martin Ames has some interesting ideas about athletic training, and we've been letting him put them into practice." He grinned, his eyes sparkling. "And since you've been going to the football games, you can see how well it's working out. In fact," he went on, "it's exceeding all our expectations."
Blake sat forward in his chair. "What's the deal?" he asked. "What's he doing?"
"Synthetic vitamins," Jerry replied. "He's been finding a lot of links between physical development and certain vitamin complexes, and for the last few years he's been developing a series of new compounds that are helping us compensate for a lot of genetic deficiencies." He paused a moment. "Such as Robb's asthma, for instance."
The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment before their import sank into Blake. "You mean it wasn't just the change of climate and good, clean mountain air that cleared it up," he said.
Jerry shook his head. "I wish it had been that simple. But it wasn't. Ames found all kinds of things wrong with Robb. It wasn't just the asthma-he was having some problems with his bones that might have been precancerous conditions, and ever since he was a baby, he'd been a little slow to develop. Ames's theory was that it was all linked to the way Robb's body handled certain vitamins." He smiled. "And, as I'm sure you've noticed, all that's been taken care of."
The implication was clear, and Blake didn't need Jerry to spell it out for him. "But it's a sports center," he said, "and you know how Mark feels about sports."
Now it was Jerry Harris who looked surprised. "Isn't that you and Mark I see out on the field every Sunday afternoon? Looks to me like he might be changing."
Blake shrugged with careful indifference, unwilling to expose even to Jerry Harris his hopes that perhaps Mark would, after all, follow in his own footsteps. "He's a bit small for the team here, don't you think? I mean, all our guys are so big, they'd run right over Mark."
"Exactly," Jerry replied, setting his glass down. "And I know it's really none of my business, but I've been talking to Marty Ames about Mark-the rheumatic fever and all that. I even went so far as to get Mark's medical records sent to him."
Blake frowned. "Aside from the fact that I thought medical records were supposed to be confidential, why would you want to do that?"
"Because I wanted to get Marty's opinion before I talked to you. I didn't want to get your hopes up, then not have it amount to anything."
Blake put his own drink aside. "All right," he said. "So, just for the sake of discussion, what did he say?"
Jerry Harris's eyes met his. "He thinks he can help Mark. He doesn't think Mark's problems from the rheumatic fever have to be permanent, and he thinks he can bring Mark's growth rate back up to normal."
Blake's face took on a quizzical expression. "Are you serious?"