Tracy walked into the hall. He marveled at how quiet a large building could become after a game. The silence created a pensive mood; one could almost hear the echoes from the dispersed crowd.
He passed a closed door, the lacrosse coach's name on it. No one worked late on this January night. He passed by the equipment room and stopped. He thought he heard sounds coming from inside even though no light spilled from under the door. Given that Mychelle had been killed at the Clam he was extra alert. He pulled out his cell phone, hit the On button. He was so intent on punching in the numbers that he didn't hear someone tiptoeing behind him. The last thing he heard was a crack and he sank like a stone.
33
When Tracy awoke he was flat on the cold floor and it was dark. He touched his head, and a knot the size of a golf ball with a thin crust of dried blood greeted his fingers. He sat upright. He felt pain but he wasn't dizzy or nauseated.
Good, he thought to himself, I don't have a concussion. Where am I? Tuesday night. Game. Twenty-six referee signals. He stopped. That was irrelevant. Perhaps he wasn't as clearheaded as he thought. He breathed deeply. He reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a plastic lighter. Tracy always carried a lighter and a small Leatherman all-purpose tool. He flicked it on, discovering he was inside someone's office. He carefully stood up and switched on the light. The lacrosse coach's office. He sat down at the desk, picked up the receiver of the phone, and punched nine for an outside line. Where was his phone? He'd worry about that later.
"Miranda-"
"Honey, where are you? I've been calling and calling and I get that infernal recording, 'The cellular customer you have dialed is not available at this time or has left the reception zone. Try again later.'?" Her voice accurately mimicked the inflection of the recording.
"Well." He didn't want her to worry. "A little delay here after the game. I'll explain when I swing by." He checked his watch. "Maybe I'd better wait until morning. It's eleven-thirty. Forgot about the time."
"You come right over here. I don't care if it's three in the morning. Tracy, are you all right?"
"Yes." He felt in his right pants pocket for his car keys. Still there. "I won't be any longer than an hour."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"A little headache. Be right along. Okay?"
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you, too. 'Bye." He hung up the phone, stood up and scrutinized the office. It seemed orderly enough. No skid marks on the floor from his shoe soles meant whoever dragged him, if one person, dragged him by the feet. Two people would have picked up both ends and dumped him but he didn't feel as if he'd been dumped. No other bruises or aches and pains. Just his head, which throbbed the more he moved about.
He opened the door. The hallway was dark. The building seemed deserted. He checked the shelves in the office to see if there was a flashlight. None. He checked the desk drawers. The lacrosse coach, Jason Xavier, didn't keep so much as a penknife in his drawers. Nothing but paper, rubber bands, a playbook, pencils in various states of sharpness, and one leaky ballpoint pen. Tracy shut the drawers. He walked out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind him.
He felt along the circular walls intermittently using his small lighter for guidance. Finally he could see the stairs sign, lit, down the hall. He didn't want to turn on lights.
He hadn't thought of it before. He reached into his left pants pocket. His money was still there. He made the full circle of the building, returning to the equipment room.
He listened outside. Silence. He tried the door. Locked. He continued walking along the corridor, stopping at each door, listening. This bottom level of the Clam was deserted.
The white rectangular light with Stairs written in green beckoned him. He opened the door, listened, then climbed to the next level, the main level. Carefully he walked all the way around. The silence was eerie. He looked up to find himself standing outside the broom closet where Mychelle was found. He listened. Nothing.
Because of the glass doors the lights from the parking lot cast a glow into the front of the main level. He moved to the double interior doors of the basketball court. These were unlocked. The long stainless steel bar across the door clicked as he pressed it down, and opened into the cavernous pitch-black space enlivened only by the small red exit lights. He bent down, wedging a handkerchief between the two doors so the one he opened didn't completely close. If anyone was outside, he hoped he'd hear them. He stood just inside the door and listened. Not even a mouse scuttled along the seats. He strained to hear anything at all. A creak, not a human sound, finally rewarded him. The building breathed, or so it seemed, and that was all.
After ten motionless minutes, he retrieved his handkerchief, carefully closed the door behind him, and left through the main doors which would lock when they closed behind him. The doors had been designed so a person couldn't get locked in the building but once you left they would lock you out.
The cold air, in the low twenties, stung his face. His black Explorer started right up. No one had tampered with it. He drove to Miranda's. His gym bag and cell phone were missing.
When he walked into Miranda's she hugged him so hard she nearly squeezed the breath out of him.
"I've been worried sick."
"Well, I had a little encounter." Tracy proceeded to tell her what he remembered.
She checked the left side of his head. "Oh honey, I need to clean this right up." She hurried into the bathroom, brought out a washcloth and hand towel, then carefully washed the wound with warm water as he sat on a chair by the kitchen sink.
"It's not so bad."
"It's not so good." She gingerly dabbed. "It's not bleeding anymore which is good because you know how head wounds can be."
"Yep." He'd seen enough of that in Korea and later in Vietnam.
"You could have been killed." Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Now, sweetheart, don't worry. There's no reason to kill me. I'm not that bad of a referee." He laughed.
"Oh Tracy, it's not funny. Something awful is going on at that place."
"Yes," he quietly agreed. "I heard something or someone in the equipment room and then-lights out. How's it look up there? Do I need to shave my head?"
"Don't be silly." She wrung out the washcloth, dipping it again in warm water. "And I will never understand why young men shave their heads bald. If that isn't the ugliest thing I've ever seen."
"When they forget Michael Jordan, they won't do it anymore. Takes about five years. Next group of kids, he'll be ancient history. People used to shave their heads to get rid of the lice. You shave a head wound if it's bad to keep hair out of it. If young people knew history, they might not want to look like cue balls."
She peered at the cleansed wound. "I'm going to put some ice cubes in this washcloth. Let me wash it out first. Actually, let me fetch a fresh one. You don't need to hold a wet washcloth. Maybe we can get some of the swelling down." She bustled into the bathroom, returning with another washcloth which she filled with curved ice cubes.
They repaired to the living room where both sat on the sofa. The fire in the fireplace crackled.
"I'll call Rick in the morning. No point getting him out of bed. And I guess whoever is in charge of the equipment room better run an inventory."
"You'd better call Rick now. What if this is related to Mychelle's murder or H.H.'s?"
"You're right, honey. I guess I'm not as clearheaded as I thought." He stood up, still holding the washcloth to his head, called Rick. He told him everything he could remember, then hung up and rejoined Miranda.
"He's going down now to see if he can get prints."
They watched the fire for a little bit.
"Honey."
"Hmm," he answered.
"You won't go down there by yourself? If you have a game to ref, you and Josef should stick together afterward."
"You're right. I don't think anyone should be alone there until these cases are solved."