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J. R. Lindermuth lives and writes in central Pennsylvania. A retired newspaper editor/writer, he is librarian of his county historical society where he assists people with research and genealogy. Whiskey Creek Press (www.whiskeycreekpress.com) published his mystery novel “Something in Common” in June 2006 and will publish “Cruel Cuts,” a second novel featuring the same characters, in November 2007. He is the author of two other novels and has published in a variety of magazines, both print and on-line.

The Crucial Moment by J. R. Lindermuth

They called him The Executioner. And Dean Gardner was proud of the title in the way a man is pleased with something he has worked hard for and knows he deserves.

It took a long time and more hard work than he cared to remember, but Gardner was now the most influential television sportscaster in the country. It was this cherished position causing his tribulation now as he lay propped up in bed, clutching the phone to his breast and staring into the darkness of his room in the Hotel Bressler. The caller had hung up and the phone buzzed in his hands, insinuating he should do the same.

His brain reeled with the hoarsely whispered words of his caller. "Lay off, or you'll see death. I'm warning you—lay

off!"

Gardner recovered his senses enough to realize he still held the phone. Replacing it on its cradle, he reached in the dark for his cigarettes on the nightstand next to the bed and swore as he heard the lighter slide off the table and fall.

Switching on the lamp, he found his lighter. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tapped the cigarette against his thumbnail for a time before lighting it. He drew on the cigarette, giving a little cough as the acrid smoke invaded his lungs. Running one hand through his thick dark hair, he wished for something to drink.

He rose and paced the room, puffing hard on the cigarette, striving to regain his composure. It wasn't the first time he'd been threatened.

His fame was based on notoriety. He had no friends in the sports-writing fraternity (jealous bastards), and the fans vilified him. Other writers chastised him in print and he had been pelted with words, eggs and overripe tomatoes by fans who objected to his comments about a hero of the moment. Then, there was the lawsuit by the boxer, Jimmy Garcia, who accused him of slander. He won that case, but the incident didn't win him any popularity contests.

Still, he'd taken it all with stoic good humor. That sort of treatment wasn't unexpected. He cultivated it.

For a country boy like him to reach the pinnacle in his profession at the age of 38 it had been necessary to trample the careers of others and wreak havoc with the personalities of more people than he cared to count. He'd made a lot of enemies. He didn't care. He had worked at it. It was the key to his success.

The churlish, loudmouthed attitude that had become his trademark wasn't a natural part of his personality. He had cultivated that, too, building it slowly until it became a part of him, like a badge of identity he wore for the benefit of the world. He was no stranger to vituperation. It was as much a part of his life as the hair on his head.

But this was different. How could you fight a man who hid behind the anonymity of a phone call in the middle of the night?

His quick wit and the manner in which he used his own words as a shield that sent an opponent's barbs back in a ricocheting torrent made some suspect his public sparring matches were planned events. That wasn't true. He had trained himself in verbal defense. But, when the jangling of the phone woke you from a deep slumber, how could you be ready for the riposte?

His mind had been too numb to respond; he hadn't had the two cups of strong black coffee it took to get his mind functioning again after the lethargy of sleep. Before he was capable of replying, the caller made his thrust and hung up.

Gardner took a final deep drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Just past 3 a.m. He lay back on the bed, knowing he wasn't going to sleep. The call had shocked him into a state of wakefulness and his brain seethed with questions he couldn't answer. He didn't have to ask why the man had made his threat.

This wasn't the first time he'd called. It was … yes, the third time. All the calls had come at odd hours. The first around 10 in the morning at the airport, before he left New York. The second just after midnight here. The man had followed him across the country, possibly on the same plane.

The reason for the calls was obvious, too. It had been spelled out in more detail in the first call. The man didn't like the way Gardner supported the Sachems in his lead-up reports on the big game they would play Saturday against the Pumas.

This wasn't the first time an irate fan had called to bitch about the favoritism he showed one team or another. Then it had been once and done, not a repeat performance. And no one had followed him half way across the country before to make obscene phone calls in the middle of the night. Sure, the guy had to be a nut. But was he enough of a kook to carry out his threats?

The night passed slowly and Gardner was glad when the sun finally came up. He felt better after he'd had some coffee and breakfast. By evening he'd almost forgotten the ding-a-ling dialer. The day was busy and he had more important things on his mind.

He went out to the stadium and watched a practice scrimmage. Then, he interviewed the star players of both teams. In a guest spot that night on Sports Commentary he made some particularly nasty jibes about Phil Ledbetter, the Pumas quarterback. The spot played well and he was feeling good when he left the studio for the short drive back to his hotel.

It was late and there wasn't much traffic. But, there were enough other cars on the street that he didn't pay attention to the blue Ford parked across the street which pulled out when he drove away from the lot behind the studio. It wasn't until later that he began to notice how the Ford slowed down and then picked up speed when he did and always stayed close enough to angle into the same lanes and execute turns when he did.

Perspiring heavily though it was a cool night, Gardner gripped the wheel tightly and pressed down hard on the accelerator. He had to find out if the car was really following him or if it was just his imagination.

Gardner made a sudden, sharp turn onto another street and the Ford clung to his tail like an angry bee, its tires squealing on the wet asphalt. He blanched in the glare of the headlights of the car behind him and felt the first pangs of fear gnawing at his innards. His foot pressed down on the accelerator.

He was focused on his driving and at first he thought the sound was a car—his or that of his pursuer—backfiring. He realized the truth when a bullet shattered his side mirror.

Gardner's car plunged down the dark street at a mad rate of speed, weaving and swerving back and forth across the lanes. His heart pounded; he could almost hear the beat. His sweating palms slipped on the wheel. He fought to gain control of his emotions and the vehicle as a wave of nausea swept over him.

Another shot and he heard the bullet rattle across the top of the car. He shuddered, glanced into the rear view mirror and saw the Ford bearing down on him. Then the car rocked violently and Gardner knew the Ford had sideswiped him. He struggled to regain control of the lurching wheel, but it was too late.

The speeding car ran off the road, bounced over the curb and smashed against the brick wall of a building. The air bag inflated, saving him from the thrust against the steering wheel, as the blaring horn slashed the stillness of the night.

With an effort born of deep, instinctive fear, Gardner pulled himself erect in his seat. His mouth was filled with the copper taste of blood and there was a stink of chemicals and fuel in the air. He heard the Ford run to the end of the street and make a U-turn. He's coming back to finish me, Gardner told himself, struggling to open the door. It was wedged and it took effort to free it.

The Ford pulled up alongside just as Gardner forced the door open. A man got out and came toward him.

The man stood over him and Gardner saw his face. A pale, thin, bearded face with terrible dark eyes that riveted on him and inspired an intense mingled sensation of fear and loathing. The man raised his hand. Something glistened in the dim light. The gun.

"Oh, God!" Gardner cried out. The man brought his hand down in a swift arc and the pistol struck Gardner across the brow. He sprawled out of the car, landing on his knees.

The man loomed over him. Despite the pain he felt, Gardner knew he was there. He couldn't bring himself to look up. For a brief crazed moment he wondered if he would hear the shot before the bullet tore into his flesh. He waited.

But, the shot never came.

"This is your last chance," the man told him. "I warned you and I ain't gonna do it again. Lay off the Pumas, or you'll see blood."

Gardner sobbed. He still expected to be shot. He didn't realize the man had gone until he heard the Ford's engine rev and it drove off. When he summoned enough courage to raise his head, the car was already turning the corner. He was alone with his pain and humiliation in the dark city night.

***

The game was in its final quarter almost before he knew it. Gardner was so engrossed in the game he nearly forgot the frightening events of the night before.

A police car came along soon after his assailant left. After hearing his testimony and viewing his bruises it didn't take much to convince the police he needed protection for the remainder of his time in the city.

He breathed easier now, knowing the man next to him in the press box was an armed policeman. Two more were stationed outside the door.

Confident he was safe, Gardner resumed his tirade against the underdog team before the end of the first quarter. His torrent of speech seemed to have a magic effect, and the Pumas were stymied as their opponents ran up a good lead. In the fourth quarter, the Pumas switched tactics and gained a few points. They had the ball now. Though they couldn't win the game, there was enough time left on the clock for them to pull off a tie.

Suddenly, Phil Ledbetter fumbled the ball and it was recovered by Stu Owens. The crowd went wild as Owens broke through the line and headed for home territory.

Then, in that crucial moment, an odd sound broke through the uproar of the crowd and the star athlete crumpled to the ground.

Gardner's voice choked in the middle of his play-by-play description. A chill ran over him and his body began to shake. The officer beside him rose. The crowd went silent.

The terrible sound was repeated and another Sachem fell. Then another. And another.

Gardner's eyes swept the stand until he found him. The man stood near the 50-yard line with a pistol in each hand, firing at the players who ran in mad little circles trying to escape the fusillade of bullets. Gardner closed his eyes. He couldn't look anymore.

Before the police overcame their own shock and rushed to gun down the killer, half the team had been murdered. And, it was his fault. Dean Gardner had obliterated his favorite team.

For, he realized now, it was not he but the team that had been threatened. And no one, especially not him, had thought to protect them.

THE END