The Chosen Ones Read online

  Then when it seemed Brody was doomed to spend his life pumping gas or unpacking crates, fate threw him a bone. On a dare he had written an article for the local paper describing what had happened to the town’s farmers; how he stood by as his father and their neighbors watched everything they’d worked for be auctioned off piece by piece; how his old man thought no one could see him weeping as he closed the doors on an empty barn for the last time; how in order to keep a roof over their heads his father took a job as a short order cook, only to find himself serving the men from the bank that had foreclosed on the house he’d built with his own hands.

  The prose, though not sophisticated, was passionate enough to catch the eye of the publisher who offered him a full-time position as a reporter. It didn’t pay much, but it was honest work which was getting harder to come by in those parts. He had to find a steady job. Dora was pregnant. He’d always been taught to live up to his responsibilities. If his father could swallow his pride to support his family, Brody figured he could too.

  There wasn’t much crime to report. Economics and politics didn’t interest him, but he did the best he could and dutifully turned in his stories on time. Eventually, he wormed his way into the sports department. After two years of covering everything from tractor pulls to hog calling contests, he finally got his shot.

  When his almost alma mater’s basketball team won the state championship, he could have just reported the score. Instead, he wrote an expose on the illegal recruiting practices used to secure their star center. It got national attention and an invitation from the brand new editor of one of New York City’s most respected newspapers who was in the process of assembling his staff.

  Brody explained to his wife how he couldn’t afford to raise a family in a big city, at least not until he got established, and that she wouldn’t like it there anyway. There were tears. Dora begged him to stay. And threats. She’d pack up, disappear, and he’d never see his little girl again. But they both knew there was nothing he could do on the right side of the law to make the kind of money he was being offered, and the truth was that he only wanted two things in life—a new pick up truck and a shot at the big time.

  Before he could say ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore,’ he was on a train to New York. When asked how his flight was he replied, “Smooth as silk,” vowing that would be the last time he would cut corners or lie to Jake. Neither could have anticipated what would follow, nor believed they’d be sitting in the same room now without coming to blows.

  “A trainer. Think you can handle that?” Jake asked, concerned more about the weight of the emotional baggage than the extent of his knowledge.

  “If I run into a problem,” Brody responded with a wry smile. “I can always call my little brother.”

  Jake shook his head. They were too much alike not to work together. Both saw the world as a pit of despair that one occasionally crawled out of for a brief respite before being hurled to the bottom again. The only speck of light was knowing that at any moment the story of a lifetime could come along to lift them up once more. And when it came to news, both possessed the instincts of jungle cats. They could smell the potential in this one.

  “It could be a prank call,” Brody said because somebody had to, but not wanting to believe it.

  “I know. That’s why I’m offering it to you. If it turns out to be a dead end, by not sending one of my staff reporters, at least I’m covering the paper’s ass.”

  “Not to mention your own.”

  “If I was worried about that, I wouldn’t have called you.”

  They exchanged a long look. Jake yanked his tie again even though it hung loosely around the wrinkles on his neck. Word had come down from the top. Cut staff. Costs were up. Papers were folding daily. Nobody reads anymore. He had to find something that would reach out and grab the audience by the eyeballs. Though it infuriated him to admit it, he needed a big story as much as Brody did.

  “What the hell,” Jake said, waving an arm before clasping his hands behind his head. “If this thing goes south, I’ll retire and work on a fishing boat.”

  Brody scanned the plaque mounted on the wall behind Jake as he had countless times before. Pulitzer Prize in journalism awarded to Samuel P. Jacobs. 1980. Jake watched him gaze at it. The fire was still there. That’s what Jake was counting on.

  “I know you still want it,” Jake said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. “If things had turned out differently with that article, it would’ve done it for you. But let me tell you something. Winning that was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Yeah, it rocketed me to the top. It got me this goddamn job. But that’s just superficial crap. Inside, it never feels as good as you think it will. You know what I thought when they handed it to me? Now what?”

  Jake stood, crossed his arms, and stared out of a dirty twentieth floor window at the snow-covered city.

  “Standing on top of the mountain is freakin’ amazing, but it’s like sex. It only lasts a few minutes. The thrill is in the hunt.”

  “Then hitch up the horses. I’m ready to ride.”

  Jake allowed a small smile to escape, then put on his poker face, hoping it would be more effective now than it was at his weekly game.

  “I’ll have to pull some strings to get you in. Fortunately, a few people on the U.S. Olympic Committee owe me favors.”

  “Stories you wrote?”

  “The ones I didn’t write.”

  Brody’s mind raced with ideas as he headed for the door. He wasn’t going to wait to be asked to leave like the last time.

  “Brody,” Jake said, his voice holding him one moment longer. “Happy Holidays.”

  Brody grinned and meant it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 2

  “This is a mistake.” Brody mumbled as he dialed and let the phone ring over and over.

  Good. Nobody’s home.

  “Hello?”

  His heart began pumping harder at the sweet sound of the woman’s voice. He could still hang up, knew he probably should, but didn’t.

  “Hey, Maggie.”

  “My God. Brody. Is that you?”

  “Yeah, baby. How you been?”

  “Oh. Okay. You know. The kids keep me busy. Where are you?”

  “One step up from hell.”

  “Well, that’s an improvement. Del ain’t here.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to ruin his day by him havin’ to talk to me. I just wanted to know if he still had the books I loaned him for school.”

  “All of ‘em?”

  “No. Just the ones on sports injuries.”

  “Now what are you up to?” she asked.

  “Nothin’. Did he keep ‘em?”

  “He’d kill me if I dared throw out anything that belonged to you. Not that I would. I think they’re in a box in the basement.”

  “Can you overnight ‘em to me?”

  “I guess, but—”

  “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

  “You know that ain’t necessary.”

  “Yeah…” he said. “It is.”

  “When are we gonna see you?”

  “Ask my brother.”

  “He ain’t the problem and you know it. He worships the ground you walk on.”

  “Maybe… before it cracked open and swallowed me whole.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Was it? It doesn’t feel like it.”

  He could still remember the day Del brought Maggie home to meet the family. She was wearing a white cotton dress with a ruffled collar that hung off the prettiest creme-colored shoulders he’d ever seen. It must have been a style she liked because her wedding dress was just a fancier version of it. As she walked down the aisle, shining brighter than the sun streaking through the church’s old stained-glass windows, Brody leaned over and told his brother he would kill him if he ever did anything to take the smile off her face.

  “Think about it, won’t you?” Maggie said like s
he was pouring molasses over hotoff-the-griddle pancakes. “I don’t want Mary and Del Jr. growin’ up not knowin’ their Uncle Brody. And even though he’d die before he’d say it, your brother misses you bad.”

  “How about you?”

  She hesitated. He wondered if she was thinking of something polite to say or looking around to see if anyone was within earshot.

  “You know how I feel,” she said softly, her lips caressing the mouthpiece. “If I’d have met you first…”

  “I know.”

  He closed his eyes, trying once again to drive the image of her face from his mind.

  “I gotta go,” he said.

  “Talk to you soon?”

  He hung up, determined not to let another thing he wanted slip through his fingers.

  As soon as they arrived, he would pour through the books in the few days before he had to fly to Stowe, Vermont. To complete his crash course, he borrowed some videotapes from the sweet young thing down the hall. She’d been after him for months. Feeling more hopeful than he had in years, he obliged with a quick tumble on her couch, then returned to his apartment to watch as many skating competitions as he could stomach.

  He absorbed the terminology. Lutzes. Flying camels. Death drops. But the scoring was incomprehensible to him. It didn’t matter. He was only concerned with the competitors. They were well-groomed, well-spoken, and well-rehearsed. Their post performance interviews told him nothing. The answers were uniformly safe, some bordering on simplistic. After several mind-numbing hours, he could detect no motivation for murder unless it was the result of sheer boredom.

  The opened package lay on his unmade bed. He passed it again and again, trying to ignore the red, white, and blue sweat suit provided by the American Skating Federation who were his temporary employers. Jake had come through. He got him in. Now he had to live up to his end of the bargain. But in order to do that, he had to at least look like he fit in.

  With a heavy heart, he tossed his Stetsons and Levi’s in the closet and tried on the outfit. He stared at the USA logo over his heart. Knowing he was part of something bigger than himself was a rush, even if it was a con.

  For the first time, he believed he could actually pull it off. Only one thing remained. The dangling mane had to go. It wouldn’t do to look like a biker at what he was sure would resemble a Good Humor man convention.

  He stood before the bathroom mirror, one hand gripping a scissor, the other a good three inches of hair. After two aborted attempts, he closed his eyes and snipped. It came off easier than he anticipated.

  The outstretched arms of a twenty foot wide paper banner greeted visitors at the hotel entrance as a mid-January gale blew each person through the doorway. WELCOME TO U.S. NATIONALS 1992, proclaimed the huge black letters. Brody cupped his hands over his ears that were beet red and still stung from the bitter temperatures.

  Why the hell don’t they hold these things someplace warm? he wondered as he took in the action around him.

  The high-domed lobby had the ambiance of a cocktail party as officials, competitors, coaches, family and friends who would soon be dueling to the death, traded huggy-kissy greetings and gossip. It was then he realized he was the only one wearing an official team warm up suit.

  Despite the countless hours he’d spent talking to naked men in locker rooms, Brody never felt quite so exposed. He couldn’t shake the thought that he would suddenly find himself in the middle of a low-budget science fiction movie where everyone would turn and point at him, their eyes dark and fixed, shrieking, ‘There he is! He’s not one of us! Get him!’

  He found a good spot in the corner of the lobby, partially hidden by a large potted plant. Nearby, a contingent of teenage girls huddled behind a towering marble pillar. The lucky few had been selected from the ranks of the local skating club to offer refreshments to the competitors and to collect the stuffed animals, flowers, and other assorted items that would be hurled onto the ice following each performance.

  Giggling through their braces, they lay in wait for the top skaters to arrive. Repeated whispers of the name ‘Glenn’ alerted Brody. If their level of anticipation was any gauge, he expected the Colossus of Rhodes to stride through the glass and brass doors. Instead, a tiny, almost emaciated man of about thirty entered.

  Glenn Chandler, the reigning Olympic champion, had arrived as always, wearing his black baseball-style nylon jacket with the words, A Night of Stars Tour, emblazoned across the back.

  Nice touch, Brody thought, noticing Glenn was carrying his own workout bag. The world famous celebrity is just like you and me.

  Kylie James, a pert, pretty young woman who appeared to be a few years younger, with straight shoulder-length blonde hair and pointed features that required no make up, hovered only inches away.

  There was a dullness bordering on dismay in Glenn’s eyes until he spotted the approaching hoard. Immediately, the dead brown orbs sparked to life. Girls surrounded him, pushing pens and papers in his puckish face. As each camera clicked, the frozen smile never wavered. He was on automatic pilot, working the crowd like a seasoned auctioneer.

  Not a single bystander appeared to care or even notice that his face displayed the passion of a plaster cast. No matter. His female companion was dripping with enough emotion for both of them. Her scowl could’ve turned back the most threatening storm clouds as she waited on the rim of the crowd. She wasn’t jealous. Not of any individual. It was the 18,000 people who would fill the arena that she resented. The millions who watched on TV. They were who he lived for. Even when they made love, she couldn’t help thinking he wanted her to jump out of bed and applaud.

  A gaggle of satisfied customers broke away from the circle, clutching their booty, staring at Glenn’s sloppy signature as if it had some magical power. Brody inched closer.

  “Who’s that?” one asked, tilting her head toward Kylie.

  “His fiancée,” another offered.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “She is. She shows up at all his competitions.”

  “I don’t see a ring.”

  “He said in World Skating Magazine that they’re getting married.”

  “When?”

  “They’ve been together for three years. She must be asking herself the same question.”

  Ralph Ratner, the third member of Glenn’s entourage, stood vigil like a presidential bodyguard. A man in his mid-forties whose black Armani suit and carriage exuded confidence leaning toward arrogance waited for the last fan to leave, then gently took Glenn by the arm and lead him toward the coffee shop.

  “Glenn, we need to talk. Get a few details locked down about the promo you’re going to tape.”

  “The what?” Glenn asked, flexing his cramped writing hand.

  “We’ve arranged for you to do a spot for the Heart and Lung Association.”

  “Call me crazy, but I was hoping to save my energy for the competition.”

  “Hey, come on. You know the deal. These offers won’t last forever. When they come along, you have to jump on them… No pun intended,” Ratner said, punctuating his words with a greasy smile.

  Glenn was not amused. In fact, he didn’t particularly like Ralph and intended to tell him so… someday.

  “What’s with the face?” Ratner asked, running his hand across the top of his head to make sure his straight black hair was still in place. “Remember, frowning makes wrinkles, and TV lights only accentuate flaws. Hey, I’m just doing my job. That is why you signed with WTL, isn’t it?”

  “I should let Coach know I’m here,” he said with resignation.

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Releasing a deep breath, Glenn turned to Kylie, whose green eyes were now the size of quarters. He didn’t have to say it, but he would anyway. Maybe this time it would sound better.

  “Honey, why don’t you check us in? I’ll see you up in the room.”

  She ground her teeth together until her fillings ached. A scene in public not only wo
uldn’t be tolerated, it wouldn’t do any good. She turned on her heels, nearly digging a rut in the carpet, and headed for the front desk.

  Before he could even process the information, Brody’s attention turned to a second wave of excited gasps. Glenn stopped to watch the action as well.

  “Hang on a minute, Ralph.”

  His body stiffened at the sight of the boyishly handsome young man who had entered the room. Brody looked around. Every head turned, then just as quickly turned away, feigning a lack of interest.

  “I want to bear his children,” one girl said with orgasmic desire.

  Robby Donovan seemed completely unaware of the fact that he was being scrutinized.

  Maybe it’s an act, Brody thought. The ‘Aw, shucks. You’re here to watch little ol’ me?’ routine.

  Or maybe he knew exactly what was going on and had become not only the greatest technical skater in the history of the sport, but a masterful actor. His face was open, unguarded, but there was no invitation to approach as his eyes avoided connecting with anyone’s but the middle-aged woman walking beside him.

  His gait was fluid, yet still seemed a bit awkward due to the turnout of his legs; the byproduct of years of dance classes. Like a great race horse, his thighs were so large and powerful, even a pair of baggy jeans couldn’t hide them. He slipped off a brown bomber jacket to reveal a plain, sky blue t-shirt that hung loosely on his torso which wasn’t bulky, though clearly strong enough to help lift his 5’10” frame into the stratosphere, time and time again, with chilling efficiency.

  “Doesn’t he go anywhere without her?” a plump, fifty-ish female sniped, aiming her venom at Carol Tyler who Brody recognized from the videotape as the woman into whose arms Robby fell into in utter despair after nearly but not quite winning the last Olympics.