She threw again, high and inside, brushing Tommy back from the plate.
Ball three.
There were mutters from the dugout, restrained hoots from the crowd. As Brigit jogged up to the mound, Ben called over to Eve, We’re playing on the wrong team. Can’t you call the game? Can’t you call it before it’s too late?
Not without more evidence, Whitney said from the dugout. No cause. You need probable cause. There are rules.
Roarke shook his head. Far too many rules, don’t you think? After all, murder doesn’t play by the rules.
Brigit jogged back, gave Tommy a pat on the cheek, then turned to Eve. She’s going to the bullpen. She needs some relief. You have to admit, it’s all a little boring this way, and she’d put in a great deal of time.
I can’t stop it, Eve thought. I can only call them as I see them.
A shadow crossed the field, an indistinct form gliding over the summer grass. No, I can’t stop it, Eve thought again. It had to play out. I can only make the call after the pitch.
I’m sorry, she said to Tommy, there’s nothing I can do.
Oh well. He smiled kindly at her. It’s just a game, isn’t it?
Not anymore, Eve thought as the shadow merged with Ava, as they set, checked, wound up together. Fast ball, dead over the plate.
He lay on the rich brown dirt, the marblelike plate his headstone, and his eyes staring up at the clear blue of the sky.
On the mound, Ava laughed gaily, and took another bow for the now weeping crowd. And he’s out! Want to see the instant replay?
It might’ve been a weird dream, maybe a stupid dream, Eve thought, but she rearranged her murder board in her home office the next morning.
Take a new look, she told herself. Look with fresh eyes.
Roarke came in behind her, studied the board with his hand on her shoulder. “Making patterns?”
“It’s that damn dream.” She’d told him about it when she’d dressed. “See, she’s got her infield—the people she trusts most because she’s seen to it they trust her, or have that connection to her through Anders. She’s aiming to take him out. She’s aimed for him from the first pitch of the first inning, but they don’t see it. He doesn’t see it, even though the batter and pitcher are in an intimate, one-on-one relationship.”
“And she doesn’t throw strikes.”
“Exactly. No, no, not the first inning,” Eve corrected. “The first was Bronson—warmed up on him, got some rhythm going on him. Maybe there were others, before Bronson, between him and Anders.”
“But she struck them out, or let them get on base, then picked them off. No score, no memorable stats.”
“Yeah.” She glanced back at him. “For an Irish guy you get baseball pretty well.”
“And still you benched me in the dugout. No batter on deck, either.”
“No, no potential next batter. This ends the game. When she goes for Ben, and she will, it’ll be another game, after a nice, relaxing hiatus. She pitches, she coaches, she manages. And she’s the center.” Eve put her fingertip on Ava’s photo. “She’s always the center. She didn’t call in relief, she called in a shadow. Nobody sees, nobody knows. And the shadow just follows the steps. One strike, in this case, and he’s out.”
“And the shadow fades off, so that she—once more—remains the center. If it follows your metaphor, the late inning relief pitcher only has one job, doesn’t she? Throw the strike.”
“Exactly right. This pitcher doesn’t have to do anything but follow orders. Doesn’t have to strategize, or worry about base runners because there aren’t any. Doesn’t have to depend on the field, or even know them. Follow orders, throw the strike, fade away. No postgame interviews, no locker-room chat. One pitch, and out of the game. It’s smart,” Eve had to admit. “It’s pretty damn smart.”
“You’re smarter, slugger.” Roarke gave Eve’s hair a quick tug. “It’s going to piss her off when you step up to the plate and hit a grand slam.”
“Right now, I’d settle for a base hit. With Bebe Petrelli.”
“Ava would never have considered you’d look that deep in her lineup. And that is the end of the baseball analogies.” He turned her, kissed her. “Good luck with the former Mafia princess.”
Bebe Petrelli lived in a narrow row house on a quiet and neglected street in the
South Bronx. Paint peeled and cracked like old dry skin over the brittle bones of the houses. Even the trees, the few left that used their ancient roots to heave up pieces of the sidewalk, slumped over the street. Along the block, some windows were boarded like blind eyes while others hid behind the rusted cages of riot bars.