"Heaven-Sent"by Ann Lawrence from PARADISE July 1999 Buy the book now at Amazon |
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Chapter 1
Boston, Ten years later
Jack Ryan wound up for the pitch. He stood poised, the balled socks in his hand, then fired. "Fast ball, high and inside," he said as the socks dropped into his suitcase, right on top of his sneakers. "Struck him out."
He plucked another pair of socks from his dresser drawer. The doorbell sounded. "Damn." He pitched the socks. With annoyance he watched them ricochet off the suitcase lid and land on the floor. "Double damn."
He took the stairs two at a time, and jerked open his front door. "No." He said it emphatically.
"Now, Jack, my boy, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Father Michael O'Malley shoved past Jack and strode into the living room of Jack's condo that overlooked Boston Harbor. He went directly to the windows facing the USS Constitution, "Old Ironsides," where it sat at anchor, a monument to Boston's colonial history.
Jack remained in the doorway and frowned at the priest's back. How did you eject your old parish priest from your home? Father Mike, rabid baseball fan, short and stout like a teapot, graying at the temples, rocked back and forth on his heels. Jack knew that stance--it spelled trouble.
"The answer is still no," he said, his voice too loud. "I have a date. An important date. In New York." He consulted his watch. "In four hours."
Father Mike shook his head and turned back to Jack. "I never tire of this view--it's lucky you are to see it each day. And I'm really sorry, you know I am, but when He calls," the priest pointed at the ceiling, "we must do His bidding. You did promise, you know."
Yes. He had promised. Ten years ago.
Jack suddenly realized that today marked the tenth anniversary of his rash promise. He hadn't a--he wouldn't say prayer--chance of avoiding whatever Father Mike planned for him.
"If you hadn't decided to help me out that day, I wouldn't be in this predicament."
Father Mike shook his head. "Now, there's no taking back what's done. I merely did what came naturally. As did you."
Jack continued. "Oh yeah, what did you tell me? You thought you'd say a little prayer for me. Something like this, if I remember correctly, 'Oh, Lord, please let this wild-pitching, Irish rookie complete his perfect game.' You probably started that Wildman thing, too." Jack flung the door open wide and gestured out. "Without your prayer's added boost, I'm sure I'd have thrown the pitch over the catcher's head, the batter would have walked, and I'd have never made it into the record books."
"Complaining, are you?" Father Mike abandoned the view. "Seems like life treats you pretty well. Plenty of free time--now you're retired--to write those interviews you like so much. A comfortable level of fame, not too much, not too little."
"I've served my penance for that rash prayer; I've done seven missions for Him--"
"Enough, son. You can't talk your way out of this."
"But my date." He tried once more. How did you tell Him no? Especially with the evidence of His help to be found all around the condo? The enshrined last pitch from that perfect day? The cleats, the hats, the . . .
"Here." Father Mike closed the open door and held out a small slip of paper.
"If heaven's so great, how come the inmates keep escaping?" Jack muttered, defeated. He took the paper and held it with as much trepidation as if he were still a pitcher and this slip might be a message sending him down to the minors. He swallowed. Who would he have to find this time? Some minor league bozo who'd prattle on endlessly about what might have been until Jack sent him home?
Jack opened the folded paper and read the name. There must be some mistake. He looked up and searched the priest's face. "This is a joke."
Father Mike shook his head. "He's gone AWOL--not for the first time, either. He wants him back."
Jack made it to a leather recliner just before collapsing. He tipped his head back and burst into laughter. "Elvis. Elvis!"
"Yes. I have to say I was a mite surprised by this one myself." An amused grin took ten years off Father Mike's face.
"Obviously this is a mistake. What the heck do I know about music?" Jack gestured about the sparsely furnished condo. Mementos of his eight year career as a major league pitcher crowded the walls. Framed sketches of long-demolished stadiums and autographed photos vied for space with a tall glass stand. On the stand, as if frozen in mid-air, sat The Ball--the perfect ball from the perfect game.
Father Mike shrugged and patted Jack on the shoulder. "We're never asked to give more than we're able to handle. Just do what you usually do--find him, figure out what his problem is, and fix it."
"You make it sound so easy," Jack said. "Last time I had to find the guy's missing daughter, reunite her with her mother, take them to--"
"You did it, didn't you?" Shoving his hands into his pockets, Father Mike sauntered around the room, admiring the memorabilia, whistling. "I'm not sorry about your date, though. She's not right for you. Models with artificial breasts, for heaven's sake! You need a warm, natural woman. You should be married by now and raising a family."
Jack frowned. "We both know marriage is impossible for me. What sane woman wants a man who finds escapees from heaven?"
Father Mike took the slip of paper from Jack's hand and taking out a lighter, set fire to the corner and dropped it into the cold hearth of Jack's fireplace. Both men watched the note turn to soft gray ash. "I know how you feel, Jack, but maybe you aren't giving womankind enough credit. I'm sure there must be a fine lady somewhere who--"
"Would drop everything, without a moment's notice, to run off to hunt down heavenly parolees? Not a chance."
Father Mike smiled. "Maybe it'll take some doing, finding that woman, but for now, forget the New York colleen and get cracking on this case. Elvis is always big news. You know how it'll be, wild rumors, sightings everywhere if word gets out . . . and it always does."
Jack raked his hands through his curly hair and blew out a long breath. "Cheryl will never understand, never," he muttered, mentally composing his excuses.
"Cheryl can replace you."
"Gee, that's what my manager kept saying to me," Jack said, breaking into a grin. He stood up and squared his shoulders.
"Face it," Father Mike said as he eased the door open. "you've graduated to the big leagues, my boy, being asked to bring this one back."
"Very funny." Jack picked up a baseball and rolled it around in his palms. "What if I don't find him?"
"Oh," said Father Mike, "I think you'll be okay. Somehow, I think this one is right up your alley."
* * *
After Father Mike left, Jack contemplated Boston Harbor for a few minutes. Where should he look? His other missions had been relatively easy--baseball-wise. He'd just "haunted" baseball hangouts, bars and clubs until he'd tracked down his quarries. The hard part was solving the problems that drew them back to earth.
He went into his office and uncovered his computer which he hadn't touched since his last mission for Father Mike. Between missions for the priest, Jack filled his time as a staff writer for Sports World magazine. He wrote on yellow legal-size pads with a number two pencil. He hated technology of any kind.
On his blotter lay his latest piece, a profile of the hot new home run hero. Sports was his expertise, not music.
With a sigh of resignation, he turned on the computer. "I suppose I'll have to go someplace like Memphis. Maybe I can detour past Baltimore and catch a game." He spent five minutes trying to remember his password, then accessed the Internet and started a search for the Elusive Escapee.
Three hours later, his back and neck stiff from sitting so long, Jack shut down his computer. He squared the piles of paper he'd printed out--lists of Elvis websites, lists of Elvis fan clubs, lists of Elvis sightings. He began to sift through the mass of information.
One name occurred over and over. One name joined each list. She hosted a website, was president of a fan club established in 1958, and twice headlined the tabloids with Elvis sightings.
He looked at the clock over his computer--a plastic baseball with bats for hands. He'd start out tomorrow.
An itch started between his shoulder blades. The scent of the infield rose about him.
"Okay. Okay. Tonight. I'll start tonight," he said aloud.
And Jack knew where to start looking. Maybe Elvis had traded one heavenly home for another.
Paradise, Pennsylvania.
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