Hard Case V: Blood and Fear (A John Harding Novel Book 5)

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Hard Case Book V

(The John Harding Series)

Blood and Fear

by

Bernard Lee DeLeo

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PUBLISHED BY:

Bernard Lee DeLeo and RJ Parker Publishing Inc.

ISBN-13: 978-1507742938

ISBN-10: 1507742932

Hard Case: The John Harding Series: Book V: Blood and Fear

Copyright © 2015 by Bernard Lee DeLeo

Cover Illustration by: Colin Matthew Dougherty

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License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. Please respect the author’s work. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real life persons, events, or places is purely coincidental.

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The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

As it will be with every novel I write from now until my own End of Days, I dedicate this novel to my deceased angel, wife, and best friend: Joyce Lynn Whitney DeLeo.

Chapter One

Sometimes a Great Notion

As coach of Al’s softball team, the A’s, I enjoyed every second working with the girls. Especially entertaining in our endeavor was my assistant coach, the over six months pregnant Lynn Montoya, also known as Cruella Deville, or Crue for short. In our age category, we garnered some very vocal Oakland parents, used to big mouths having their way on playing time, and game interference. Although Lynn and I made it very clear from the beginning there would be no pressure on the girls, we absorbed the usual loud mouthed crap about nearly everything. I had made sure Lynn understood this very weird paradigm, where like little league baseball, parents go absolutely nuts sometimes.

We’re playing a team on Owen Jones Field, a real nice setting for any sport. Al was scheduled to pitch. When the other team’s coach heard she was a lefthander, we had a problem. The opposing coach wanted to see her pitching style with the umpire, judging whether her delivery was within the rules. Lynn, of course, wanted to disembowel both the opposing coach, and the volunteer umpire. I reasoned with her, reminding Lynn we would have to face exactly this type of very strange maneuverings.

“But damn! This is the definition of chicken-shit. Thirty seconds alone with that nitwit coach, and she’d be begging me to let Al pitch any damn way she wanted. It’s adolescent girls’ softball, for God’s sake!”

I spent a few seconds chortling over Lynn’s spot on description. She began playing off my amusement as a sign I would embrace a no holds barred confrontation, pointing at the small faces of confusion on our bench. “Step up, Hard Case! These girls depend on you being a mentor, friend, protector, and-”

Lynn took a deep breath after eyeballing our softball league A’s team members’ faces. “This is a lot harder than I had envisioned, and we’re not even playing the game yet.”

I clasped her arm gently. At least she called me by my UFC handle, Hard Case. I think that was a sign of respect, possibly. “Let me handle the goofball intricacies of girls’ softball, Crue. The damn girls love you. Your coaching patience needs to infiltrate your coaching persona. It won’t be but a blink of the eye before you’re doing cub-scouts, T-ball, and eventually soccer Mom responsibilities with Clint Jr. This is great practice. I need your stone cold, bad ass back up for me, without physical confrontations or verbal spewing we can be kicked out of the league for. C’mon, Crue, Al’s depending on you.”

The logic washed down over my assistant coach’s persona in a reluctant acceptance of fact. “Let me handle this, HC. I hear you.”

Lynn walked around the dugout cage, treading slowly toward the umpire and opposing coach, while I listened intently, and Al stood waiting for the A’s representative. Lynn put a comforting arm around Al’s shoulders. “I’m here, kid. Don’t let these two get your mind out of the game. What is it exactly, Coach, that you don’t like about Al’s delivery? Let’s go over your objections on a word by word illustration. The only thing I see differently Al does in pitching is to throw left-handed. That is not illegal.”

The opposing coach stammered, her thought processes disturbed by a cold factual challenge. “She doesn’t… ah… have the same delivery.”

“Oh,” Lynn dived in. “Let me get this straight. If a girl pitches left-handed in this softball league, it’s some kind of voodoo?”

“No,” the umpire stated. “I see nothing deceptive about her stance or delivery. If you have any further objection, Ms. Wintos, say so now. Otherwise, let’s continue. We’re already behind getting this game started.”

Wintos began walking away, but the umpire stopped her. “I know you Ms. Wintos. Please say you have no further problems with this little girl’s pitching style right now, or I will find a representative from your team to do so.”

The shrew at the base of Marion Wintos’s mind made her presence known. Fists clenched, and facial features twisted as if she were illustrating someone being possessed by an evil entity, she twirled around, hunched at the waist. The umpire took an involuntary step back, although he was familiar with the woman’s demeanor on the softball field. Wintos pointed a finger at the umpire, the trembling with rage smile on her face a precursor of doom.

“Fine, Bobby! I know you’re sleeping with half the softball league’s ‘young moms’. I’d bet you have a bun in the oven of this-”

Wintos never saw Lynn move, but in the next second she found herself kneeling on the ground with hand locked in an unbreakable grip, pain lancing through her entire body, capable only of a small breathless panting rasp without words. The umpire reached for Lynn, but his hand was engulfed in mine, as my rather huge shadow blocked his advance. I shook the umpire’s hand gently. I needed to avert this disaster or it would end the game before the girls even had a chance to play.

“Let me handle this, Bobby,” I urged the young volunteer umpire.

“Su…sure, John.”

I hunched down slightly so I could meet Lynn’s eyes. She tried looking away, but she was lost the moment her husband Clint joined me on the field. “We discussed this, Lynn. I heard what this young woman was about to say, but we’re here to see Al pitch, remember?”

Lynn took a deep breath while releasing Marion Wintos’s hand. “Sorry John.”

She then grabbed Marion’s chin in a grip best described as an angry bear-trap. “I know what you were about to say concerning me, girlfriend. It would be best if you understand that would not go well for you. If you had completed the phrase I saved you from spewing, you’d have a broken arm instead of a slightly sprained hand. Now what say we play ball? How about it, Marion?”

“Please let me go… please?”

Lynn released her. She pointed one finger toward the Wintos’s dugout without looking. “I see your husband and brother hurrying to your idiot rescue. Save them some pain, and intercept them.”

Marion immediately ran to engage the shocked advance of her husband and brother. Clint engulfed his wife in his arms. “Nice start, Hon. Five minutes on the field of a girls’ softball game you’re coaching, and you nearly cause a riot.”

“Did not.” Lynn allowed Clint to escort her to our team area.

My stepdaughter Alice, of course was enjoying it all. Although, she wants to pitch, Al loves the complete disintegration of adults around her. I have wondered if her intuition of what might happen between us nitwit adults was the reason she wanted to sign up for softball. She knew she wasn’t to blame for any of it, but instinctively knew she could cause chaos anyway.

“C’mon, lefty. Let’s get you with the rest of your team for the opening ceremony.” I looked at the nineteen year old volunteer umpire with compassion. I had no idea if he was guilty of Wintos’s charge, but I had a suspicion he might be guilty of it with her. “Call it straight to the best of your ability, Bobby. I’ll back your play no matter what.”

Bobby visibly relaxed. “I will, Mr. Harding. Honest. Thanks.”

“Just John is fine. Thanks for volunteering to umpire the game, Bobby. If you need a water or anything, look my way. I’ll get it for you without anyone seeing.”

“Thanks. Uh… you don’t think I’m really-”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I cut him off. “Have a good game, Blue.”

Bobby nodded. “I’ll do my best, Sir.”

I led Al around the cage, and into our team area, where Lynn cautioned her batters to be patient. We were the away team today so we were up to bat first. Clint busily engaged Al’s nervous teammates, urging them to relax and have a good time. He was going to be a natural when Lynn gave birth to Clint Jr. Clint came to every practice, shagging balls, pitching batting practice, giving fielding tips, and helping Lynn run the girls through drills. It had been fun preparing for this first game of the season.

Supposedly having the girls line at the cage shouting rhymes like ‘pitcher has a rubber arm’ or ‘swing batter/batter’ when the opposing team came to bat was the way we were to coach spirit. I preferred to let the girls cheer when they wanted to. Lynn and I led by example. We planned to encourage our girls, but hold off on the more unsavory styles of team spirit. We did coach our girls through hitting and fielding practice about reality in the game. We explained they may have to perform with a hundred voices yelling derogatory remarks at the top of their lungs. In any case, we were ready to have a good time, win or lose. Our parents… not so much.

Although Al was ten years old, I was hearing critics yelling no way should Al be pitching. See, there were other older girls who could pitch faster, but they couldn’t get the ball over the plate. Al pitched a moderately fast underhand slung ball, but her advantage was she got it over the plate. Like Lynn told her, she only needed to get the other team to swing at the ball, and rely on her fielders to catch it. The opposing pitcher for the Owls walked the first four batters, giving away a run with the bases still loaded. When Al was about to bat, I patted her shoulder.

“I know Lynn told you to be patient. I also know you can hit a ball no matter where it’s pitched, Al. This pitcher will want to throw a strike. It may not be a perfect one, but take a swing at it. The fielders are all asleep by now. If they make a play on anything hit, it will be a shock to me. Swing away, Al.”

“Did you just countermand my orders, John?” Lynn had slid in next to me on the bench after I returned from coaching Al.

“Watch, Lynn. We didn’t come out here to snooze through a bunch of walks.”

The Owls’ pitcher threw the first pitch high and outside. Al creamed it into the right field corner. It took the right fielder so long to track down the ball, Al could have walked around the bases. Just like that, Al had a grand slam, and we were ahead five to zip. There was a six run rule, so we scored the sixth run, and our girls hit the field. Al pitched down the heart of the plate. The Owls got a couple runs back due to fielding errors, but the girls were awake behind Al. They didn’t take a chance on weaving around playing with the grass. They knew there was a chance the batter would hit the ball on every pitch.