The Spy's Little Zonbi (29 page)

When league play began in late-summer, Chase moved Tylea up an age level to compete on an all-girl team he'd volunteered to coach. But she wasn't sure about leaving the co-ed team and playing against older girls.

As they sat in his Jeep before sign-ups, she said, “You worry about me getting knocked down by the boys.”

“
That's true. It happens a lot.”

“
I get back up.”

“
You'll play on all-girl teams when you're older, anyway.”

“
I'll miss playing with Max and Ryan. And even Harrison.”

“
I'll miss coaching them. But the kick-arounds have been fun, right?”

“
I like walking to the field from the library. I like playing with the girls.”

“
This whole season will be just like that.”

“
Will I be a captain?” Chase had handed out little felt patches in the shape of the letter C for a parent to sew onto the shoulder of three of his players each season. His captains were chosen for hustle and for gathering cones at the end of practice. It was the captains who the referee called out to midfield for pre-game coin flips. While giving last-minute pep-talks to his huddled team, he'd observe his three captains out of the corner of his eye as they trotted out, listened to instructions, and watched the coin being tossed. They'd decide on a goal to defend, shake hands, then jog back for their “One, two, three, team!” chant.

“
I'll need someone to show the new girls all the things we've been learning.”

“
Like Cruyff turns and shielding?”

“
Right.”

“
I can show them, but some are already in middle school. They won't listen.”

“
A captain figures out a way to make her team pay attention,” he told her. “Being a captain still means picking up cones, but it's also about being a leader, especially now that you're older.”

“
You'll help me figure it out?”

“
Yup, that's what a coach is for. Some of the girls on this new team haven't played much soccer before. I need a couple of girls who aren't afraid to get up in front of everyone and demonstrate moves.”

“
But don't act like a know-it-all, right?”

“
That's a good starting point.”

“
When I nutmegged that kid last year he got mad and knocked me down.” She'd worked hard to learn to dribble the ball between a defenders legs and then sprint around them to receive her own pass. It left the defender embarrassed, sometimes even angry.

“
Well, if you nutmeg an older girl, she might get mad and knock you down, too.”

“
But I'll still try and nutmeg them, right?”

Chase made Tylea a captain the season after he murdered Bernie. Mitra had sewn a captain's C on the left shoulder of her uniform. The extra responsibility seemed to boost her confidence. She treated soccer less as a sport than a math problem—something she knew she could solve.

“
That girl always dribbles to her left, Dad.” And he'd see she was right. “Number four always back-pedals and doesn't challenge. I could take her deep for a cross to Sarah.”

And she would.

Despite his uncertain future and whatever DB6 had in store, the worries disappeared on Saturdays. All Chase's concerns hovered around the best way to keep his center forward from being trapped offside, although he now had a potentially volatile Iranian scientist along for the ride. Chase had witnessed his father-in-law's version of cutthroat Monopoly with his granddaughter, had seen him hurl a vase at Vanna White for refusing to expose letters he was certain were correct.

“
The sky looks as though it is having a nightmare.” Doctor Bam was leaning forward between the front seats as Chase pulled into the entrance road of the other team's field complex. Dark clouds rolled across the treetops, but the forecast only mentioned light showers. It had rained on and off all week and the field would be muddy.

Before Chase switched off the engine, he turned to prepare Doctor Bam for the team the girls would be facing. “We're playing what's called a ‘select team' today. Our parents know to be extra supportive of the girls because it's a program that has cuts, more like an all-star team.”

“
So we will make them fall hard in miserable defeat,” Doctor Bam said. “It will be an even greater victory!”

“
Courtney's here,” Tylea said, pulling on her shin guards and folding her socks down over them.

“
There's no misery and no great victories. This is a chance for our girls to play their very best,” Chase tried. “Our league schedules matches like these to give them an opportunity to improve by playing over their heads. It isn't about winning or losing in any of the games, and especially not today.”

“
Nonsense. Today will be triumph!”

“
Brianna's here.”

Chase saw flashes of yellow behind their car, knew his entire team was arriving.

“
You have to behave,” Mitra warned, taking his hairy hand in hers. “Promise you'll cheer nicely? This is about the girls having fun.”

“
That one in the enemy uniform looks like Saddam Hussein,” Doctor Bam said, wagging a finger, but at least his voice was low.

During warm-ups, Chase smiled at his wife, who had blown him a kiss from the far sideline. Her father was still clutching the dirty sack, making what looked to be friendly offerings to the parents. Chase chose not to consider what type of animal protein was inside the lumpy cookies.

As expected, the team of all-stars ran the score up early, and each wave of subs did just as much damage as their starters. Shots that didn't find net gonged off the cross-bar, and their forwards charged the rebounds again and again. Chase had all eleven players back defending against a scoring frenzy. His goalie and fullbacks were hanging their heads each time the ref whistled a goal and walked the ball to midfield for another kick-off.

Across the field, parents were cowering away from Mitra's father, giving plenty of room to the lunatic shouting what must be vulgar threats in a strange language. Chase thanked god the man reverted to his mother tongue when drunk or distraught. Mitra was doing her best to calm him.

It was six to zero as the whistle blew for halftime. The teenage referee jogged over to their sideline. “It's okay if you guys wanna quit.”

The boy glanced over his shoulder toward the crazy man in the white lab coat, obviously hoping they'd pack him up and cart him away as fast as possible.

“
We don't quit,” Tylea told the referee, and then looked around at her teammates for agreement.

“
My wife will keep him under control,” Chase said, stepping away from the huddle with the boy. “Look, I understand if you have to call the game off. It's his birthday and he wanted to come. But I want the girls to finish.”

“
If he's swearing, I'm supposed to have him removed.”

“
He's from a country where they cut things off the losers,” Chase said, but that didn't seem to reassure the boy. “If she can't settle him down, just blow the whistle and the game's over. Fair enough?”

Chase went back to his girls, who were drinking water and resting in the wet grass. Some were crying, and others sulked. He told them the score didn't matter; there were no standings, no record of wins or losses in their league. What counted was trying to win the ball each play, not trying to win the game. He told them he didn't care how many goals the opposition scored, but to take this chance to show courage and demand respect.

As halftime ended, they circled up and put their hands in the middle.

“
We can beat them, Coach,” Tylea said, and her teammates murmured agreement.

Chase knew they couldn't win, but that they could try.

A few minutes into the second half, Chase's center-midfielder dribbled past two defenders, then found her right wing open deep. Brianna brought the ball into the penalty area and sent a hopeful crossing pass to Tylea, who was cutting toward the goal on a diagonal run. It was a terrific play, but the defender was just too big. She easily out-jumped the little striker to head the ball out of the box to a teammate, who collected the pass and brought the ball safely over midfield.

Tylea and her teammates hustled back to help on defense. They fought for every ball despite being down by six goals. They charged each loose ball, challenged every forward run and made desperate clears from in front of their own goal. Against a team of all-stars, they had stopped sulking and played as if it were a scoreless tie.

Chase saw Doctor Bam sitting quietly in the mud on the far sideline, brooding, lab coat spread around him showing a constellation of brown freckles on his chest. He looked for Mitra, understanding for the first time what it must have been like for her as a child. Sure, she'd been raised to believe that life was meant to be spent hunched over in a laboratory, time frozen and practically meaningless; the father/daughter relationship a slight variance on that of professor and student. But that day Chase glimpsed something new—her father's inability to understand something so fundamental in his world as a coach. The simple concept of teaching kids to have fun whether they were winning or losing.

With less than ten minutes remaining, Tylea was charging after a loose ball at midfield when she was tackled from behind, bouncing hard and sliding face-first. The referee whistled for a stoppage and gave a yellow card. Chase ran out to kneel next to his daughter as she battled back tears, her face muddy and scraped. She writhed silently on the sloppy ground, clasping one knee in both hands. He cupped her head away from the wet grass and waited to see if the initial sharp pain would pass, as the trainer was radioed to come from another field.

Chase glanced beyond his little girl to where Mitra was holding back her father. He had risen from the mud, red-faced, eyes filled with murderous rage. The young referee witnessed this, too, was keeping Chase between him and the crazy old foreigner.

“
I'm okay,” Tylea finally croaked to the circle of hovering teammates. “It's okay.” She rolled onto her knees in the muck, slowly rising to her wobbly legs. Slinging her arms over the shoulders of two teammates, she limped to the sideline. Once she was facing away from the other team, she let the tears flow quietly, in muddy rivulets onto her golden uniform.

With two minutes to go and the score unchanged, Tylea dropped her icepack and stood next to her father on the sideline. They watched the long clearing balls, as the other team's defense hunkered down and played everything safe to preserve the shutout. Chase was sure Tylea noticed the same open space about thirty yards in front of the opposition goal being left undefended. Their centerback was exhausted, hanging out at midfield, waiting for the clock to run out.

“
Let me try it,” his little captain said, bending and flexing her knee, which had begun turning a deep shade of purple. “I can score.”

Chase called for a sub on the next throw-in.

T
hey were in their favorite spot along the wall in the deep end of the pool.

“
Push me to the bottom!” Tylea would happily screech, over and over, as she took a deep breath and held her hands tight against her sides, legs together and toes pointed down, as straight as a pencil. She'd begin to sink, and Chase would put his hand on the top of her head and push, leveraging against the side of the pool with his other. Done just right, she would swoosh downward, cutting through the water like a knife, propelled to the bottom of the ten-foot pool. She'd flatten her feet out, squat and then push off the bottom, thrusting herself back to the surface.

They'd played this game a hundred times under the summer sun, surrounded by laughing and screaming children of families who lived here or rented by the season.

The pool dream first crept into Chase's sleep later that summer. It started out vague, hard to remember, just bits and pieces. But each recurrence was more vivid, usually invading his subconscious in the hours just before dawn. It always began innocently enough, just him and Tylea spending an afternoon along the wall in the deep end.

In the dream, she wouldn't stop at the bottom because there suddenly was no bottom. Just before disappearing into the cloudy blue depths she'd look back up at him and cry out, “No, Daddy!” He'd try to tell her not to speak, that she had to keep holding her breath. But all the air streamed out of her lungs in a long line of tiny bubbles which he recognized as trapped sobs. He could hear her crying as they popped all around him.

The dream changed toward the end of the summer. He began catching glimpses of something that had grabbed her from below and was dragging her down into the bottomless depths. Yes, he'd pushed his little girl, but something snagged her and wouldn't let go. He saw the white knuckles of a hand encircling Tylea's ankle, and the pale arm that was pulling and pulling. One night, he saw the face of Mitra.

The woman he'd loved and married was drawing Tylea down into the abyss, wrenching the precious air out of his child, stealing her away to a place impossibly out of reach.

But it wasn't the Mitra he knew. He could tell from a glimpse of her eyes it was someone very different, a stranger.