The Prospect - Eliot Parker (top 10 novels .txt) 📗

portable bathroom and then catch some sleep. Climbing over Harry would be a challenge, but utilizing his long legs, he was able to stretch over him and land in the aisle. Chaz and Ryan were sitting in the two seats across from Shane and Harry’s row and were both asleep; Chaz with his portable compact disc player earphones tightly situated on his ears and Ryan with his head back and his mouth open.
Walking through the aisles on the bus was difficult because the design of the vehicle and its movement forward tended to pull a person’s momentum backwards. Shane overcame this obstacle by grabbing hold of the seats in front of him and walking slowly, carefully attempting not to disturb his teammates. When he reached the bathroom entrance, he noticed Biggie Rowan sitting on next to the bathroom on the flat, large seats that were not really considered seats at all.
With one leg resting on the seat and his arm draped over the seat in front of him, Biggie looked relaxed and uncomfortable at the same time. Shane concluded that the frame of his body. Biggie’s dark complexion made it difficult to determine what expression was on his face, or even figure out if he was sleeping or not. Shane opened the plastic bathroom door cautiously, causing Biggie to lean forward in an attempt to determine who was standing in front of him.
“Ah, pretty boy, I thought that was you,” Biggie uttered sleepily. “I could smell that pussy scent of yours a mile away.”
Shane took one step forward, trying to disappear into the bathroom as quickly as possible. He managed to turn on the light, which caused Biggie to shade the light with his left hand.
“What’s wrong, you don’t want to talk punk?” Biggie was standing up. Tilting his head forward he grabbed the door as Shane attempted to close and lock it.
“Knock it off, Rowan,” Shane commanded softly but sternly. “I have to go piss, and yes, I do not really want to talk to you. You are not that stimulating to talk to at 10:30 at night.”
“Well, you and I need to talk…FOOL! You really think you are something. So does everyone else. I have news for you; you have a long way to go!” And with that, Biggie’s large hand grabbed Shane’s arm and slung him out of the bathroom. Jerking Shane to the left, the pitcher slammed into the back of the bus and the force of the collision put Shane on his back, with his legs bent and sticking straight up.
The noise startled Walter Mann, who was sitting towards the front of the bus, engaging in some friendly discourse with the bus driver. A self-prescribed insomniac, Walter did not sleep much, no matter how tired he was. He looked over his shoulder as the driver simultaneously looked through the rear view mirror trying to ascertain what was going on behind him.
Shane slid and squirmed as he kicked his feet against the seat in order to sit upright. Biggie Rowan’s maroon shirt was now stained with blotches of sweat and his lips were turned inward. As he leaned forward, Shane retaliated against his teammate, grabbing his throat and squeezing his Adam’s apple with his long, slender fingers.
Biggie through a punch at Shane, which landed on his shoulder but the power behind the hit was diminished as the catcher wheezed and gargled while the grip on his throat got tighter.
“I just wish you would leave me alone!” Shane shouted. By now, the entire bus was awake, even Harry Deitzler. Nobody rose up to defend Shane or Biggie, primarily because there was no room to execute such a plan.
Walter Mann demanded the bus driver to pull over and he sprang towards the back of the bus. Biggie was now on one knee and his face was turning a mixture of red and blue.
“How do you like that! Huh? I am so sick of your harassment, your snide remarks, EVERYTHING!” Shane’s voice was loud and brusque and he continued his verbal onslaught.
“What do you want me to say….huh? You called a great game today? I am not scared of you. You here me! I am not scared of you, or anyone else in Sheaville, in West Virginia, anywhere. I am a prospect, just…like…YOU!” Shane took his knee and planted it into the chest of a kneeling Biggie, who was almost lying on his stomach.
Walter lunged forward and grabbed Shane by the arms and wrestled the pitcher to the aisle way by the bathroom door. The bus was slowing down and pulling over to the right shoulder on Interstate 75. The rest of the team was looking on intently. Pat Sutton was sitting in the row in front of Biggie, and he rushed to see how he was doing. Biggie was wallowing in the floor, coughing and rubbing his throat and stomach.
“What in the name of Sam Heck are you doing Triplet?” barked the manager. Get your little scrawny butt outside, and Biggie, well…” Realizing his condition, Walter turned to watch Shane rush off the bus. “You outside too! The rest of you, I want you to stay on this here bus!” Walter’s thick southern accent was booming through the bus, vibrating off of every square inch of the vehicle.
Biggie was able to join Walter and Shane outside the bus. Leaning against the silver exterior frame, Shane’s arms were folded and he maintained a scowl as he looked towards the ground. Biggie leaped past the steps on the bus, trying to show Shane that what just occurred did not affect him physically.
“All right, you two have just about 30 seconds to tell me what is going on.” Cars and trucks were zooming past the parked bus and the moonlight was illuminating the men with a phosphorescent glow as they began to discuss the problem.
Shane stepped forward. “I’ll be glad to start. For some reason, Biggie does not like me. I do not know why. He blames me for everything wrong during the first part of the year and he loves to tell me what a worthless piece of shitp I am.” Shane’s head was bobbing back and forth and his hands were waving in succession. “Look at the numbers. I am producing, he is not. I am winning, he is striking out. I think it’s a little jealously, if you want to know the truth.
Walter could only rub his forehead in amazement. Shane was never loud or boisterous, yet his cross demeanor was an expression of frustration. Shane was now facing Biggie and their noses almost touched. Walter intervened, squeezing in between the two athletes.
“Biggie, what’s you go to say for yourself.”
“I do not like this pretty boy punk,” he remarked quickly, heavily enunciating the beginning of each word. “Ever since he came to this team, all we hear about is how the fate of the whole damn team rides on him. Well, he ain’t the Loggers…in fact, he ain’t shit. He is a part of the Loggers. We are a team and we are doing well because we are a part of the team. He is a part, not the whole.”
The manager noticed that Shane was becoming agitated at the comments. Attempting to deescalate the exchange, Walter asked for proof from his catcher.
“You don’t believe me, well then, look at this.” In his shirt pocket, Biggie had obtained a copy of the sports section from the Lexington Herald Newspaper. On the front page was a story about the Loggers’ 2-1 win over the Legends. The bottom portion of the section contained a column written by Jim Dunlap, sports editor of the newspaper, discussing how and why Shane Triplet was the best thing to happen to the Appalachian Baseball Association and how his dignity and tenacity are the envy of every pitcher in the league.
While Walter quickly angled the paper underneath the glowing moonlight, gazing over the story, Shane abruptly asked, “Are we done here?”
“Not yet,” mumbled Walter. The article was very supportive of Shane and even Walter was hesitant to mention the contents of the article. Since his pitcher seemed uninterested in what the story had to say, he felt that it was not prudent to discuss it in great detail.
Biggie stood with his arms folded, occasionally turning to catch a glimpse of his teammate. Shane glared intently at Walter as he was reading the article, fully aware what Biggie was doing, which was a pathetic form of intimidation.
Walter emerged from the reading, rubbing his eyes and nervously patting his foot against the ground. Both Biggie and Shane waited patiently, their body language resembled men who were being sentenced in a court of law.
“Men, or should I say boys,” Walter said cantankerously, “what you two did tonight on that here bus was disgusting and it sends a bad message to his teammates. Let me be clear. I will not, I repeat will not have divided players on this team. You two acted like a bunch of sissies who can’t work out problems and blasted disputes. Now, the both of you are going to get there, stand, say yer sorry to yer teammates and I want Biggie to come towards the front and change places with anyone. You two ain’t allowed to play when we get to Lakewood, understand? Each of ya will serve a one game suspension for each of you. Biggie, count yer blessings that I ain’t drilling ya for more than that. If this ever happens again, you too will be off my team, clear?
Biggie and Shane acknowledged their comprehension with a nod of their heads.
“Good. Now get on the bus so we can get going.”
Walter disappeared onto the bus and Shane was quick to follow his manager. As he stepped up the bus platform, he felt a gentle touch and massage on his shoulder. Biggie whispered into his ear, near touching his earlobe with his tongue.
“This isn’t over pretty boy.”

XI

Phil Rodney and Frank Miller sprinted down Central Avenue. Jack Busby could not come because he had to manage the diner, but he would stand near the phone in case emergency personnel needed to be contacted. Instead of calling the state police, Frank and Phil decided to take care of the matter on their own. If West Virginia State Police had to be called, then Sheaville residents would be concerned and Phil and Frank would have to explain it to Mayor Mitchell. It was Jack’s idea to leave the police out of this, if possible.
Phil was driving his red Jeep down the street as fast as it would move. Jerking the steering wheel, the car streaked up the hollow where Shane and his mother lived. Neither men spoke. Each held their breath, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
As they charged up the three crumbled sidewalk steps, Phil noticed no lights were turned on. His only thought: if Joann were in there having another personality, how and where would they find her?
Frank banged on the back door, opened it, and immediately charged through it. The room was dark, but Frank stroked his fingers along the wall until he found the light switch. When the lights came on, there was no sign of Joann Triplet.
“Phil, you search the living rooms and I’ll check those bedrooms.” Phil touched Frank’s arm, acknowledging that he understood and the men went their separate ways.
The house smelled like old, and musty. The green carpet in the living room was tattered and stained and the coffee table resting next to the chair by the small window was covered with dust. Absent from the home were any decorations, pictures, or personal indications that anyone lived there. If Frank and Phil did not know Joann