Forced Out Read Online Free PDF Page B

stadium lights. A five-hundred-foot blast. At least. And it didn't even look like the kid had swung that hard.
    "Incredible," Jack whispered, feeling vindicated as the kid circled the bases. Clemants had made two of the greatest plays Jack had ever seen on a baseball field in one night, and he'd done it in a Single-A stadium. Admittedly book-ending an otherwise bushleague performance, but still. "He's got so much talent." It was strange, though. The kid had just smashed a walk-off home run--the most dramatic play in baseball--but there was no one at the plate to congratulate him. No teammates, no coaches, not even the guy he'd batted in. Just the umpire standing by with his mask off and his hands on his hips, waiting to make sure the kid touched the plate. The fans were finally whooping it up, but Clemants's teammates didn't seem to care at all. Typically, the whole team would have been there. In fact, most of them had already exited the dugout and were heading to the locker room.
    After the kid crossed home plate, Jack stood up stiffly, pulled his ticket from his shirt pocket, smiled at it again, stowed it in his wallet, then started limping up the stairs. He'd never seen anything like it on a baseball field before. Hell, Ty Cobb's teammates still congratulated him when he made a great play--even though they hated him.
    "Hey, Pop!" Bobby yelled. "Where you going? Game's over. Let's get out of here!" Jack kept going, ignoring Griffin. God, his knees ached. Elbows, too, all of a sudden. Old age was nothing but a legalized form of torture.
    The little boy was sitting in the aisle outside the top row of seats in a wheelchair. Which, from the looks of his misshapen, gnarled legs, he'd never get out of. He was ten or eleven years old, twelve at most, but he looked like an old man sitting there between the chrome armrests. God, it was terrible.
    "Here, son," Jack said softly, leaning down and handing over the ball he'd snagged a few minutes ago. He'd noticed the boy as he was climbing the stairs to his seat with Cheryl before the game. Felt terrible about the little guy's situation for nine innings--until he'd caught that foul ball. He'd known from the second it smacked his outstretched palm what he was going to do with it. He'd thought about coming up here as soon as he made the catch--which probably would have made him more popular with the fans--but he didn't want to embarrass the boy by making a big deal out of it in front of everybody. So he'd waited until the game was over. "Enjoy."
    "Gee, thanks, mister."
    "You're welcome." As Jack smiled at the boy's mother and straightened up, he rubbed his left arm, then his chest. Then he sank to his knees and toppled over, his head coming to rest against a cement step.
    4
    J OHNNY HESITATED ON the stoop outside Marconi's front door, checking up and down the street, trying to remember which cars had been here and which ones hadn't when he went inside. It was tough to tell much in the dim light coming from the old streetlamps, but he had a feeling something was wrong. He'd always had a sixth sense for imminent danger. A premonition of peril, he called it. And it had saved his life more than once.
    He moved deliberately down the steps, then down the sidewalk toward the Seville, constantly looking around, his neck like a swivel on a stick as he walked. As he pressed the unlock button and the Seville chirped, he hesitated, wondering if someone had rigged the car to explode when the door opened. The meeting with Marconi still seemed strange to him; something wasn't quite right about it. But thinking Marconi had rigged the car to explode was stupid. The old man would never order so over-the-top an execution directly in front of his house. Would he? Maybe that would be the beauty of it. Completely unexpected, completely irrational. When they really thought about it, the cops would have to figure Marconi had nothing to do with it.
    Johnny reached for the door, then pulled back quickly, like a