The Winners Circle Read Online Free PDF Page A

driveway. Jerry marched toward it. The tails of his flannel shirt flapped in the breeze. Where was the dog? He glanced around for signs of life, before sinking the pitchfork into the front left tire.
    Chelsea stood on the porch in a towel, her finger curled over her lip. She rarely raised her voice but was screaming for the second time that day. “Are you crazy?”
    Jerry braced his heel against the fender, skewering the car again. The opposite front tire collapsed, hissing air.
    “ Stop it!” Chelsea yelled.
    “ I am.” He knew women didn’t like the dirty business in life. That’s why they sent men after it, but every time he defended her, she clung to him like a second skin. He knew what she really wanted.
    “ I’m calling the police.”
    “ That’s a good idea.”
    “ Stop! Just stop!”
    Jerry spotted the reporters behind a hundred year old oak. The sprawling tree shaded the house but stood apart from the forest. The men couldn’t run for cover without being exposed. He yanked the pitchfork free and cut a straight path for the massive tree trunk.
    “ No!” Chelsea said. It registered vaguely in his thoughts.
    One photographer stepped into the sun with his hands in the air. He wore a black sweatshirt, camouflage pants, and a baseball cap on backward. He fisted several rolls of film, dropping them on the ground. “Take it all.”
    Jerry gripped the pitchfork. The wooden handle felt warm in his fist.
    “ Please.” The second cameraman had a scarred complexion, readymade for hiding and snooping in the dark. His camera lens poked from his midsection like a weapon of his own. “Take what we have.”
    Jerry glared at the intruders, raising the pitchfork like a spear. He was Neptune, ruler king, god of the rolling hills of Hopewell. He needed to thrust his mighty tines into their cameras, dispelling reporters from his land forever.
    A car horn beeped on the drive. Jerry heard wheels spinning behind him. A black Mercedes raced up and parked shy of the action.
    A short man in a suit came out from behind the wheel. He had black hair and silver sideburns. His chin was large and flat, Abraham Lincoln style, a beard of skin and bone.
    Jerry glanced between the reporters and the new arrival, unsure of where to launch his first attack.
    “ Sir?” The stranger paced forward. “I wouldn’t do this.”
    “ Why not?” Jerry asked, but the urge to kill dissipated like a static charge. His arms felt drained. He wondered why he’d picked up the pitchfork. It was stupid. He possessed the size and girth to tackle most men with his bare hands.
    The stranger stopped walking. “Do it if you want, but it’d be such a waste.”
    “ A waste?”
    “ Of your options.”
    Jerry held his ground, struggling for an excuse to back down. What was he doing? He’d toppled the hen house at Jacob’s farm and perforated a reporter’s car tires like cocktail weenies. Just a few hours outside of the hospital, he’d created a mess of things. He suddenly understood the lives of playboys and rock stars. His day was in fact material for The National Inquirer .
    He glanced at the stranger in the double-breasted suit. “Who are you?”
    “ Haskell Cogdon.” He presented his business card—a mini work of art with gold trim and a hologram of his face.
    Jerry didn’t take it. “Did Chelsea invite you?”
    “ I’m here on your behalf.”
    Jerry lowered the pitchfork. He heard sticks breaking in the woods. Cortez materialized in the undergrowth, tongue wagging. Jerry waited for the dog to reach his side. “There you are.”
    The pure black shepherd nuzzled Jerry’s thigh. The dog’s fur was soaked and matted and smelled of licorice. Cortez licked Jerry’s free hand.
    “ Been in the creek?” Jerry patted the dog’s head. “You should be here when I need you.”
    The reporters didn’t budge. The first man reached for the sky, while the second trembled behind the tree, tossing roles of film around like a sprite dispensing lucky