Free Hangman's Game by Bill Syken

back, the memories of last night flood in uncensored. As the side of my face touches the turf, while my arms are wide and one leg is crossed over the other, I think about the gruesome sight of Samuel’s head resting on the ground, halfway blown off. Then there is Cecil, a bullet taking up residence in his digestive system.
    I wonder if there is there any chance, as Rizotti speculated, that the shooter was actually after Cecil. Samuel, it seems, didn’t have an enemy in the world. But I can’t think of anyone who would be after Cecil, either.
    Or perhaps I was the target. Rizotti had raised that possibility, too, albeit primarily to set up an insult. But who would want to shoot at me? The only candidate that comes to mind is Jessica’s husband, Dan, assuming he’s found out about my three-year relationship with his wife. But Jessica assured me he hasn’t, and besides, Dan is supposed to be out of the country. And if he is planning to kill me, why e-mail me a couple of hours beforehand, for the first time ever? Plus, he is a rising star at the Federal Reserve. If he wanted to mess with me, he would be more likely to have me audited than to engage in a poorly executed drive-by shooting that hits everyone but its intended target.
    Is the popular theory the right one—that Jai Carson was the shooter after all?
    As I sort through the possibilities, I feel like I am drowning in ignorance. There is too much I don’t know. I tell myself I need to worry about my job, while I still have it, and let others do theirs.
    I wish my meeting with Rizotti had inspired more confidence. He seemed more interested in nailing Jai than in conducting an open-minded search for the truth. I imagine myself pressing Rizotti to do his job better, and his response to me comes automatically. You’re the one who didn’t get the license plate .

 
    CHAPTER 5
    I NEED A FRESH IMAGE of Cecil to erase the one that keeps coming back to me from last night. So after I shower and down a mango-flavored protein shake from the team pantry, I return to the hospital. And I am able to see Cecil this time, luckily slipping into a brief window of visitation, though I don’t find the new image all that comforting.
    Cecil has been moved into a small private room. He is covered with a pale green blanket, and he has an intravenous tube in his forearm. His body is sunk limply into the mattress, and his eyes are half open.
    And he has visitors. His wife, Vicki, has made it in from Ohio, along with daughters Rose, nine, and Violet, six. Rose, a chunky blond girl, is wearing a sweatshirt from the Quad Cities Twisters, while Violet, a chunkier brunette, sports a shirt from Springfield State University. The shirts are a reminder of Daddy’s travels; he always brings home souvenirs from his trips to the small colleges and minor-league football franchises that he visits on scouting and recruitment missions. Rose and Violet are seated on the long gray sofa by the window having a pinch fight, which I take as an encouraging sign about Cecil’s prognosis. The kids, at least, have been assured they don’t need to worry.
    I am surprised to see DaFrank Burns here. DaFrank is Cecil’s other active client, and the reason Cecil was able to land Samuel in the first place. DaFrank, like Samuel, went to Western Alabama, and his strong personal recommendation meant more to Samuel than any multimedia presentation from the big-boy agents.
    DaFrank, a former college safety, is a special teams gunner down in Washington, and an intense young man. He makes his living running headlong into others with little regard for his own body.
    â€œHello, DaFrank,” I say, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
    DaFrank shakes my hand and then pulls me in for a hug. Something between a bump and a hug, actually.
    I go to Cecil’s bedside. “How you feeling?” I ask, placing a hand on his upper arm, above his IVs. He has a tube coming