CHAPTER ONE:
CHAPTER ONE:
Baker High School quarterback Jim Boltz wiped his hands on his jersey, angrily this time. He'd almost fumbled the snap again, the third time in the first quarter. His hands were slick with sweat. They were shaking. He clenched them into fists.
"Y'okay, Jim?" asked the center.
"M'okay!" he snapped back.
He was looking bad; he knew it and his team knew it. He had to get it together, had to quit missing, dropping, forgetting. This was an important game, Baker against Whitman. The Baker High School stadium was filled to capacity. He took his place in the huddle, his stomach in knots.
"Okay, uh, double-wide right, tight end left, 755 fly, on one. Ready . . ."
"We just did that play," said Dave, one of the wide receivers.
Jim stared at the turf. He was thinking about breathing.
Howie suggested, "How about power-I right, play action 242 . . ."
Jim's brain finally snapped into gear. "Uh, yeah, yeah, uh, tight end down and out, on two. Ready . . ."
"Break!" they all yelled.
The huddle broke and they headed for the line of scrimmage.
Jim forgot the play. He tagged his fullback and got a reminder.
"Ready, set, red twenty-one, red twenty-one, red twenty-two, hut, HUT!"
He got the snap, faded back, looked for his receiver, saw a face in the stands . . . The face was pale. The eyes were cold and cruel, and they gazed at him unblinkingly.
Jim's hand trembled. He almost dropped the ball.
"Why's he standing there?" Coach Marquardt growled from the sidelines. Still in his midtwenties, Marquardt was all meat, no fat, and tough enough to scare any kid within range of his glare. "Boltz! Wake up and throw the ball!"
Jim threw the ball. It wobbled in a pitiful, lazy arc over the line of scrimmage and bounced far short of the receiver. The play was over, and it was sheer luck the ball wasn't picked off by a linebacker.
This time, Gordon, the center, got right in his face. "Jim, what's the problem? Hey, I'm talking to you!"
Jim was eyeing that face in the stands. "Sleazy little wimp!"
The center turned to follow Jim's gaze. "Who?"
"He's gonna pay for this."
Gordon was still looking. "Who?"
Jim turned toward the huddle. "C'mon." It was fourth down on Whitman's 24-yard line and Baker had four yards to go for a first down.
Jim took some deep breaths. It had to be exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress of playoffs coming up. With two more wins, they'd go to the state championship game on Turkey Day, the big one. That could be doing it. Maybe it was a touch of the flu, or something he ate. It could be anything.
Anything but-
Fear.
Uh-uh. No way. Not me, not here, not now, and not from that little creep in the stands. He looked at those distant black eyes and mouthed the words, I'm not afraid of you!
Ian Snyder sat hunched like a vulture in row twelve on the far end of the bleachers, dressed in black, the only color he owned. The seats all around him were vacant. After three miserable years in high school, he was used to it. He was enjoying every moment of watching Baker High's star quarterback fall apart. The searing, demonic smile never left his face. Oh, you're scared, all right. I can see it in the way you keep looking this way and keep blowing this football game. I've got you right where I want you, don't I?
"Abel Frye," he whispered, his eyes gleaming like the silver pendant that hung from his left ear. "Abel Frye."
Jim Boltz shook off the weakness, clamped his hands together to keep them steady, and called for one more pass play, a last-ditch attempt to make that first down.
The Baker Hawks went to the scrimmage line; he took the snap, faded back-
His arm faltered in midthrow.
Someone was standing in the end zone.
Abel Frye. The name reverberated like an iron bell through his brain, taking command of every thought, every intent, numbing every nerve.
Beneath the upstretched arms of the goalpost stood a gaunt, decaying figure washed pale by the floodlights, shreds of a tattered shirt moving like vapors in the breeze, the head cocked grotesquely against the right shoulder as if the neck were broken, a golden-eyed hawk perched on the left shoulder. The youth looked dead, his face a chalky white, and yet his eyes met Jim's and then his pale, gray lips parted in a hideous grin.
They knew each other. This was an appointment.
"YES!" said Ian Snyder, leaping to his feet, arms high in jubilation. Those who noticed had no idea what he was so excited about.
The hawk's wings burst open as it leaped off the bony shoulder. With head low and eyes crazed with killing, it came straight for Jim Boltz.
Every thought fled from Jim's mind. He had no awareness of the game, the football in his hand, or the opposing tacklers breaking through. The only reality for Jim Boltz was fear.
Searing, mind-conquering fear.
The hawk grew larger as it came closer, wings beating furiously, talons open.
Jim Boltz turned and ran.
Coach Marquardt came unglued and almost crossed the sideline onto the field. "What in Sam Hill is he doing? BOLTZ! TURN AROUND!"
Assistant Coach Raddison could only gawk, but he did put a hand on Marquardt's shoulder in the hope of containing his temper.
Their star quarterback was outrunning Whitman's tacklers, running faster than they'd ever seen him run, but in the wrong direction. The Baker crowd was on its feet, roaring, shrieking, waving, trying to get Boltz's attention. The Whitman crowd was on its feet as well, but hysterical, pointing, laughing, having a great time.
Jim's receivers reached the end of their patterns, turned, and then stood there, bewildered and incredulous as their quarterback shrank in the distance and both teams fell into confusion.
Coach Marquardt signaled "time out" and crossed onto the field, cursing and fuming.
Raddison grabbed his arm. "Vern, the play isn't over!"
"What play?" Marquardt jerked free. "It's happening again. Can't you see that? BOLTZ! I'm gonna put your rear in a blender! You hear me?"
Raddison saw Jim Boltz collapse and roll into the end zone, get to his feet again, collapse again. The ball tumbled free and a Whitman tackler dove on it. The referee blew his whistle and the play was over.
Raddison had seen this before. "Oh, no." He hollered, "First aid! Let's go!" and then ran after Marquardt.
"TIME OUT!" Marquardt hollered, signaling, and he got it.
A Whitman tackler trotted up to the Baker quarterback, still on the ground. "Hey, congratulations, you just got us two points!"
The quarterback was writhing on the ground, whimpering, screaming. "What dollar in the kenzo slater, make it uptown and drive it, down way!"
The tackler had extended his hand to help his opponent off the ground, but now he shied back. "Hey, you all right?"
Boltz was twitching, twisting, staring wide-eyed at nothing and plainly terrified. "Does it, does it, no, unload and white the ground! Chevy maker in the postgame!"
He threw up his arms as if fending off an attack from . . . something.
"Wow," said the tackler to a teammate, "he's, he's-"
"He's wacko, that's what he is."
"Abel Frye!" Boltz screamed, inching and clawing along the ground, eyes staring upward. "Abel Frye!"
Then he was on his feet, starting to run.
Marquardt and Raddison overtook him and brought him to the ground, holding him down, trying to contain his lashing arms and kicking feet.
"Give us a hand here!" Raddison shouted, and players from both sides came to help hold Jim down.
"Where's the doc?" Marquardt shouted, searching. Then he slapped Jim Boltz on the helmet. "Cut it out, Boltz!"
A medic came...
