Coach Mitchell Pt. 2

Chapter Eleven

THE next day, Mitchell stayed home to recover a bit from his wound, and also to practice hiding his limp. Carl Davis, a seventy-year old Rhodes scholar, was Mitchell’s substitute teacher for the weightlifting class. Mitchell sent instructions to Davis via Garner to have the boys play football.
What he didn’t think to say in the instructions was that it should be two-hand touch football.
When the boys came onto the turf, they made a decision about the day’s game: when the ball was inside the twenty yard line, they would play tackle.
It was the standard procedure for the class’s game to end at nine o’clock sharp, at which point they would file in to the dressing room, shower, and return to the gym to await the bell.
At 8:55, the game was tied, Lance Rollins’ team was twenty-three yards away from a touchdown. Rollins handed the ball off to Kobe Raymond, who charged in to the red zone without being tagged. The monster now had to be tackled.
John Conley, a six foot five, three hundred ten pound senior, connected with Raymond, and fell backward. Kobe kept advancing. Robert Fisher stood in front of Kobe and sprinted directly into the boy. Kobe fell forward, bringing Fisher down with him.
For a moment, the entire class was uproarious with laughter. Then Kobe rolled off of Fisher, and they saw the big senior clutching his ankle, his face scrunched in pain. His ankle had been badly sprained. Rollins and Conley helped him off the field, and the game ended in a tie.
Mitchell, back the next day, made a rule: subs for his class had to be on the football coaching staff.















Chapter Twelve

THE week before Thanksgiving, Mitchell assigned his first block class a workout consisting of five sets of three bench, four sets of eight chinups, and four sets of ten triceps extensions and crunches.
He would always sit directly in front of station four during the workouts, a strategic point to make sure that the lifters at every station are using proper form and that the spotters were doing their jobs.
On this particular day, he noticed that the people at station four—a basketball player named James Fortier, a soccer player named Jason Tan, a skinny slacker named Clyde Lamay, and an ex-wide receiver named Foster Skaggs—were not putting any weight on the bar for their bench press. Mitchell looked around and saw that people at other stations were doing the same thing. He felt his fury build up, but kept his mouth closed until the end of the session. As the class began to move toward the dressing room, Mitchell called them over to him.
“Today I noticed a lot of you weren’t even tryin’ on those lifts,” he said. “If I ever see that happen again, I’ll write you up, and we won’t come in here anymore. We’ll just stay in the gym for an hour and a half. Is that what you want? Don’t think so. Now go get your showers and hurry back to the gym.”
Mitchell found it ridiculous that he was out there killing people to protect those little shits.


One night during the Thanksgiving break, Mitchell sat in his recliner, drinking Coronas and watching a Red Sox-Yankees game. He heard a loud noise at the front door, and a thin man with a dark, receding hairline, dressed in all black, appeared in the den. Mitchell jumped to his feet and saw a small black Taurus Millenium series PT145 pistol in the intruder’s right hand.
“Eugene Mitchell,” the man drawled. “We meet at last. You know who I am?”
“Well, it’s like you just said, sir, we’ve never met before. So no, I don’t have a clue who you are or why you’re here or why you’ve got a gun.”
The invader smiled. “Well, my name’s not important. But I’ll tell you this: you owe me twenty grand, and I want it right the fuck now.”
Mitchell swallowed hard. “Twenty thousand dollars? How could I have come into that kind of debt without realizing it, huh?”
“Two years ago,” the guy began.
Shit, Mitchell thought.
“I put twenty G’s on the Cardinals beatin’ the shit outta the Bulldogs. And it woulda happened if it wasn’t for you.” He pointed the gun at Mitchell’s face but kept the safety engaged. “So I want my money now, please.”
Mitchell wanted to ask the man why he had waited two years to confront him, but decided he needed to act while the safety was still engaged. He thrust the man’s right arm to the side, and brought his own right elbow forward, connecting with the intruder’s mouth. The guy hit the floor hard, and the gun slid toward Mitchell. The perp spat out a couple teeth.
Mitchell picked up the little handgun, disengaged the safety and said, “Get the fuck up.”
The man stumbled to his feet and Mitchell saw a small switchblade in his hands. Eugene raised the gun and fired three times. The guy collapsed again, and this time he didn’t get up.


He didn’t touch the body after that. He just patiently waited for the police to arrive. A sergeant whose nameplate read Rogers found a driver’s license bearing the name Jonathan Loflin. A brand new silver Buick Regal CXL registered under the same name. One cop there said he knew a guy who knew the guy. Said Loflin was an inventor.
Mitchell laughed. “A man of science in backwoods Mississippi. I doubt that.”


Mitchell had been a gun collector before his suspension, but he got rid of them all as he tried to live a nonviolent life. But the day after Loflin attacked, he applied for a gun permit.



















Chapter Thirteen

IN mid-December, the Ocala Cardinals’ football season ended. Their completed schedule was this:

Stamford Cowboys W 19-36
Burlington Cougars W 16-18
@Morrison Spartans W 23-6
@Winder Bobcats L 15-17
@Freehold Bees W 21-19
Metairie Knights L 32-25
@Wilmar Rockets T 6-6
Duluth Rebels L 10-3
Macon Eagles W 18-29
@Amasa Bulldogs W 21-0

Playoffs:
@Pampa Hurricanes W 7-3
Triadelphia Lions W 34-35
Pinellas Broncos W 42-16

Mississippi State Championship
(In Jackson, MS)
Clinton Owls L 59-36

Final Record
9-4-1

The Monday after their loss in the Mississippi State Championship Game, Garner had his men complete a rigorous obstacle course of sorts, and told them that anyone who didn’t finish within ten minutes would not be on the team next year. The course consisted of twenty five pull-ups, twenty five chinups, a mile run, fifty pushups, fifty crunches, fifty sit ups, and another fifteen pull-ups.
Only three players failed to finish within the time limit.
Garner and Mitchell were certain that the Cardinals would be state champions the next year.





















Chapter Fourteen

DURING Christmas vacation, Mitchell received his gun permit and purchased a Browning 9x 19mm Hi-Power handgun. The 9x 19 Parabellum cartridge was common since the first world war largely due to the fact that any magazine that supported it had a high capacity. (His carried thirteen rounds.) The Hi-Power was also the first piece in his collection of firearms years before. Eventually, a derringer, Baker rifle, pump-action Remington 870, and an Enfield revolver were added to his collection.
Mitchell made it a habit to carry the Hi-Power everywhere with him. He knew, though, that once he got back to school, he’d have to start leaving it in the glove compartment box of his red Honda Crosstour.
On Christmas Eve, Mitchell dialed Garner’s cell.
“What’s up, Eugene?”
“I think I’m ready to get back to work.”
A long pause. “Okay. “I’ll be at your house in three minutes. We’ll talk then.”
It was actually two minutes.
“So, Chad, have anyone in mind?”
Garner grinned. “It’s a tough one. Toughest one yet, maybe. You remember old Bobby Lee?”
“Skinny Lee, sure.”
“Well, right after we got suspended, Lee called me. Said if I was pissed at that reporter, what was her name? Barker? Anyways, he said if I was pissed at her, there was a guy who hung out at the back of Jameson’s on Lang Avenue. Said that guy’d take care of her. I reckon he’d still be there.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying we go after a hit man?”
“Why not? It shouldn’t be too much trouble, long as you keep your wits about you.”
Mitchell sighed. “Alright. When you wanna do this?”
Garner checked his watch. “In about twenty minutes.”


They rode in Garner’s silver Lincoln MKZ. Mitchell carefully slid the Hi-Power into his waistband and covered it with his Ocala Cardinals shirt. Garner kept his compact semi-automatic Smith & Wesson .45 ACP Chief’s Special on the dashboard.
Mitchell imagined the contract killer to be wearing a black DKNY suit, the coat just baggy enough to conceal his large array of deadly weapons, along with neatly polished Kenneth Cole loafers. But that was not what the man in the back of the dimly lit tavern was dressed in. The man wore a tight fitting striped Calvin Klein polo, a pair of Levi’s, and white Nikes. A nine millimeter handgun and a combat knife clearly showed through the shirt.
The man himself would have been intimidating without the weapons. He had just enough scars on his face and gray hairs on his head to make it obvious that he’d been around, but still had enough fight left in him for a few more lifetimes. He had a few day’s stubble, though most of it was concealed by the thick smoke that he blew from his mouth as he smoked his menthol. A tall glass of scotch sat on the table in front of him, along with three empty glasses, but the man seemed one hundred percent alert.
Garner and Mitchell sat across from him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Garner smiled warmly at him. “We’ve got a problem. And we hear it from a good source that you’re the best problem solver in town.”
The man returned the smile. “You hear right. Who’s your source?”
“Skinny Lee.”
“Ah. Good ole Skinny Lee. Damn shame what happened to him couple years back. Fuckin’ Citizen Cop.” His tone changed. “Alright, give it to me. Whaddya need?”
Garner glanced around the tavern. “Let’s talk in the restroom.”
“Why not talk here? I like it here. My drink’s here. Buy yourself a drink and you’ll like it here, too.”
Mitchell blurted out, “You a cop?”
The guy frowned at the pair of coaches. “So, you think this room’s bugged?” He drained his glass down his throat. “Alright, we’ll talk in the restroom but I’m charging an extra five percent for the inconvenience.”
As they walked to the grimy restroom, Garner and Mitchell slid their gloves on.
Inside, the man spoke again. “So whaddya need?”
Mitchell nodded to himself, deep in thought. Then his fist flew forward in the assassin’s direction.
But the man’s elbow blocked the punch. Garner lightly dove on the guy, but was shoved toward a wall. The Gerber LHR combat knife appeared in his left hand, and the Jericho 941 F 9mm in his right. He swung the knife at Mitchell, but missed. He thrust it forward, and Mitchell parried backwards. Then Mitchell felt a wall against his back. End of the line.
Then Garner got to his feet and leveled his Chief’s Special with the hit man’s head.
Mitchell grinned. “Don’t do it, Chad,” he said. “Too much noise.”
The man glanced in Garner’s direction. And that was all the opportunity needed. Mitchell charged forward, bringing the guy with him.
The assassin dropped his gun and knife as the wind was forced out of him. Garner raced toward the two and quickly thrust his own knife through the man’s neck. Mitchell let the guy go and he collapsed to the ground, gasping and reaching for the knife. Garner quickly pulled the blade free and they watched him die.
When it was done, they seated the body in the farthest stall from the door and cleaned up the mess of blood with paper towels. They dug things out of the trash bag to make sure that the blood-soaked towels were at the bottom. A first aid kit was on the counter, and they took a bandage from it and applied it to the dead man’s wound, keeping blood from pouring onto the floor.
All these precautions would likely do little good, though. This was a guy who spent the majority of his time at the tavern. The owner would likely notice if he went missing for more than a day. But, by that time, the faces of Garner and Mitchell would be forgotten, and he probably never did get a proper look at them in the dark.
They walked out of the tavern and rode home.
Merry Christmas.





























Chapter Fifteen

ON the first day back from Christmas vacation, Garner and Mitchell gathered their first block classes together in the middle of the gym.
“Got an announcement to make,” Garner said. “Today we’re all gonna play kickball together. Four teams.” He ticked them off on his hand. “Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors. Tournament style. Alright? Sophomores play seniors, juniors play freshmen. Then the winners square off. To make it fair, when you’re up to kick, you have to alternate, boy-girl, boy-girl. Okay? Now let’s get out there.”
Things went pretty smoothly, if not dull, until Foster Skaggs stepped up to the plate to kick. Reagan McCray, a very pretty girl from the soccer team, gently rolled the ball to him.
He kicked with all his might—but he missed the ball completely. The ball rolled right past him as he fell on his ass, reenacting the classic Charlie Brown scenes. As the entire field roared in laughter, Skaggs got up and tossed the ball back to McCray, acting as though nothing had happened.
After that, everybody started having fun. Garner and Mitchell were cracking jokes, and they looked like brothers standing next to each other. Not many people really knew that the two were close, so several members of either class watched them talk with interest.
“Just got my hunting license back,” Mitchell said at one point. “You wanna get a quick one in this weekend before deer season ends?”
“Sure,” Garner replied. “Haven’t been huntin’ in a couple years.”
Mitchell grinned. “Not deer anyways.”
One girl piped up, “What, then?”
Garner had to do some quick thinking. “Squirrels. The oversized rats are always gettin’ in my yard, so I just take my little .45 and blast ‘em.”
The girl frowned. “That’s mean.”
“That’s life, sister,” Mitchell said.


Garner lined up the sight of his Ruger M77 Mark II Frontier Scout rifle with the beautiful, giant, whitetail deer. Mitchell was about twenty yards from the other side of the deer, completely hidden, but Garner was sure he wasn’t in the line of fire.
Just as Garner pulled the trigger, the deer began trotting a few yards. The shot missed, and the loud crack from the gun alerted the buck to Garner’s presence, and it began running away. Mitchell appeared behind a bush, with his newly acquired semi-automatic action Remington 1100 shotgun, and fired, creating a thundering BOOM. The deer collapsed in a bloody mess.
They walked over to the deer. Its eyes darted around madly, and it was breathing, staggered though the breath was.
“Bastard’s still alive,” Garner said.
Mitchell pulled out his Browning Hi-Power and fired a round into the animal’s head. “No, he’s not.”
“Shit,” Garner said with a cold laugh. “We really fucked this up.”





































Chapter Sixteen

MITCHELL soon learned a way to make extra money at school: selling dipping tobacco. In mid-February, Charles Olinger, a nerdy kid, walked up to Mitchell on the field.
“Coach, can I buy a can of snuff?” he asked very bluntly.
Mitchell looked at him for a moment. Then he said, “Alright. I’ll sell you a can of Skoal Straight for ten bucks.”
Olinger’s mouth dropped open. “But, Coach, I just saw you sell a can to Lance for five dollars.”
“Well, not that it’s any of your goddamned business what I did with somebody else, when I bought the can that I sold to Lance, it was cheaper than the one that I just bought, and am now prepared to sell to you. Ten dollars.”
Olinger sighed. “I’ve only got five on me.”
“But you got more at home?”
“Yeah, sure, a couple hundred bucks.”
“Well, you just bring me the other five tomorrow. But don’t you dare try to pull one over on me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
So Olinger handed him a five and anxiously took the blue tin can.


The next day, Olinger never spoke to Mitchell. The class was assigned four sets of three deadlifts, four sets of eight shoulder press and rows, and six sets of ten bicep curls. When the class began filing out of the weight room, Mitchell stopped Olinger. “Hold on a moment,” he told the boy. The kid swallowed audibly.
When the rest of the class was gone, Mitchell said, “You were slacking off today with your lifts. So let’s go back to your station and you give me six good reps on the bench press. I’ll spot for you.”
Mitchell put ninety pounds on either side of the bar, making a grand total of two hundred twenty-five pounds—a hundred five pounds more than what Olinger had done earlier that day. Olinger put his hands on the bar and Mitchell lifted it off the rack, then let go.
The bar came down on the kid’s chest. “Coach,” he gasped. “I can’t get it up.”
“Where’s my five bucks, kid?”
“I’m sorry, Coach,” his voice was barely audible. “I totally forgot about it.”
“If you don’t have it for me tomorrow, I’m kickin’ your ass.” He lifted the bar of Olinger’s chest and set it gently back on the rack. “Now get your sorry ass outta here.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, Garner and Mitchell ventured to downtown Ocala. Walnut Street. The Walnut Pawn Shop was a big building with few customers. The pair of coaches navigated through the darkness into an alley next to the pawn shop and a barbershop.
They were greeted by a tall black guy with a huge Glock G22 in his hand. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Yes,” Garner began. “I’d like to see the manager of this fine establishment.”
The black guy smirked at them. “White man think he funny. Spread ‘em. Jerome, get over here.”
The two men patted down Garner and Mitchell thoroughly, removing the guns and discarding the latex gloves. Then they led them through the pawn shop’s back door, into a large room with a desk in the middle of it. Jamal Meeks, the leader of the Ocala Colts, a feared local gang, sat behind the desk.
They sat across from Meeks, and the man called Jerome set their guns on the desk in front of them. The Colts’ first mistake. Jerome didn’t even bother to empty the guns.
Meeks spat a piece of gum in a nearby trash bin. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Well,” Garner said, “I’m Jimmy Dean, and this is my cousin, Oscar Meyer.”
“Okay, you wanna play that game, huh? So why the fuck you here?”
Mitchell answered. “We were wondering if you could get us a discount on that television up front.”
Meeks pulled out a Glock G21 and pointed it between Mitchell’s eyes. Safety off. “You think you so fuckin’ funny, huh? Comin’ in here insultin’ me. I oughtta kill you right here on principle.”
Mitchell smiled. “I like that gun. Not nearly as big as the G22. Tell me something, you think that guy over there with the G22 is trying to compensate for something?”
He dove out of his chair, scooping the Hi-Power along with him. Meeks reflexively fired at air. Mitchell brought the gun up, disengaged the safety, and fired three rounds into the ganglord’s chest.
Every man in the room had his gun drawn. Mitchell asked Garner, “Where’s your knife?”
“Outside with our goddamned gloves.”
“Shit.”
Then all hell broke loose. Everybody started firing. Seven black men against two white men. White men that new how to aim.
After the final gunshot, Mitchell stood there for a moment, trying to regain his hearing. When it did come back to him, he turned to see Garner standing, his right fist bleeding.
“I got fuckin’ grazed,” he explained.
“These are registered guns,” Mitchell said solemnly.
Garner began to panic. “Shit, we fucked this one up.”
“Funny. You said the same thing about that deer last month.”







































Chapter Seventeen

JAMES Lambert, Mitchell’s assistant, was the standard substitute for his first block class, and he had become popular among the kids. When he stepped into the gym on Friday, Charles Olinger started to breath easy. He had brought the five dollars he owed Mitchell, but expected more punishment anyways. Seeing Lambert meant he had another weekend of happiness, at least.
Lambert had the kids form a circle around him and told them to listen up. “You have two options.”
“What our options is?” Kobe Raymond blurted out.
Lambert flashed his bright smile. “Well, if Kobe keeps on talkin’, I’ll just have y’all run laps all morning.”
Thirty mouths collectively told Raymond to shut up.
The smile grew bigger. “Alright, the first option is to go outside and play. Our second option is,” he paused. “Yeah, let’s go outside and play.”


On the field was the basketball coach, Sean Burleigh’s, girl’s fitness class. Lambert said quietly to a couple of guys at the front of the line in his class, “Watch this, I’m about to blow their minds.” He called out to the girls, “Hey, ladies, I need you to keep off the turf. Just try to walk around it.”
All the girls had a puzzled look for a moment, then one girl called back, “Very funny, Coach Lambert.”
The day went well. After their game of baseball, the kids went about telling each other how much they preferred Lambert to Mitchell.


Mitchell was back on Monday. Olinger was pleasantly surprised that the coach did not pay any attention to him.
They played baseball, and Mitchell stood to the side, calculating his next move.
Morris Young was a six foot six stoner. He had no interest in the baseball game, so he opted to play with a five pound medicine ball instead. He rolled it into the leg of Andrew Adkins, who was sitting on the ground, waiting for his turn to bat.
Young pumped his fist in the air and yelled out, “Yes! Strike!”
Adkins climbed to his feet, lifted the ball, and heaved it at Young. Young caught it with his fingertips, then dropped it, laughing. He glanced at his hand, and saw that his pinky was bent sideways. “Holy shit,” he said in a near whisper.
Adkins’ eyes went wide, and he said, “Oh my God, Morris, I am so sorry.”
They both sprinted to Mitchell, and Morris showed him his pinky, telling him that he thought he broke it.
“How the hell did that happen?”
Adkins stammered. “I, I, sort of threw it at him. It was an accident, Coach. I am really sorry.”
“Alright, I’m gonna take you to the nurse’s office, Morris. You keep away from that goddamned medicine ball, Andrew.”
He was ready to shoot the kid.


At fourth block, James Lambert stood at the middle of the field, beaming. Larry Whalen was patting him on the back, also smiling.
“What’s going on?” Garner asked.
“James here’s tying the knot,” Whalen answered. “To a sports reporter, no less.”
“Oh really? What’s her name, big guy?”
“Stephanie. Stephanie Barker.”
Mitchell felt his heart drop to his bowels. That was a name he had not heard in two years. “That’s great,” he said without enthusiasm.
Barker was the girl who asked Mitchell’s linebacker why he hit that boy after the whistles were blown. Most people didn’t know that. It was doubtful that Lambert even realized it. With all the local television coverage that the incident got, Barker’s name was never mentioned.
Mitchell swallowed hard. He didn’t like these memories.



















Chapter Eighteen

GARNER came over to Mitchell’s house that night for a cup of coffee.
“You know,” he said. “When you think about it, we aren’t really killers. Never killed anything but some rabbits and deer.”
“Oh, so all those people just dropped dead randomly, huh?”
“Oh, no. They were murdered. Just not by us. Not saying they didn’t deserve to die. They did. Hell ain’t good enough for those fuckers to be honest.”
“So who are you saying killed ‘em?”
“That girl. Stephanie Barker. If she’d never come up to that boy, we’d still be up in Amasa, and none of those people would’ve been killed.”
“Hell of a way to look at it.”
“It’s the logical way to look at it. I heard that name today, and I got fucking pissed. She’s the reason we’re in this situation right now, with a shit load of evidence against us downtown. The state could gas us for what she did. How fucked up is that?”
Mitchell nodded. “It’s pretty fucked up.”


Mondays were the Ocala Cardinals coaches’ drinking nights. Every Monday night, they would hit Colleen’s, a pub named after the owner’s deceased wife. This had been a tradition of the entire coaching staff—football, basketball, baseball, soccer—for seven years, throughout the controversies surrounding their football team’s current head coach and defensive coordinator, so Mitchell and Garner rarely showed up to these ritualistic meetings. This night was no different.
Where the two were was different. They drove to 2839 Woodbridge Lane. Through the house’s windows, they could see that lights were on. They slipped their gloves on, and Garner tested the front door. Unlocked. They crept inside, into the main hallway. Noise came from the first door on the right. They made their way to that room.
A beautiful woman, very petite, with auburn hair was seated on a sofa with a giant bowl of popcorn in her lap. She was fast asleep. Rachel McAdams graced the screen of the television across from the woman, starring in the hit film The Notebook.
Garner nodded to Mitchell. Mitchell nodded back. He rushed the woman, and threw a massive uppercut to her jaw. Her eyes went wide as she and the couch toppled backwards from the force. Popcorn flew everywhere. The woman was too shocked to scream.
Mitchell carefully stepped over the fallen couch. He straddled the woman. Then his right fist swung into the left side of her face. Without a pause, his left fist connected with the right side of her face. Right hit left. Left hit right. The pattern continued for three whole minutes, when Mitchell’s shoulders began to feel like rubber.\
Stephanie Barker’s once beautiful face was now a bloody mess. Some of her blood had hit Mitchell’s face. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. He just pressed two gloved fingers to her neck and checked for a pulse.
“She’s dead,” he called out.
No response.
He looked up. Garner was gone.
Mitchell searched the entire house for his partner. Found him nowhere. He stepped into the driveway.
Garner’s Lincoln was gone.


Chad Garner stepped into the crowded pub and found the coaches at the bar. He glanced at Colleen’s widower, and said, “Irish wine, please.”
The old man poured him a shot of whiskey and slid it across the bar. Garner threw the shot back and slammed the glass back on the bar. “Yeah, get me a bottle of Jameson, will you?”
He slapped his hand on James Lambert’s shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, fellas. Hope I haven’t missed out on all the fun yet.”
Sean Burleigh, the basketball coach, said, “Just getting started. Jimmy here ain’t even completely drunk yet.”
Garner smiled. “Well, we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”



Half an hour of drinking later, Garner said, “Guys, I’m gonna be gone a couple days. Big fishing trip I’m going to in North Mississippi.”
“Oh, what parts?” This from the soccer coach.
“Bridgeville.” Garner nodded, as much to himself as anyone. “Coordinators run their own units in my absence.”
Lambert gave a drunken grin. “For once, I’m glad I’m only an assistant. I’d hate to be callin’ the shots with the hangover I’ll have tomorrow.”
Garner smiled back and drank some more Jameson.








Chapter Nineteen

MITCHELL came to school the next day on sore legs. He had walked the seven miles from James Lambert’s house on Woodbridge Lane to his own house on Nicholas Street. To some, this would have been nothing; but to a big man like Mitchell, it was quite a journey.
He wasn’t surprised that Garner wasn’t there Tuesday. He knew that his old friend was trying to pull a fast one on him. He just didn’t know the specifics yet.
His walk had given him plenty of time to think. And he realized that he had been played. He had always thought of Garner as a brother, and Garner exploited that. For whatever sick reason, two years ago Garner had decided that he wanted to see what it was like to kill someone. But he didn’t want to do it alone. So he spun a story about making amends for their past sins to Mitchell. And Mitchell believed it. It was all bullshit. And now he had killed someone one hundred percent innocent.
As his first block students set about their lifts—twenty five bench press, twenty five dips, and twenty five rows—he heard a few students at station three discuss how badly they wished Coach Lambert would take over the class. How much more fun it was with him around.


Lambert was a wreck fourth block. Mitchell was utterly shocked that he had even come. The chubby man had entered his home, walked into the den, and saw the toppled sofa. He approached the couch with caution, and as he drew near, he saw his beautiful fiancé, beaten to a pulp.
Tuesday he just sat on the bench and watched the players perform various drills with a blank expression on his face.


Mitchell stared at his small Samsung cellular phone for a long time that night. Finally, he opened it, went to his contacts, selected “Chad,” and pressed the green SEND button.
After five rings, it went to voicemail, which was fine by Mitchell. He wasn’t interested in holding a two-way conversation. “Chad, it’s Eugene. Making that seven mile trek last night gave me plenty of time to think. And I realized that we’re the two most disgusting people on the face of the earth. And we deserve whatever the judge gives us. I’m throwin’ in the towel. I’m gonna have the cops pick me up at Cardinal Field, and they’ll start a manhunt for you. Believe me, they’re gonna find you. Just a matter of time. Smart thing to do would be to come quietly and quickly. So long.” He pressed END, then dialed Lambert.
After three rings, Lambert answered. “Yeah, Mitchell?”
“I want you to listen very carefully. You need to come to Cardinal Field in ten minutes. I’m bringing your fiancé’s killer over there. You understand?”
He heard a lot of heavy breathing at the other end of the line. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. Now get over there.”
He stepped into the night, leaving the Browning Hi-Power at home.


When his Crosstour was just ninety seconds away from campus, Mitchell pulled out his phone again and dialed 911.
“911 operator, what is your emergency?”
“This is the one they call Citizen Cop. I am turning myself in. My name is Eugene Mitchell. I killed alongside Chad Garner. You can find me at Cardinal Field on the campus of Ocala High School.”
He flipped the cell phone shut as he rode into the school’s parking lot.


The gate to Cardinal Field was wide open. Mitchell stepped onto the turf and met with Lambert at midfield. Lambert had a big Ruger SP-101 revolver in his right hand. “So, who the fuck is it?”
Mitchell sighed. “It’s me.”
The gun came up.
“But not just me.”
Lambert’s grip on the gun loosened slightly. “Talk.” Silence filled the night air. “Talk!” The echo of his frustrated scream must have carried for miles.
“You’ve always wanted my job, haven’t you, Jimmy?”
Lambert furrowed his brows. “What? You just fucking admitted to killing my fiancé, and you wanna talk about your job status?”
“Maybe it’s the same topic. Hear me out. You got a gun pointed to my head. You pull that trigger, it makes you look kinda guilty for all my sins. Try to frame me, then kill me and claim self defense, the cops’ll call it murder because you want my job. That’s how the thing’s gonna play out if you shoot me. The cops are on their way over here. I just thought you had a right to know who killed your wife.” Tears filled Mitchell’s eyes. “I’ve killed twenty two people. You believe that?” Lambert was dumbfounded by what he was hearing.
Then two loud bangs rang out, and a crimson cloud enveloped Eugene Mitchell’s head as he fell to the ground.
Chad Garner emerged from the darkness, his Chief’s Special still aimed where Mitchell’s head was. “Looks like I got back from my fishing trip just in time,” he said shakily. Police sirens could be heard in the distance.
“Yeah,” Lambert choked out. He thought back to what Mitchell had done to his fiancé. And he remembered that it was just one night before. Monday. While he was at Colleen’s. He remembered that Garner got there forty five minutes late. “Where’d you say you were fishing this weekend?”
Garner was kneeling over the body, checking for a pulse. He looked up. “Anniston.”
Lambert raised the Ruger, flipped the safety off, and fired six rounds into Chad Garner, his boss.





































Prologue

LAMBERT was arrested on Cardinal Field for the shooting. He was released later that night after it was determined that he killed Chad Garner in self defense.
The gun found in Garner’s hand was eventually traced back to the Walnut Pawn Shop murders.


Larry Whalen was promoted to the position of head coach for the Ocala Cardinals, and his assistant, Stanley Robards, was promoted to offensive coordinator. Lambert moved up to defensive coordinator. New assistants were hired.


The Ocala Cardinals’ completed schedule the next season looked like this:

Amasa Bulldogs W 27-35
@Edgerton Indians L 35-40
@Tacoma Pirates W 36-29
@Casey Rams W 3-22
Duluth Rebels W 48-50
Wilmar Rockets W 10-12
@Pittson Tigers W 45-17
@Venango Wildcats W 24-15
Winder Bobcats W 15-18
Morrison Spartans W 12-16

Playoffs
Englewood Trojans W 12-72
Fulton Huskies W 28-32
Pinellas Broncos W 13-17

Mississippi State Championship
(In Jackson, MS)
Edgerton Indians W 21-7

It was hard to believe that this was the team that, two years before, couldn’t win a game if their lives depended on it.

The End