Novel Excerpt—Against Blood and Fire

Part 1

Chapter I—The Fall

Jim was lost. Sort of. Who actually got lost on the way home? He’d taken a wrong turn, was all. Understandable, considering the upheaval in his life.

Downshifting, he eased the Porsche he drove past an idle construction truck and coasted to the side of the road. Time to figure out the state-of-the-art GPS that came with this rental. He slid his fashion-statement sunglasses to the top of his head and tapped the address to his beach-side condo into the navigational system. The screen went blank.

Perfect! But what had he expected? Ever since he hurt his knee, the governing rule of his life seemed to be, If it ain’t broke, it will be soon.

He glanced at the darkening cloud cover. With his luck, he’d get rained on, too.

Leaning against the headrest, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He just needed to clear his head, get rid of this doom-and-disaster thinking.

An orange-vested Caltrans worker with shovel in hand edged from the far side of the construction truck. “Hey, buddy! You can’t park there.” He strode toward the convertible. “You’ll have to move your—hey, don’t I know you?”

Easing his foot onto the clutch, Jim shifted to first. “Nope. We’ve never met.”

“But I know you.” The man nudged his white hardhat further back on his head. “Didn’t you use to play basketball?”

Jim glanced into the Caltrans worker’s expectant eyes—not the look of someone intentionally pouring acid into an open wound. “I’ve played some.”

“Wait, I remember, you were just in the news.” The man leaned closer. “You’re that forward with the Scorchers, the one they traded to the Raptors last month.”

Jim flipped his sunglasses onto the passenger’s seat next to his cell phone, then produced his photo-op smile. “That’s me.”

The Caltrans worker fumbled in his pocket. “How about an autograph?”

“If you’re sure you want it.”

“You kidding me? Who wouldn’t want the autograph of a professional athlete?” He pulled out a gas station receipt. “You can write on the back.”

“You got a pen?”

The construction worker tapped each of his pockets. “Don’t think so.”

“Might be one in here.” Jim killed the engine, reached across his seat, and opened the glove compartment of his rental. No pen.

“For a minute there I thought you were the surfer who just won that big competition in Hawaii. I saw the piece ESPN did on him.”

“A couple fans at the airport told me I look like him.”

“It’s probably the tan, but I guess you get yours from driving around in a convertible. This baby must have cost you.”

“I think I saw a pen in my bag.” Jim popped the trunk and got out of the car.

The Caltrans worker looked at him across the hood. “Man, you’re tall.”

“It helps in my profession.” Grinning, he circled to the back.

“So leaving San Diego was a good move for you, right? I mean, expansion teams take years before they’re competitive.”

“Honestly? I didn’t want to leave the Scorchers.” Jim lifted the trunk and pulled out his carryall.

“But the Raptors are legitimate contenders this year. I’ve even got some money on them to win it all.”

“Well, I’m not with Toronto anymore either.”

“You’re kiddin’! They traded you too?”

Jim unzipped a side compartment of his bag. “Nay, I got cut.” He found the pen he remembered seeing.

“So you’re not … you aren’t actually playing.”

“Not until I rehab my knee.”

“Right, now I remember the sportscaster saying something about that.” The Caltrans worker stuffed the scrap of paper back into his pocket. “Said you’d lost a step. That you’re already washed up.”

More acid in the wound. Jim yanked the zipper closed and slammed the trunk. “You had something for me to write on, didn’t you?”

“You know, I’d probably just lose it here on the job.”

“So you … don’t …”

“Heh. I was hoping to make a few bucks selling it on EBay so I could sweeten my bet, but hey, my loss.”

“You’re saying my autograph is worth …”

“About as much as junk bonds.” The guy laughed and headed back to his truck. Over his shoulder he yelled, “You’re planning to move your car, right?”

Jim jumped behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and laid rubber as he accelerated onto the coastal road. One day he’d make Joe EBay sorry he didn’t get that autograph! Not today, though. A professional basketball player couldn’t go around smashing a fist in the face of every “fan” who bad-mouthed him or wanted to use him to make a buck. Imagine the lawsuits. Imagine the bad press. Instead of getting even, Jim needed to assume his Mr. Ice persona and ignore the jerk. That was definitely the right call. Now, how to make it happen?

Cold briny air blew against his face, and he breathed deeply. If he had his choice, he’d head for a basketball court where he could shoot hoops until his insides stopped seething, but his knee eliminated that possibility. Improvised plan. He’d hunt for an isolated place overlooking the ocean—a place where he could center himself.

After driving another mile along the deserted coast, he pulled into a make-shift turnout. Tossing his keys under the seat, he climbed from the car and limped toward a bluff. He passed a keep-out sign, ducked under a restraining cable, and hobbled onto a finger of land overlooking the water.

A frothy wave some hundred feet below thundered against the rocks, spewing foam high. A sudden hush followed, then another crash. Wind plastered Jim’s hair back. He sucked in a salty breath and inched closer to the edge.

Another wave churned the water. This was what he was looking for—nature’s uncontrollable power.

Something behind him cracked, sharper than a splintering baseball bat and deeper than shattering glass. He spun toward the sound.

A thin fissure zigzagged from the keep-out sign.

The ground quivered.

Jim hobbled toward the restraining cable, but before he reached it, the ground under him broke from the cliff. He slammed face down. An avalanche of rock and dirt slid beside him, and over him, and under him.

He flailed for something to grab, caught a piece of shale that sliced his hand and splintered from the cliff.

Flexing his knees, he dug the toe of his good leg into the ground to anchor him. His ankle popped. Pain exploded up his leg, and still he was falling.

He twisted in search of something else to grab.

A cluster of shrubs, coming up fast. Would they hold?

Not at this speed.

Dragging his palms against the rocky ground, he slowed.

His body slammed against the first shrub and caromed to a second. He wrapped his legs and arms around its branches.

The bush bowed under his weight. And held.

Loose earth splashed into the water. Then quiet, followed by a wave exploding against the cliff.

A sob rose in Jim’s throat, but he choked it back. This was no time to lose control.

His ankle throbbed. His hands burned.

He spat dusty grime from his mouth.

“Help! Anybody! Help! I need some help!”

Another wave thundered against the cliff, then rumbled away.

Yelling was a waste. He rested his head against his bicep. Everything had happened so fast …

His pecs contracted. Pain radiated into his chest, and he arched his back to reduce the tightness. His breathing came in shorter and shorter gasps. How much longer could he hold on?

Not long enough for somebody to stumble on him and mount a rescue. He’d have to coach himself out of this predicament.

His first choice was to climb back up. Tipping his head as far as he could, he strained to see through the lingering dust to the top of the cliff. No good. Solid ground was up there somewhere, but he couldn’t see it.

That meant he’d have to crawl down. He lowered his gaze and scanned the bluff below the shrubs. Too steep—all but that narrow ledge a few yards beneath him.

Maybe he could drop down there and at least recoup. Not that the ledge looked safe. What was it—about as wide as a locker room bench? It might not even be strong enough to hold him. But he couldn’t hang onto this bush much longer. He had to try something.

Ignoring the rough-barked branches that slapped at his face, he lowered himself hand over hand through the shrubs until he dangled a bare six inches above the ledge.

His body taut, Jim dropped.

The shelf accepted his weight. His throbbing ankle buckled, and he collapsed to his side.

When the pain subsided, he mumbled, “Thank God.” Thank God the pain had backed off at least a little, thank God the shelf hadn’t crumbled, that he was still alive!

Yet his situation remained … precarious. That was a good five-dollar word that didn’t make his circumstances sound so life-threatening. He squirmed into a sitting position, his back to the cliff, and peered down. White spray drifted up from another wave pounding the rocks.

What now? Leaning his head against the cliff, he stared aimlessly at a pelican diving toward the ocean. If only he hadn’t left his cell phone in the car.

Trickles of sweat stung his eyes and clouded his vision. He wiped his face against the shoulder of his navy-blue sweatshirt, just above the embroidered gold UCLA insignia. It was the only spot on his clothing he could remotely call clean.

Though the dirt on the cliff was a washed-out brown, rust-colored mud coated his sticky-wet cuffs. He looked more closely. Not rust, blood!

Before anything else, he needed to do something about his injuries.

Gingerly he turned his palms face up. Blood seeped from under the dirt and bits of bark matting his shredded hands. No reason to panic, though. He just needed to remember his first-aid training.

Number one, stop the bleeding. He’d need something for bandages. His cotton tee shirt ought to work.

Clenching his teeth against the pain, he tugged off his hooded sweatshirt, set it next to him, and wriggled out of his tee shirt.

A blast of cold air sent a shiver through him. He replaced the sweatshirt and pulled the warm hood over his head. To shield himself from the stiff onshore breeze, he tucked his legs toward his chest. Pain pulsed from his ankle, and he maneuvered his leg to release pressure on the joint.

When he was situated at last, he reached for his tee shirt. His arm trembled as if he’d just finished pumping iron after a six-month lay-off. He needed a quick breather.

Easing his tense muscles, he glanced out at the ocean where dense clouds bulldozed toward shore. Ironic! If he died like this, the tabloids would probably report that he had jumped. How would the headlines read? Something like, “Ex-basketball star plunges to his death.” And the lead? “In a possible suicide, former NBA star James David Thompson fell to his death yesterday south of Crystal Cove State Park near Todd Point.”

Jim sat straighter. His family would be horrified.

The reason he decided to move back to Laguna was to be close to his parents. They had supported his NBA dream for as long as he could remember, and he needed their backing again as he rehabbed his knee.

Yet if he didn’t survive this fall—and if the public believed he was just another loser celeb who quit on life, he would bring his parents—his brothers and sister, his niece and nephews, everyone in his family—unimaginable grief.

He tightened the muscle in his jaw, then released it. Tightened, released. Tightened, released. He was not a loser, and he didn’t believe in quitting. It was up to him to protect his family from tabloid trash that said otherwise.

At the squawk of a seagull, he glanced toward the frenzied clouds swirling inland. At least he’d been right about a dose of uncontrollable nature helping to center him.

First priority, first. He’d take care of his hands and his ankle. After that, he was getting off this cliff.