Christian picked up the phone. Then he hit the star, the six, and the nine.

The phone rang.

He rubbed his chin. A moment later a robotic operator came on. 'The number is currently busy. We will ring you back when the line is free. Thank you.'

Christian replaced the receiver. He sat up and waited. The partying was still going on. He could hear three or four distinct partying areas. Someone shouted, 'Yahooo!' A window crashed. People cheered. His larger teammates were playing keg toss, a sort of discus throw involving beer kegs.

The phone rang.

He snatched the receiver as if it were a loose ball on the turf. The phone was ringing back the number - just like the pregnant lady's on the television. After the fourth ring the phone was picked up.

An answering machine.

A voice said, 'Hi. We're not in right now. Please leave a message at the beep, and we'll be sure to call you back. Thanks.'

The phone slipped from Christian's grip. A chilly hand caressed the back

of his neck. A sound - some kind of choking voice - escaped his lips.

Christian tried to form words but he couldn't.

The answering machine. The voice.

It was Kathy.

Myron staggered into his office, punch-drunk from lack of sleep. He had not even bothered climbing into bed the night before. He tried to read, but the words swam in front of his eyes in meaningless waves. He put on the television. Nick at Nite, the cultural equivalent of aerosol cheese. Back-to back episodes of F Troop for three hours. Larry Storch's portrayal of Agarn was, in a phrase, pure thespian genius. Who knew that hitting someone repeatedly with a big hat could be so funny?

But not even such highbrow entertainment could stop his mind from going back to one thought: Jess was back. And like Win had said, it was no coincidence.

At midnight his mother had come down in her robe.

'Hon, you all right?'

'I'm fine, Mom.'

'You seemed distracted all night.'

'It's nothing. Just have a lot of work.'

She looked at him with her a-mother-is-psychic-and-knows look of disbelief. 'Whatever you say.'

At the age of thirty-one Myron still lived at home. True, he had his own space, his own bedroom and bathroom in the basement. But there was no denying it. Myron still lived with Mommy and Daddy.

Five minutes after his mother had gone back to bed, Christian Steele called Myron on his private line, the one that rang softly in the basement so as not to wake up his parents, both of whom slept so lightly, Myron was sure they'd been some kind of ghetto lookouts in a previous life. He filled Myron in on the weird phone calls.

Myron was familiar with the star-six-nine, known as Return Call. The phone company charged on a 'pay-per-use' basis - around seventy-five cents per use. The problem was, Return Call did not trace the number. It automatically redialed the number of the last incoming call received, not letting you know the number. Star-five-seven - Call Trace - would have done the job, though the number is merely reported to the local phone company, which gives it only to the proper authorities.

Still, Myron would call some of his old sources at the phone company,

see what he could find out. He knew that star-six-nine worked only for certain local areas. That meant the call was not long distance. A start. Better than nothing. He would also put Caller ID or a trace on Christian's phone.

Taps were no longer like you saw on television, the hero anxiously trying to get the caller to stay on the line until it was completed. They were automatic. Caller ID actually showed you the incoming number before you picked up the phone.

But of course, none of that answered the larger questions:

Was it really Kathy's voice Christian had heard? And if so, what did that mean?

Lots of questions. Not too many answers.

He approached Esperanza's desk. 'How's it going?'

She pierced him with a glare, shook her head in disgust, and looked back down at her desk.

'Back on decaf?' he asked.

Another glare. Myron shrugged. 'Any messages?'

A head shake. Esperanza muttered something. Myron thought he picked up the Spanish equivalent of 'ass-wipe.'

'You want to tell me why you're so upset?'

'Right,' she said bitingly. 'Like you don't know.'

'I don't.'

The glare was back. Women had a talent for glares. Esperanza had a divine gift.

'Forget it,' he said. 'Just get me Otto Burke on the phone.'

'Now?' Esperanza said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Won't you be busy?'

'Just do it, please, okay? You're starting to piss me off 'Oooo. I'm quaking.'

Myron shook his head. He had no time for her moods right now. He crossed the room and opened his office door. He stopped short.

'Hi.'

He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. 'Hello, Jessica.'

For most athletes, Jessica thought, the spotlight fades slowly. But for a tragic few, it vanishes as though from a sudden power failure, bathing the athlete in dazzling darkness.

Such was the case with Myron.

For most athletes the expectation game helps dim the light gradually. A high school star becomes a college bench warmer. The light dims. A college starter realizes he will not be the team's high scorer. The light dims. The college superstar realizes he will never make it to the pros. The light dims.

And then there are those very few, those who are one in a million, those with almost Wolfean 'right stuff,' who become professional athletes.

For those, the light is blinding, forever damaging the vision of the ones

who stare directly into it. That was what made the dimming so important.

An athlete could get used to losing the light slowly. His career would peak before tapering off just slightly. He would brighten from the inexperienced rookie to the player in his prime, and then the light would begin to fade as he moved past seasoned vet.

For Myron that had not happened.

He had been one of those select few who basked in the most potent wattage imaginable, as if the spotlight shone on him and from inside of him. His basketball talent had first become apparent in the sixth grade. He had gone on to break every scoring and rebounding record in Essex County, New Jersey, a perennial basketball stronghold. Myron was short for a forward, a program six-six (really only six-four), but he was a physical brute, a bull, and a hell of a leaper for a white man. He was highly recruited, chose Duke, and won two NCAA titles in four years.

The Boston Celtics had drafted him in the first round, the eighth pick overall. Myron's spotlight grew impossibly bright.

And then the fuse blew.

A freak injury, they called it. It was a preseason game against the Washington Bullets. Two players weighing a combined six hundred pounds sandwiched the rookie Myron Bolitar. The doctors threw all kind of terms at the man-child who had never been injured before, not even a twisted ankle. Multiple fractures, they said. Shattered kneecap. Casts. Wheelchair.

Crutches. Cane.

Years.

Sixteen months later Myron could walk, though the limp lasted another two years. He never came back. His career was over. The only life he had ever known had been stripped from him. The press had done a story or two, but Myron was quickly forgotten.