Dead on Arrival :: First Chapter Fridays

Here’s the first chapter from probably my favorite book in the series (which can be read as standalones), DEAD ON ARRIVAL, and is available on Amazon and in the Kindle Unlimited program:

CHAPTER 1

CHASE DOLLINGER PEERED at his catcher for the sign. With a confident nod, Dollinger stood upright and rotated the ball in his hand until he had the seams positioned just right. The crowd at Seattle’s Safeco Field buzzed with excitement. Dollinger needed one more strike to clinch the Mariners’ first playoff appearance in more than fifteen years.

After a deep breath, Dollinger wound up and delivered a fastball that tailed away from the batter. Fooled by the pitch, he decided to swing before realizing too late that he had no chance at making contact. The ball popped in the catcher’s mitt, but the sound was muted due to the roar from the fans. The umpire gave an emphatic strike call and pandemonium ensued.

Confetti cannons launched teal and navy paper squares into the air. Beer cascaded from the upper deck. Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” pulsated over the stadium’s sound system. For a few seconds, Dollinger was lost in the moment, forgetting that his performance this afternoon was largely responsible for the celebration. He scanned the crowd for his father, Hugh, and found him smiling and clapping amidst a sea of outstretched arms high-fiving and pointing to the heavens.

But before Dollinger had an opportunity to fully revel in the significance of what had just happened, he found himself smothered by his teammates—and panicking to escape the dog pile on the pitcher’s mound. Shortness of breath. Increased heart rate. A rush of anxiety. His teammates were all too aware of his acrophobia but forgot about claustrophobia in their euphoria.

Dollinger struggled to move while buried beneath the weight of his whole team. Using his elbows to steady himself, he inched forward, slithering through the entanglement of his teammates’ legs and arms. The effort took all the strength he had left after throwing a complete game shutout.

Once he broke free, Dollinger sucked in a large breath before scrambling clear of the pile. He sprinted a safe distance away from his teammates and noticed a cameraman rushing toward him to capture his reaction. Dollinger forced a smile and turned his attention back toward the center of the infield. A reporter approached Dollinger and nodded, signaling for an interview. Dollinger bent over, resting his hands on his knees. No matter the situation, he always preferred to have plenty of space.

He looked up at Erin Andrews, the FOX Sports interviewer who was itching to start an on-air conversation with him about the game.

“Give me a second,” Dollinger said.

He steadied his breathing and scanned the crowd once more. His father had already slipped away. And from the celebration taking place in the stands, Dollinger figured his father might have been the only one to leave early.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Dollinger said to Andrews.

She smiled and nodded toward her cameraman. A few seconds later, he pointed at her and she began questioning Dollinger about his performance on the field.

“This is a dream come true,” he said. “I grew up here and always hoped for a moment like this. To be here now experiencing it is incredible.”

Mariners’ center fielder Flip McCutcheon and first baseman Buster Portman doused Dollinger over the head with a bucket of ice water. Dollinger jumped back, trying to shake the cold off on a cool Seattle night. They all smiled for the camera before turning serious as they entered the tunnel to the clubhouse.

* * *

AFTER THE FINAL champagne bottle had been emptied and the last reporter escorted out of the clubhouse by the Mariners’ staff, Dollinger exhaled as he sank into the chair in front of his locker. He wiped his face with a towel and forced a smile as he watched jubilant teammates still soaking in the victory.

In their quest to qualify for the playoffs, the Mariners needed all 162 regular season games to hold off the Los Angeles Angels and win the American League West division. The Mariners’ reward? A series with the dreaded New York Yankees in the first round of the playoffs.

“The skipper wants to see you,” said Brad Young, a fellow pitcher.

Dollinger stood and strode into the office of Gil Baylor, the team’s manager. Baylor was puffing on a cigar when Dollinger entered the cramped quarters.

“Shut the door,” Baylor said.

Dollinger froze, cutting his eyes toward the door. There was really only room for Baylor’s desk and chair, but Baylor had managed to cram another chair against the wall with just enough space for someone to squeeze into.

Baylor picked up on Dollinger’s hesitation.

“Never mind, Dolly,” Baylor said. “Stay where you are, and keep the door open. I don’t care if anyone else hears this conversation because everyone will know about it in a matter of minutes.”

“What’s going on, Skip?”

“I have to give the league our pitching rotation for the series.”

Dollinger shrugged. “I know I can’t start in the first game. I need the rest after tonight.”

“You can’t start in the second either. That won’t be enough rest.”

The Mariners earned home field advantage, meaning they would host the first two games of the best-of-five series. Game three would be in New York along with game four, if necessary. A deciding fifth game would be played back in Seattle if the series required it.

“So, you’re going to hold me out until the last game?” Dollinger asked.

“No, you’ll pitch in New York.”

“But that means I’ll have to—”

“Fly? I know. But it’s the playoffs, and we need you.”

Dollinger’s eyes widened. “Oh, Skip, you know I can’t fly. I’ve never flown, and I’m not about to start now.”

“I know. That’s why I’ve arranged for someone to drive your RV across the country to New York. You’ll leave in the morning.”

“You want me to go three thousand miles in my RV to pitch one game?”

“Your contract says I can’t require you to fly, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still pitch for us out of town if necessary.”

“But, Skip, I—”

“Not another word. This team needs you, and we can’t afford to have our best pitcher waiting and hoping back here in Seattle that we get to a fifth and deciding game.”

Dollinger sighed and nodded. “You know that I want to pitch. It’s just that—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Dolly. Just get cleaned up, and grab all your gear. Your RV leaves tomorrow morning at eight. You’ll have plenty of time to catch up on your sleep and relax during the trip.”

Dollinger held a steady gaze on Baylor, who blew a smoke ring and returned to sifting through some documents on his desk.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Baylor said, using the back of his hand to shoo Dollinger toward the exit. “It’s what’s best for the team. And my job is to make sure that I get you guys in the best position to win a championship, fear of flying or not.”

Dollinger shook his head and returned to his locker without another word.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Dollinger awoke to a pounding on his apartment door. He glanced at the clock on the far wall and sprang out of bed. Throwing on a bathrobe, he hustled toward the door.

“Mr. Dollinger?” the man standing at the door asked.

“Please, just call me Chase.”

“Okay, Chase. I’m Tad Wilson, your driver for the trip this week. Are you ready to go?”

“I’m all packed,” Dollinger said, glancing at a pair of suitcases just inside the door. “But as you can see, I just rolled out of bed—more like jumped after you knocked. You can load up and then make yourself at home. I need to get a quick shower, and then we can hit the road.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Dollinger shuffled back to his room and turned on the radio while he climbed into the shower. Listening to local sports talk radio was discouraged by the veterans on the team, but Dollinger had become addicted to the banter on KJR 950 AM when he was a kid growing up in the suburbs just north of Seattle. If anyone was going to criticize him, Dollinger preferred to hear it from guys who watched and opined about baseball for a living than read about it by some drunk fan trolling on Twitter.

As steam filled the bathroom, the back and forth between morning show hosts Chuck and Buck echoed off the walls.

“I’m still buzzing from last night’s game,” Chuck said. “A complete game shutout by Chase Dollinger helped the Mariners win the division and earn a playoff berth. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see the Mariners in the playoffs again in my lifetime.”

“And while that felt like a miracle, I just received word that there may be an even bigger miracle in the works,” Buck said.

“What’s that?”

“Chase Dollinger is going to pitch in the third game of the series—in New York!”

“That’s unbelievable. You know when the Mariners signed Dollinger, I wondered if it was worth it. Here’s a pitcher that every scout in baseball said was a guaranteed superstar except for one thing—he was deathly afraid of flying and made it clear that he would never fly. But he’s been almost automatic at home for the Mariners in his second season with the club.”

“I’m with you on this one,” Buck said. “He’s developed into one of the best pitchers in the game. And quite honestly, I don’t care if he’s afraid of flying as long as he’s not afraid of the Yankees. They probably thought they would avoid seeing Dollinger since he had to pitch the final game of the regular season. But now that Baylor and his staff have come up with a way to get Dollinger to New York, presumably without flying, I really like how this move is going to favor the Mariners.”

“Well, you don’t have to presume that Dollinger isn’t flying. I can verify that he’s taking an RV across the country,” Chuck said. “Someone just tweeted at me with a picture of Dollinger’s RV sitting in the parking lot outside his apartment and his gear being loaded up.”

Dollinger sighed as he rinsed his hair.

I just hope nobody follows us.

He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Once he finished getting dressed, he walked into the living room where Tad was watching a pair of talking heads yelling at each other, debating who was going to win the World Series—the Yankees or the Dodgers.

“You’re gonna prove both those idiots wrong,” Tad said.

Dollinger smiled. “Let’s hope so.”

* * *

DOLLINGER STRETCHED OUT on the couch as his RV pulled onto the Interstate. He grabbed a copy of the new Harlan Coben novel and got lost in the mystery. They were at the Washington border about to cross into Idaho before he realized how far they’d traveled.

He stood and meandered up to the front, taking a seat next to Tad.

“So be honest,” Tad said with a wry grin. “The real reason you claim to be afraid of flying is because you don’t want to leave this beautiful part of the country, right?”

Dollinger chuckled. “I wish that were true, but I guess I lucked out.”

“How’s that?”

“If you’re going to have a fear of flying, there’s no better place to live than in the Pacific Northwest.”

Tad nodded. “No doubt about that.”

“So, is this your full-time gig? Driving around terrified professional athletes from one side of the country to the other?”

“It’s kind of a small niche market,” Tad said with a grin. “But all joking aside, I usually drive bands around. I know your general manager from college, and he reached out to me to see if I’d be interested in driving you.”

“If you drive bands around, I bet you’ve got quite a few stories, don’t you?”

“More than you have time for.”

Dollinger shrugged. “Last I checked, we’ve got a couple of days. Why don’t you tell me a few?”

The two men spent the next hour laughing and trading stories about the quirkiness of the superstars they both knew. With plenty of time to chat during their trip, Dollinger was excited to hear more. However, the conversation was cut short when his phone rang with a call from his agent.

“Dolly, I’ve got an interview request from Seattle Times’ reporter Cal Murphy,” he said. “You want to do it?”

“Why not?” Dollinger said. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to successfully kill off all the time I have on the road for the next three or four days. I might as well.”

“Sounds good. I’ll have him call you.”

Dollinger hung up and smiled moments later when his phone buzzed with a call from Murphy. While Dollinger wasn’t thrilled about the part of his job that required him to speak with the media, he enjoyed chatting with Murphy.

* * *

DOLLINGER WAS ALREADY ASLEEP when Tad pulled into an RV park after 10:00 p.m. just outside of Billings, Montana. Though he wasn’t certain, he would’ve sworn someone was following him. He stopped at the office and collected his site location along with an internet password. After driving to the site, he started setting up the sleeping quarters and activating the slide outs. Once the power and water were connected, he woke up Dollinger, who was still slumbering on the couch.

“Hey, Ace. It’s time to get to bed.”

Dollinger scrambled to his feet and disappeared to the bedroom. Tad felt his phone buzzing and pulled it out to see who was calling.

“I thought I might be hearing from you,” Tad said.

“How are things going?” a man asked.

“I can’t really complain. No major incidents to report, at least not yet anyway.”

“Well, be ready. Everything is going down tomorrow.”

“Is the plan still the same?” Tad asked.

“Nothing’s changed. Just—”

“I know what to do, but don’t say anything else. The less I know . . .”

“I know you don’t want to hear about all the details, so I’ll keep them to myself. I’ll only pass along what you absolutely need to know.”

“Roger that.” Tad hung up and quickly got ready for bed before falling asleep.

* * *

DOLLINGER AWOKE to the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee, the aroma wafting from the kitchen. The early morning sun was already streaming through the windows.

“Good morning,” Tad said as he handed Dollinger a cup, steam dancing off the top of it.

Dollinger placed his face over the cup and inhaled the smell. Then he looked at the vast sloping plains stretching out into the distance. Stepping outside, he clutched his coffee mug with both hands. It was the only thing keeping him warm in the chilly October air.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tad asked as he joined Dollinger.

“I miss this place,” Dollinger said.

“You’ve been here before?”

“I played here one summer right after I signed out of high school with the Cincinnati Reds. It was simpler times, just playing baseball and dreaming big.”

“And riding in cramped buses across Montana, Colorado, Utah, and Idaho.”

Dollinger nodded. “I didn’t like the cramped part, but I didn’t mind the bus rides too much.”

“In light of your current journey, I’m not sure that much has changed. Here you are getting shuttled from one side of the country to the other on a bus.”

“Actually, a lot has changed, including my team. But I don’t mind.”

“The Reds traded you to the Mariners. Did that bother you, getting swapped around like some commodity on the open market?”

“Not really. I always wanted to play at home in front of my friends and family—and do it all the time. Fortunately, I’ve been given an opportunity to do that. Of course, that could all change tomorrow.” 

“I doubt that,” Tad said. “At least, not after what they’re paying me to take you to New York. I think they’re pretty invested in you and think you’re the future of the team.”

“Until you actually win a championship, you’re always expendable. So, I’ve still got plenty of work to do.”

Tad slapped Dollinger on the back. “It’s fun to reminisce but we need to get going. The Big Apple awaits.”

Dollinger retreated inside the RV as Tad retracted the slide outs and prepared the RV for the next leg of their adventure. Climbing into the passenger’s seat, Dollinger buckled up and awaited Tad to slip behind the steering wheel.

Five minutes went by and then another five. Dollinger glanced at his watch and peered out of the windshield at the surrounding campground. There was no sign of Tad.

Tired of waiting, Dollinger stepped outside and started combing the grounds for Tad. After a few minutes, Dollinger found his driver exiting the store with an armload of energy drinks and snacks.

“I was about to send the cavalry looking for you,” Dollinger said, holding the door open for his driver.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Just had to stock up.”

Tad climbed the steps and then dumped the cache of drinks and snacks onto the couch. He took a couple minutes to put the drinks away in the fridge before getting into the driver’s seat.

“You ready?” Tad asked.

Dollinger nodded. “This is your show. I’m just along for the ride.”

“All right then. Let’s get moving.”

They rolled out of the campground and returned to the interstate, taking I-94 East. Oscillating between reading a book and getting insider stories from Tad, Dollinger eventually nodded off to sleep.

When he awoke, he glanced at his watch. It was just after 2:00 p.m. Tad slowed down the RV and exited.

Dollinger rubbed his eyes and glanced at the sign.

“Bismarck? We’re already in Bismarck?” he asked.

“Time flies when you’re sleeping.”

“Is this one of your union mandated breaks?” Dollinger asked.

“No. Too much coffee this morning. Plus, we need some gas.”

They pulled into a bustling gas station. Tad had to wait for a pump to open up.

“Looks like everybody had the same idea at the same time,” Dollinger said.

“We’ll get out of here soon enough.”

Tad eased forward as the car ahead of them peeled away.

“You want to stretch your legs?” Tad asked as he opened the door.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“Just keep your head down,” Tad said. “I was listening to sports talk radio this afternoon while you were napping, and apparently some people are tracking us. I’d hate for you to get mobbed inside.”

Dollinger snatched a hat off the couch next to him and put the cap on, tugging it low across his eyes.

“No one will recognize you now, especially with the Mariners’ logo on it,” Tad said, his comment dripping with sarcasm.

“Would you stop giving me grief about this?” Dollinger said with a smile. “Now, go take care of your business, and leave me to figure out a strategy to hide my identity.”

Dollinger found a fedora in the closet and traded it for his baseball cap. Keeping his head down, he walked slowly toward the store. He wasn’t inside long before someone approached him.

“Excuse me, mister,” an elderly man said. “You aren’t Chase Dollinger by any chance, are you?”

Dollinger eyed the man closely, hesitating before answering.

“Do I look like him?” Dollinger asked, breaking the silence.

“And sound like him too,” the man said with a grin. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper along with a pen. Then he handed them to Dollinger.

“Guilty as charged,” Dollinger said as he signed his name on the sheet of paper.

“I knew it,” the man said. “I had a bet with a buddy of mine over there. I told him it was you.”

“Are you a Mariners fan?”

The man shook his head. “Longsuffering Reds fan. We never should’ve traded you away. That was the worst decision our general manager ever made.”

Dollinger chuckled. “Just wait. I’ll probably blow the final game of the World Series, and everyone in America will be glad I wasn’t on their team, except for Mariners fans who’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“Smart Mariners fans all know they wouldn’t stand a chance without you. It’s why you’re driving to New York, am I right?”

Dollinger shrugged. “More or less. I don’t know if everyone thinks I’m that kind of difference maker, but I’ll be ready to play my part when called upon.”

“Well, stick it to the Yankees for me, will ya? As a Reds fan, I’m still not over the 1961 World Series when the Yankees beat us.”

“That’s quite the grudge.”

“When it comes to the Yankees, there’s always a grudge to be held.”

Dollinger laughed. “I guess so.”

The man nodded in the direction behind Dollinger. “Looks like your fan club has arrived.”

Dollinger spun around to see a handful of people standing in front of them, most with their cell phones out. One by one, the crowd shuffled up to him and snapped selfies, some even doing so without even speaking to Dollinger.

In a matter of minutes, what had initially been a short walk to the store to stretch his legs and maybe get something to eat turned into a flash mob frenzy. Fans surrounded him, leading to a panic attack. Dollinger tried to remain calm but knew he only had a matter of seconds before everything became too much for him.

“Please, please,” Dollinger said, raising his hands above his head in a posture of surrender. “I need to get some air, not to mention that I have to get back on the road so we can beat the Yankees later this week.”

Dollinger’s request was met with a few boos but mostly groans from those who’d yet to capture a great photo for their social media pages. However, the crowd didn’t move in any collective manner, keeping Dollinger hemmed in.

“Please, I need to get outside.”

More resistance.

Dollinger’s mouth went dry, and his heart began to race. “I need to leave now.”

But the crowd remained defiant, many of the people still cycling through and snapping pictures next to the famous pitcher, who had lost all color in his face. Dollinger swayed back and forth before crashing toward the ground. His fall was softened by the mass of bodies surrounding him. But that only further exacerbated his panic attack. Seconds later, he closed his eyes and blacked out.

 ***

To order DEAD ON ARRIVAL, click here.