Don't Blink by James Patterson Page A

Protection Program would make for one hell of an article.
    I could only pray I was overreacting about Pinero and what he might do to me.
    As for getting through to Dwayne Robinson, well, that was getting damn frustrating—and I don’t give up easily. Especially not on a story as big as this one could be.
    Courtney had given me Dwayne’s home number, courtesy of his agent, but if Dwayne was home he sure wasn’t picking up. The guy didn’t even have an answering machine, so Icouldn’t leave a message, something like
Call me, you self-centered son of a bitch. It’s time to grow up, Dwayne.
    I just kept trying and trying every hour on the hour for the rest of the day. Half the night, too.
    I’d like to tell you I had big plans for that evening as a certified, very eligible bachelor living in Manhattan, but I hadn’t expected to be home for the weekend, let alone in the country. There were friends I could call but I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything.
    As for the one person who maybe could’ve changed my mind about that, she was with her fiancé. Unfortunately, I happened to know that the future Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ferramore were guests of the mayor and fellow billionaire Mike Bloomberg at his home on the Upper East Side. Clearly my invitation had gotten lost in the mail.
    So instead I ordered in a Hawaiian pizza, popped open a Heineken, and watched some TV. Flipping around the dial, I sampled a few minutes of Larry King and his suspenders, followed by the local ten o’clock news.
    Then I landed on the ultimate of ironies.
    Staring back at me beneath the brim of his cap pulled tight above those intense, fearless eyes I remembered was none other than Dwayne Robinson. The channel was ESPN Classic, rebroadcasting the game that had first put Dwayne on the map—a twenty-strikeout gem against the Oakland A’s on a very hot August night ten years ago.
    Given my fruitless attempts that day to reach Robinson, I was tempted to switch the channel if only out of spite. I couldn’t, though. It truly was a classic game, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it, I always have to watch some of it again.
    Apparently, I wasn’t alone.
    Out of the blue, the phone rang next to me on the couch. “Private caller,” read the ID.
    “Hello?” I answered.
    There was no response, but I could tell someone was there, and it was more than just a gut feeling.
Through the phone I could hear the same game I was watching.
    “Dwayne?” I asked. “That you?”
    It was my first thought. I mean, if I ever struck out twenty people, I’d be watching a replay of the game, too. Every chance I got!
    But if it was Robinson he wasn’t answering.
    I tried again. “That was an amazing night for you against Oakland. One for the history books. You’ll never forget it, right?”
    After another silence there finally came a voice.
His
voice.
    “Yes,” said Dwayne. “It was a special night. Almost seems like it wasn’t really me. Or that
this
isn’t me. I’m not exactlysure, Mr. Daniels.”
    I drew a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s good to hear from you,” I said. “I was a little worried.”
    “Yeah, I know you were trying to call. I’m sorry I—”
    “No apologies necessary. I wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all. You are all right, aren’t you?”
    He sure didn’t sound like it. I could tell he’d been drinking—or doing something—but he wasn’t slurring his words. He sounded more depressed than drunk.
    He left my question hanging.
    “Dwayne, you still there?” I asked.
    “I’m here.” He paused. It felt like a lifetime. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
    “Sure. Absolutely,” I said. “Just tell me where.”
    “Not now. Tomorrow.”
    No, not tomorrow, right now!
I wanted to yell.
    This was no longer about finishing a sports interview, that much was pretty clear. There was something else going on. What the hell was it?
    “Where are you now, Dwayne? Are you home? I can