Chapter Twelve

Ransom and Barton walked across the field toward a set of small stepsleading up toward Philpot’s wheelchair. On they way, they passed Coach Anderson, yelling at his players.

Mayor Barton took a long hard glance at Anderson, who refused to make eye-contact. He’s ashamed, and he damn well should be. Paul grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Roy, I want you to meet someone.”

At that moment, a scuffle broke out on the field. One of the boys was posturing up and shoving the other one in the chest. Two other boys were propping up the kid being shoved. The others hurried over and began to chant, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

“Just a minute Paul, let me take care of this.” Coach Anderson bounded down the stairs.

“Your coach, I take it?”

“Yeah, it’s a tough job staying on top. And as you can see, the boys need almost constant supervision.”

Ransom looked back up the hill. The doctor was pushing the old man away from the field toward the building. Ransom continued up the stairs quickly.

“Well, while he settles this, I’d still like to catch a word with your town doctor.” Ransom said, barely glancing back over his shoulder at Mayor Barton.

“I don’t know, maybe…” The mayor’s voice trailed off. Ransom was already to the top of the stairs and making his way toward Philpot.

Barton shouted toward him, “Hey Doc! Hold up a second!”

Doc Mastes halted his progress toward the door, then he took a position several feet in front of Philpot to keep Ransom at bay. Ransom took the nonverbal cue and slowed to wait on Mayor Barton.

Paul’s look was stern as he approached and the good doctor recognized it all too well. Still, he was determined to play his part in the charade.

“Hello Paul. Who's our visitor?” Mastes gestured toward Ransom.

“J.C. Ransom. Reporter for Unconventional Wisdom out of New York.” Ransom offered and the two men shook hands.

“Oh, a reporter from New York? Hopefully an educated man… God knows I could use the company. Doctor Cletus Mastes, internal medicine, Emory University in Atlanta.What brings you to our fair town Ransom?”

“I've come to write a story on the town's athletic victories. It's an incredible record your town has here.”

Doc turned toward Barton who hurried into the conversation. “Here’s some good material standing right in front of you. The Mayor set a few records himself back in the day.”

“Ha, ha. Yeah, that was long ago.” After a long pause, Barton added, “Doc, Ransom here was wondering about any injuries our players may have had over the years. I told him I wasn’t aware of any.”

“No, nothing serious that I can remember.”

Ransom hated having his questions asked for him and it seemed obvious the two men were hiding something. In a single question, Paul had again revealed a need to control the conversation and he all but scripted out the doctor’s answer.

“That seems awfully lucky of you guys, I mean with all the championships and the level of competition you face.” Ransom watched for a reaction.

“Maybe so, but luck’s part of the game isn’t it?” Doc smiled then glanced back to Philpot in the wheelchair. “I really should get Caleb back inside. Good luck with your story.”

“What's wrong with him?” Ransom asked.

“Poor Caleb, he's been such a servant to this town. It's a tumor-- benign, but I imagine still quite painful. I bring him out here on clear afternoons so it can get some sunlight because for whatever reason that seems to slow the growth.”

“Is that it?” Ransom pointed right at Philpot’s waist where the bandages protruded from an un-tucked shirt.

Paul grabbed Ransom’s arm. “Let's not wake him.”

Ransom took a step back and whipped his yellow pad out of his back pocket.

“Just one question before you go, Doc.”

“Shoot.”

Ransom glanced down at his pad. “How much do you know about the BLT?”

“What the hell?” If there had been a roof, Barton would have split it wide open.