And by posing as Teresa in the doubles match, Nancy was putting herself in terrible danger!
Chapter Fourteen
El Morro, or another hit man, could be in the grandstand crowd at that very moment! For an instant that was all Nancy could think of. Then a man wearing the uniform and badge of a tournament official opened the door.
“Two minutes to six. To the courts, please, players.”
George gave Nancy a swift, tight hug and hurried off. The young Canadian woman came out of the locker room and shook hands with Nancy, murmuring, “Good luck.”
The two male players left their locker room. Nancy’s partner was a cheerful-looking man in his early thirties, with sandy hair. “Sorry I didn’t have the time to practice with you earlier,” he apologized. “I was tied up with some last-minute coaching.”
Nancy smiled and shrugged.
Escorted by tournament officials—and by security men disguised as officials—the two couples marched across the road and out onto the court. There was a burst of applause as they entered. Nancy smiled and nodded like the others, but involuntarily her eyes searched the crowd.
I have to stop that, she told herself. The best way to protect Teresa is to make people believe I’m Teresa!
The other couple won the toss and chose to serve.
The Canadian woman’s first serve was deep and hard. Nancy’s partner returned it well, but the Canadian coach hit a great shot down the line. Nancy missed it.
“Fifteen-love,” called the referee.
Nancy knew within five minutes that the deception was going to be even more difficult than she’d feared. She was in a double bind. To play well, she would have to use her own style, and the masquerade would be exposed. But if she forced herself to play like Teresa, her reflexes were slowed, and she missed shots Teresa would have hit.
Once, after she’d netted one of Teresa’s characteristic backhand shots, Nancy caught her partner looking at her strangely. But the game was too fast for him to focus on anything other than his own playing.
The Canadian team took the first set easily.
George was at the rail when Nancy wearily went to her seat for the few minutes between sets. She was not allowed to enter the court, but her eyes spoke plainly to Nancy. Calm down. Don’t force so much! Zen. Her lips framed the last word.
Nancy frowned. Then her face cleared. George was referring to the zen of a sport, a phrase Nancy had heard her use often. It meant concentrate on the objective, on the target, not on the technique you hope will get you there.
Nancy and her partner won the next game. A faint murmur reached her from the bleachers, and Nancy resolutely put away the fear that her own tennis style might be creeping in. Concentrate on where the ball should go, as George had said. Rely on the earlier practice for the style—
A gleam of light from somewhere in the stands danced into Nancy’s eyes, and she missed a high volley, not even getting her racket on the ball.
There was a disappointed murmur from the crowd, followed by a ripple of appreciation as Nancy’s partner ran in to save the shot, catching the ball on its first bounce. He slammed it back, and the momentum of the game picked up again.
The ball came toward Nancy, and she moved forward to meet it. But as she swung, the glint of light bounced into her eyes again. The glare was just great enough to throw her off-balance. She tripped and fell, scarcely hearing the referee’s voice announcing the point for the other side above the groans of the crowd.
Pretending dizziness, Nancy knelt for a moment on one knee. But her eyes were busily sweeping the stadium.
The light had come from the far end—from the east. So it couldn’t be rays from the dying sun. None of the tournament floodlights had been lit yet. Where was it coming from, and why couldn’t she see it now?
Nancy’s partner strode toward her, concerned about her delay. Nancy nodded at him and began to rise. Then she saw the glint again.