by Mark Frost
“A hedge fund?”
“Yeah, for hogs … so Brooke gets here and silver-spoon Todd comes on strong … with the moose jaw, Ranger Rick vibe.…”
“Please tell me she didn’t fall for it.”
“Dude, Brooke can handle the full-court press … but Todd’s so helpful, showing her around … introducing her to his fellow ass-hats … that he covers his stink with Old Spice … but once she catches a whiff of the real Todd? Thanks, but no thanks … Todd won’t take ‘no thanks’ for an answer … but Brooke won’t give it up … stupid, meet stubborn … game on, baby!”
Nick nearly stumbled. Will caught his arm and kept him upright. “So did they get together or what?”
“That’s the weird part … doesn’t happen … she does everything but nail a crucifix to her door but … fourteen months later Todd’s still trying to crack the safe … he keeps harassing her … and Brooke’s too proud to blow the whistle.”
“You’re right,” said Will. “Dick with a capital D.”
“Todd puts the dick in dick-tator … which is an insult to dictators. And why … pray tell … do you ask?”
Will tried to sound casual. “No reason.”
“That was awesome … who’d ever suspect that … beneath your chill So Cal facade … beats the heart of a hopeless Romeo.”
Will scowled at him. “Don’t be a dick, Nick.”
“By the way, Ho-Dick owns every cross-country school record … the one place where he really is … the cast-iron stud monkey he sees in the mirror.…”
They climbed the last ridge, and the body of water Will had seen on the maps came into view: Lake Waukoma. The running trail led down to the shore and then snaked along the edge just inside the tree line. The lake looked much larger than Will had pictured, half a mile across at its widest and more than a couple of miles long. The sky had turned a slate gray, cloud cover rolling in, and the water mirrored it. A fresh wind stirred up whitecaps, tossing around lines of red buoys that marked a racing course on the surface. They passed an old wooden boathouse stacked with sailboats and various rowing sculls.
The pack rounded a corner ahead of them, Todd Hodak cruising just off the lead. He ran strong, with textbook form: even stride, perfect balance, upper and lower body working in unison. He was drafting off a tall thin kid who had gone out as the rabbit. Probably on Todd’s orders.
“Ever had your blood tested since you’ve been here?” asked Will.
“Yeah,” said Nick, wheezing. “Once or twice … Do we have to run this fast?”
“Yes. Did they find anything?”
“Lemme think … oh, yeah. It was red … why?”
“They want to give me a physical,” said Will.
“They do that every year with the athletes,” said Nick, staggering like he was about to keel over. “Did I mention … that I hate you?”
“Not in the last twenty seconds.”
To their right, away from the lake, the land rose abruptly beyond the trees into a long limestone ridgeline, broken by tall ribbed columns of rock. Each column was striped with horizontal striations of vivid reds, yellows, and creams.
This whole gorge must have once been an ancient riverbed, thought Will. The water carved its way down over the ages, leaving these strange artifacts behind.
On the face of the ridge above them, Will noticed a number of black pockmarks. “What’s up on that ridge?” asked Will. “Are those caves?”
“Sacred Lakota burial grounds … ask Jericho about it … maybe it’s a casino and outlet mall now … and I hate you.”
“And this is all school property?”
“Over twenty thousand acres,” gasped Nick. “Bigger than my hometown …”
The island in the middle of Lake Waukoma came into view, along with the strange structure rising from its center. Will had seen photos of castles on the Rhine in Germany, and apparently so had whoever built this joint. Gray stones and concrete formed a high solid wall surrounding the central core that branched into two towers. Lights burned in the windows. A bridge from the entrance led to a landing and dock at the shore, where powerboats bobbed in the choppy water.
“That’s called the Crag,” said Nick.
“Does the school own it, too?”
“Private residence,” said Nick. “Crag is a Scottish word … that means big-ass house … in the middle of a lake.”
“Tell me you’re not trying to do homework with that brain,” said Will.
“Some bazillionaire lives there … big-time donor to the school. Haxley.”
“That’s the name on the medical center,” said Will.
“But he’s never around … that’s like his fourteenth home.”
“Somebody’s there now,” said Will. “Ever been out there?”
“Hell, no,” said Nick, huffing. “Private property … trespassers verboten … guarded by vicious dogs and … snipers … and I really … really … hate you.”
Will glanced at his watch, calculating time, pace, and distance. “We’ve got a click and a half left. Will you be all right getting back to the Barn from here?”
“Nuh-uh. I just bonked,” gasped Nick. “Total lactic meltdown.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’ll go blind. Die from hypothermia. Then bears will eat me.”
“Good,” said Will. “So I won’t worry.”
“Where are you going?”
#13: YOU ONLY GET ONE CHANCE TO MAKE A FIRST IMPRESSION.
“Hammer time,” said Will.
Will took off, hard, leaving Nick behind as if he were walking on a treadmill. Will barely heard his roommate’s last feeble protest.
“Curse you, Will West!”
The trail turned left, rounding the northern end of the lake. Will churned up the track, digging into every stride. Quickly and methodically he closed the gap. Fifty yards. Then thirty. At this point in the race, the pack had spread out, less fluid runners filtering to the back. He zipped by the first trailer, then the second; they looked stunned as he passed and couldn’t even respond.
Vaporized.
Through a gap in the trees ahead, Will saw Todd Hodak and another powerful runner, an African American kid, pushing the pace, about to pull away. The rabbit, his job done, was about to surrender the lead.
One kilometer to go.
The track straightened and widened as it moved inland, then stretched toward a dead uphill climb to the Barn and the Riven Oak. It was steep enough to function as a ski run once winter arrived. The whole length of the severe slope was visible for a quarter mile before you reached it, inflicting maximum damage on a tired runner’s mind. Designed to scare whatever life was left out of you at the toughest point of the race. A fiendish finish.
Suicide Hill.
The tall kid working as the rabbit hit the base of the hill and fell away like a discarded booster rocket. Hodak and the other senior jammed past him and attacked the grade in lockstep.
Will accelerated as he approached the slope. Suicide Hill would have mentally terrified him in the past, back before he knew what he was capable of, but today it didn’t faze him. He cruised by another trailer, slipped outside and torched three more, flashing by them in a blur. Focused. Mind and body meshed.
Go for it. No reason to hold back anymore, right, Dad? For the first time ever.
Will hit the hill at full throttle, without pain, strain, or effort. He hurtled by another trailer, and then the rabbit, still in free fall. Only two runners left between Will and the leaders. Deep steady breathing. He could feel how much energy each breath delivered to his core, fueling him to push harder and faster, still nowhere near his limit. Exhilarated. Liberated.
The two runners ahead heard him coming and glanced over their shoulders. Big guys, seniors, running side by side. Only the squad’s elite would be near the front this deep into a race. Seasoned competitors who had won major races and who on any given day could be leading this one.
Shock hit their faces. A fac
eless scrub in heavy sweats trying to pass them on Suicide Hill? WTF! They looked at each other and called on their kicks. They spread out to narrow and protect the trail, determined to block this punk from getting past them. Will altered his path and made a move toward the middle. They wanted him to split that gap between them; they were inviting him in.
A trap.
As he drew even, the kid on the right slammed a vicious elbow into Will’s shoulder, knocking him off stride. The kid on the left stomped at his foot, trying to spike him. Will swerved away; the spikes grazed his calf, shredding the leg of his sweats. Will was forced to drop back for a beat and regroup.
The two gatekeepers glanced at him again and at each other. Hard grins. Thinking they’d delivered the message and protected their leaders, forty yards ahead. The grade went vertical another degree, halfway up the hill. Merciless now.
A structure came into view on top of the hill, a tall wooden viewing stand, like a ranger’s fire watch station. Coach Jericho stood on top near the rail with binoculars, watching them finish. Watching him.
Check this out, Coach.
Will darted to the left side. The kid on the left shifted to block him. Will spun a 360 back to the right without breaking stride and darted between them. The kid on the right grabbed at his sweats, but Will shot past him untouched. Off balance, the kid stumbled and went down hard. The other kid tried to hop over his buddy but clipped his foot and crashed. They shouted a warning to the leaders as they tumbled.
Hodak and the African American kid looked back and saw Will ten yards behind them and closing fast. Both put their heads down and dug harder.
Fifty yards from the top of the hill.
Will’s lungs finally began to burn. He was nearing his red line—Suicide Hill and the squad’s rough tactics had cut into his reserves—but he felt exhilarated. Hodak glanced back and then pulled away from his partner; the team’s alpha dog still had something left in his tank. The African American kid labored, steadily losing ground, and by the time they reached the crest, Will had passed him.
Once they topped the hill, the track flattened. Will took a few strides to adjust to level ground again. Only two hundred yards left, a two-man dash to the Riven Oak. The trail passed right by the viewing platform. Coach Jericho darted to the opposite rail to watch them finish.
Will felt doubt stab him for the first time. This was Hodak’s home course. He held the school’s records. He was running freely ten yards in front. He probably had a whole wing of the family mansion devoted to his trophies, and Will had never won a single race in his life; he’d never even been allowed to try. On any other day, in any other race, he would have been happy to finish the way things stood right now. But he wasn’t going to settle for second today. He doubled his breathing and dialed up every emotional trigger he could think of to spur him on.
Images flashed: Sedans. Black Caps. Monsters. Everything they’d done—whoever they were—to his parents and to him. Deep red anger. Projecting it all onto the one man left in front of him. Rocket fuel.
One hundred yards to the opening in the oak.
Raw fury gave Will what he needed for one last attack. He rode it hard and pulled up just behind Hodak’s left shoulder, drafting off him, and then with another push drew up beside him. Hodak glanced over. He was straining at max effort, furious at Will’s challenge but prepared. Determined to beat him. He threw an elbow but Will dodged it.
Sprinting, dead even, stride for stride. The opening in the oak zoomed at them. Only room for one of them to pass through.
RUN, WILL!
His father’s voice, as real and clear as if he were standing right next to him.
With a final burst, Will veered right and cut in front of Hodak on the next-to-last step, spikes nipping his heels. Cool air swirled around him as he passed into the hole in the oak—his sweats brushing the sides—and then he was through.
Will ran on, letting momentum carry him, powering down with each step, legs melting to rubber. Hodak went down on his hands and knees as soon as he cleared the tree, heaving for breath. Will turned, bent over, and struggled for air. The rest of the team came in and gathered around their captain. The two thugs who’d tried to take Will out on the hill pulled Hodak to his feet.
His face white, fists bunched at his side, Todd Hodak stalked toward him. Will straightened and stood his ground. Hodak stopped a foot away, still trying to catch his breath. Pointed a finger at Will’s face and stuttered, speechless.
“That was great, wasn’t it?” said Will, breathing deeply. “I’ve got an awesome buzz going right now.”
Now Todd just looked confused.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again? Dick?”
Hodak’s eyes went haywire. Losing it in every possible direction. “You’re dead,” said Todd. “You are dead!”
“It’s not Dick? I’m sorry, I’m really terrible with names.”
His teammates had to jump on Todd to hold him back. He flailed around, shouting threats until that piercing whistle sounded again. Everyone stopped. Coach Jericho stepped around the tree and narrowed his eyes at the scene.
“Cool down,” he said to his team. “Inside.”
The rest of the squad dragged Todd toward the field house. Will stayed behind. He felt his pulse dropping back to normal, his respiration evening out. He was already recovering! He waited for Jericho to speak first, but the coach just stared at him.
“How’d I do, Coach?” he asked.
Jericho looked at his stopwatch; he wanted Will to see that he’d clocked his time.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” said Jericho. “We’ll talk then.”
Jericho pocketed the watch and strode off toward the field house.
Will turned back to Suicide Hill and saw a solitary figure stagger over the ridge, weave sideways, then fall to his knees and tip over. Will trotted to where Nick was lying, just off the track, moaning and wheezing melodramatically for air.
“Flopper,” said Will.
“Suck-up,” said Nick.
“I beat Ho-Dick.”
“Really? That’s great … and I’d offer my … heartiest congratulations … but I just remembered … that I still … really, really hate you.”
A MISUNDERSTANDING
Will waited for the rest of the team to leave before he showered and changed. He found a first-aid kit in his locker and cleaned the spike wounds on his left calf. A quiet pride filled him like he’d never felt before. He’d called his shot in front of their stone-faced coach, handled everything Todd Hodak and company had thrown at him on their home turf, and delivered.
It was four-thirty and nearly dark by the time the roommates made it back to the pod. Nick limped in moaning about his legs, then flopped onto a sofa and instantly fell asleep. No one else had come in yet. Will locked himself in his room, then fired up his tablet and checked his email. Nothing. He pulled the cell phone out from the mattress and took it into the bathroom.
Three calls in the message log from Nando. All in the last two hours. Two click-offs, one voice mail: “Will, where you at, man? Breaking news. Gimme a shout.”
Will punched the RETURN CALL button. Nando picked up after the second ring.
“Hey, Nando, where are you?”
“On the road. Hectic day. Followed those sedans last night all the way to LA. The Caps checked into a hotel near UCLA, so I crashed at my cousin’s.”
“You haven’t even been home?”
“I tole you, man, I’m like a dog with a bone. Greased one of the valets so he tipped me when the Caps called for their rides. Seven a.m.: All three sedans drove to the Federal Building, holmes. On Wilshire in Westwood. Took the ramp into the private parking garage.”
The Federal Building … Will’s mind leaped to something Robbins had told him: They’re a nonprofit company that receives government funding.
“Check the lobby directory,” said Will. “See if there’s an office for a company called the National Scholastic Evaluation Agency.”
Nando ended the call. Will punched up the number for the air charter company at the Oxnard Airport and hit REDIAL. The same young woman quickly answered.
“This is Deputy Sheriff Johnson,” said Will. “We spoke yesterday about the Bombardier Challenger your company chartered to Mr. Jordan West?”
“Yes, sir, I remember.”
“They were scheduled to fly into Phoenix. Have they returned yet?”
She hesitated slightly. “No, sir.”
“Can you confirm for me that they did, in fact, land in Phoenix?”
“Yes. As scheduled, yesterday evening.”
And with any luck they spent the rest of the night running around Phoenix looking for me at bus stations and youth centers.
“Have you heard anything from them since then?”
“No. The plane took off from Phoenix about two hours ago, but we don’t know where they’re headed.”
“So they’re not on their way back to Oxnard?” asked Will.
“No, sir. We don’t know where they are.”
“Well, didn’t your pilot file a flight plan?” he snapped.
“We haven’t been contacted by the pilot, sir.”
“What about Phoenix air control—shouldn’t they have a destination?”
“We’re trying to obtain that information,” she said.
The woman put her hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to someone, then came back to ask, “What do you need to speak to Mr. West about?”
Will tried to sound calm and in control. “That’s confidential.”
She paused again. “Would you hold a moment?”
A male voice Will hadn’t heard before came on, authoritative, no-nonsense. “This is Inspector Nelson with the Federal Aviation Administration,” the man said. “Who am I speaking to?”
Will ended the call abruptly.
Federal Aviation Administration? What the hell? What got the FAA into this? Wait: These days if you rent a private jet and don’t bring it back, wouldn’t that automatically attract their interest? Not to mention Homeland Security.
