by Hodgson, Jim
“If you look back through your messages . . .” Miguel said, cutting him off. He was thumbing through the cell phone now, after dusting it off with a hand. “It appears you met her through an escort service, yes?”
“Hah! Hardly. She might be an exotic dancer—very talented, by the way—but she is no—”
“Ah, yes here it is. Exotic Nights. Sounds like an escort service to me. Maybe less than that. I’ll just go to their web page and see what services they offer.”
“Stop, Miguel,” Faith said. “It doesn’t matter. You were right before. He’s a small man.” With that, she turned and left.
Buck was glad nothing terrible had happened, but he realized as he went after her once again that something terrible had. She’d found out that her brother would die.
He followed her, not knowing what to say. She was walking like a zombie, shuffling without much direction, not saying a word, and not seeming to care whether he followed her or not. Back at her room, she lay on the bed and turned her face to the wall.
He stood in the doorway, looking at her and searching for something to say as her labored breathing covered a likely urge to openly cry. Of course, there was nothing to say. It couldn’t be made better. Not by talking.
In the end he just sat on the bed, so she’d know he was there. She was sobbing now, wiping her face with her hands periodically. He thought of something useful he could do, and went downstairs for a glass of water. He grabbed a couple ibuprofen and some tissues as well. He couldn’t fix her problems, but maybe he could help her be more comfortable.
She was still facing the wall when he returned, so he sat on the bed again after placing the glass of water, pills, and tissue on the night stand. She didn’t say a word.
Buck woke up lying awkwardly with his head against the wall. He’d fallen asleep sitting on the foot of Faith’s bed. She was looking at him, still curled up, half-lying on and half-hugging a pillow.
“Thanks for the water and stuff,” she said, her eyes red and puffy.
“You’re welcome.” It felt good to do something nice for her. And to be there for her too. He hoped she didn’t feel he was overstepping his bounds.
A knock at the door. They’d left it open. Miguel. “How are you this morning?” he asked, remaining just outside the room.
“I’m okay,” Faith said. “I just have to get back to New Lyon. Maybe there’s someone I can talk to. Something I can do.”
Miguel sighed. “I was thinking you might say that. And I would like to ask you to reconsider.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I do not think there is anything you can do in New Lyon. As detestable as our guest is, the New Lyon gendarmes are by now beginning to wonder where he is. If you start asking around, you will certainly be implicated.”
“But I’ve got to do something.” A tear formed at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with the back of a hand.
“We will do something,” Miguel said. He stepped into the room. “If everything goes to plan, New France, and therefore New Lyon, will have surrendered to Mexican control before anything happens to your brother. But for that plan to work, we need you here. Buck needs you here.”
The tears were coming again. Too fast to wipe away with just one hand.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. Buck sensed she wanted to do that thinking alone, so he stood and joined Miguel by the door.
He felt awkward leaving the room without saying anything. But what can you say to someone at a time like this? Get well soon? Forget about your brother and help me win a bike race? Hell, he should forget about the race altogether and help her get back to New Lyon, but he agreed with Miguel’s logic about what would happen if she started asking around. The government officials would remember that she’d been engaged to Barker.
Buck said, “Miguel, is there anyone that your team or the Mexicans could send to New Lyon? Just to check on Michael? See what they can do?”
“Hmm, it is a possibility. I will make some phone calls. We will see.”
Buck nodded. He Looked at Faith again and gave her a shrug. It was something.
She nodded.
Miguel smiled then left the room.
Buck turned to go, too. “Let me know if you need any more water,” he said. She nodded, and he shut the door. Let me know if you need any more water? he thought. That’s your parting comment of caring? He shook his head to clear it. Too much had happened. He could use some time to think. And the best thinking time he knew of was time on the bike.
He found LeMond in the dining area. “Hey, old man,” he said. “Let’s spin our legs out. How about it?”
“Are you kidding?” LeMond asked. “I don’t think I’ve even looked at a bike in a couple of days.”
“You’re supposed to be some kind of expert. Come on, let’s go. I’ll pull you the whole way.”
LeMond took a last slurp of the coffee he’d been drinking and nodded. “All right, fine. You have to take it easy on me, but I’ll go. It’ll be an honor to ride with the future champion.”
“Hah, shut up.” Buck swatted at him. The idea of actually competing in the race he’d been training all this time for seemed so remote now. So much more was happening. So much more was involved. More people. More emotions. He hoped Faith wouldn’t hate him for it; he still wanted the championship for himself. There had to be a way to have both. There had to be a way for them to both be happy.
Chapter 17
Faith sometimes had a recurring dream in which she was about to attempt a heavy squat. Her students were in her gym with her, as well as her friends and family. People she’d grown up with were there to watch her lift, and she wanted to do it. She knew she could. But for some reason she just couldn’t get any traction. Every time she tried to lift the bar, it was like someone had greased the floor, or like her feet had roller skates on them. She felt like that now. She had ability, resolve, but no place to apply leverage.
Her brother was in danger of execution, and she couldn’t even go back to New Lyon to see him or beg for his release. Miguel was right. If she did that, she’d only get herself tossed in jail. But if she didn’t do that, would she ever be able to face herself? What if Michael was released? Would she be able to face him? What if he asked her why she didn’t come to New Lyon?
She thought about Barker, down in the basement like a revolting cellar rat. She’d been willing to marry him. Sleep with him. Have his kids. Be a model wife. Whatever it took, just to keep Michael alive. Now Michael’s only real chance was that the Mexicans would be able to take over New France before the French bureaucrats in New Lyon could get around to his execution. And it might work. Miguel said that as soon as the New Lyon fat cats got word the Mexicans were pushing the French back and sweeping through the southwest, they’d scamper back to France to save their own hides. They were slow enough getting anything done in the city when there wasn’t a war on. God only knew how long it took to carry out governmental procedure when there was.
Her eyes were raw from crying. Her whole body was tired but also felt a bit like she’d been beaten and born anew. The cathartic clarity after crying and crying emboldened her. She allowed herself to be selfish and honest, and when she did, she had to admit that she didn’t want to go to New Lyon to beg for Michael’s release. It would be a useless gesture of martyrdom even less fruitful than being engaged to the sack of shit Barker had been. She wanted to be with the team. She wanted to be near Buck. She wanted to smell his scent and help him win. To help Michael. To help Buck. To help herself.
When she told Buck and LeMond she’d be staying with the team, they both smiled. LeMond stood and hugged her. Buck stood too, put his arms out, and then put them down again. But she grabbed and hugged him anyway, reveling in his intoxicating smell that was more comforting at this moment than exciting.
With that worked out, the team got down to the real business of preparing for Nationals. There were just days left. Faith planned decreasing intensity workouts for the riders to keep their bodies humming like well-oiled machines without sapping their energy too much. She wasn’t previously familiar with the endurance athlete’s workout programming method known as a “taper,” but she’d invested some of her lonely afternoon hours investigating the science behind tapering with LeMond’s help.
An unfortunate side effect of the taper was that it drove Buck and the other riders insane. They were used to hours on the bike each day, which was almost like meditation. Without those hours of effort, they were cranky and restless. LeMond said it was always like this, though, and not to worry too much or get offended if one of them got snippy with her over something small. They managed to control themselves, if for no other reason than most of the riders didn’t speak a lot of English. Buck was characteristically kind, but she knew him well enough now to know he was on edge.
The bikes were packed into boxes and shipped to the hotel in Denver. Miguel had people on the ground there who were securing accommodations and transportation for the team. Faith assumed they’d go back to New Lyon to fly to Denver, but Miguel had plans for them to fly out of a smaller airport.
“I don’t want anyone at New Lyon who is wondering where Barker might be spotting you or Buck. Or LeMond, for that matter,” Miguel said. So, they all piled into a van driven by Miriam, who would stay behind to watch the compound and make sure Barker was fed. Miguel said they’d release him as soon as he could do no harm, that being after the Mexicans had assumed control of New France.
The gas crunch had already started. The French weren’t letting on to the public why it had started, but prices at gas stations skyrocketed. Filling up the van for the short trip to the airport cost as much as a typical person made in a week. Airfare shot up, too. Miguel said they could have sold the team’s air passage for enough money to buy a decent house. By the time they finished the race, no one would be able to afford to drive anywhere even if they could find someone to sell them gasoline.
Faith was shocked when they arrived at the airport and drove directly out onto the tarmac, where a jet was waiting. They weren’t flying commercial. Miguel had secured a plane for them somehow. He was coy about it, saying only that he wanted the team to be comfortable and well rested on their journey.
Faith had never been on a small jet like this one before. She wondered what it was costing, with the fuel prices being what they were. Miguel must have been conservative when he said the cost was the same as a house. It was probably the same as a neighborhood. Of course, they’d booked the travel far before the prices began to really climb.
Miriam left them at the plane and headed back toward the compound in the van. Faith watched her go as the engines whined to life and the jet prepared to take flight.
Once in the air, LeMond stood to address the team. He briefed them on the schedule for the race.
“There will be five stages,” he said. “A flat stage, then a mountain stage, a time trial, another mountain stage, and a final flat stage.” The news was accepted with grim nods on the part of the riders. Faith wasn’t familiar with the implications of the stage profiles, but it didn’t seem to be something the riders were worried about.
LeMond went on. “Not many people know that we, the Miami team, are coming. The other teams might try to keep us from racing. They’ll have heard how Buck rode in the crit back in New Lyon. They’ll know he’s strong, and they’ll try to keep him out. Our strategy is simple: keep the fact that we are entering the race a secret until the last possible minute. I think we’ve done that successfully until now. Buck, you’ll have to be careful in the peloton. There will certainly be flicking, so keep your eyes peeled. The rest of you, protect Buck.”
“Wait,” Faith said, raising her hand as if she were back in school. “What’s flicking?”
“Basically it’s just any kind of acting like an asshole,” Buck said. “Elbowing another rider in the ribs, grabbing your brakes to make him run off the road, head-butting during a sprint—that kind of thing.”
Faith had no idea ‘that kind of thing’ went on in a bike race. “People do that?”
Buck nodded. “Cycling is a physical sport in more ways than you might think. If people think they can get away with it, they’ll grab your handlebars and crash you out in a second.”
“Or punch you in the cajones,” Jose added.
She worried for Buck but didn’t want to sound like his mom, so she just grunted and left it at that.
LeMond was done with his brief, so for the rest of the flight the riders napped or chatted quietly with one another. Faith looked out the window at the countryside going by. She wondered about the people working in the wineries and dairies below, if they could hear the plane’s engines overhead.
On the ground in Denver, they were hustled through the airport by one of Miguel’s men. They’d shipped most of their gear, so there wasn’t much fuss with baggage. LeMond hoped to get to the start line of the first stage without any of the other teams seeing him or Buck.
At the hotel, they went straight up to their rooms. Buck and LeMond would share a room. As the only female, Faith got her own. She looked at the key in her hand, wishing she could share a bathroom with Buck like she had back at the training facility. It was nice, having him so close. When she got up to use the bathroom at night, she could sometimes hear his regular breathing. It was comforting.
LeMond saw her looking at her key and whispered in her ear, “Swap you my key if you want to room with Buck . . .”
She elbowed him in the ribs, and he yelped.
Hers was a typical hotel room with two single-beds, but one had been removed and replaced with a massage table. Obviously she’d be helping LeMond keep the riders loose and limber.
Faith looked out the window. If she put her head against the glass and looked right, she could make out the mountains in the distance, running north to south from Canada all the way down to Mexico. Buck and the other guys would be riding up and down those things on bicycles starting tomorrow, she thought. All I have to do is drive a car and rub them down to help them recover.
Faith wasn’t a terribly religious person. She didn’t pray often. But she sent a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening. Please let this race go well. And let the Mexicans come right up this mountain range and kick the French in their asses. It was selfish. Lots of people would be hurt. Lives would be lost, on both sides. But she didn’t care. She wanted her brother off the execution block, safe, and out of jail. If the Mexicans had to drive the French all the way back across the Atlantic ocean to achieve that, she was all for it.
Chapter 18
Buck had secretly been doubtful that LeMond’s plan to keep their race entry out of the news until race day would work, but he’d been wrong. He had to admit, it appeared the plan had worked flawlessly, in fact.
When he woke, LeMond clicked the television on. The news was about the race, showing profiles of favorite riders, but there was nothing in the report about a team from Miami.
There was one interesting piece of news, though. Polini, Buck’s rival from New Lyon against whom he’d raced in the crit, was now on the New Orleans team. He was their favored sprinter. As an all-rounder, it didn’t matter much to Buck if Polini was in contention for the sprinter’s classification, but he’d still warn his teammates to keep an eye on Polini. The sprinter probably wasn’t pleased to have been beaten by Buck back in New Lyon and might be looking to get even by any means, including underhanded ones.
Nationals would be scored just like the Tour de France. There would be classifications for sprinters, climbers, young riders under twenty-five years of age, and, of course, for the overall winner. Each classification had a jersey, too: green, polka dot, white, and yellow, respectively. Buck would be c
ontending for the yellow jersey.
LeMond turned to him. “You ready to race?”
Buck grinned. “Born ready. I haven’t had a decent ride in days. I’m itching to get in the saddle.”
“Okay, well, keep it under wraps today. Everyone will be a little squirrely on the first day. Let the sprinters kill each other to take the flat stage. We’ll get them in the mountains tomorrow.”
LeMond called the rest of the team into their room and distributed uniforms and radios to the team. They would be able to stay in contact with LeMond and Faith, in the team car, a station wagon with spare bikes and wheels attached to the top in racks. Faith would drive and LeMond would be in the passenger seat to direct the race and handle any technical problems the riders might have. They would follow the peloton over the course of the stage with the other team cars, medical cars, press cars, and race marshals on motorbikes.
At the start line, Buck and the Miami team caused a minor sensation. The cycling press clamored for interviews, but the team gave none. It was part of LeMond’s strategy to keep the team focused. When Bernard, the Wolverine, who was now the New Orleans team director, saw Buck and the rest of the Miami team, his face smoldered. He turned on his heels and marched away, his crisp suit’s double vents swaying angrily as he most likely headed for the race director to complain.
“Don’t worry about him,” LeMond said. “It’s all worked out. He can’t keep us from racing. You just turn pedals and stay upright.”
Buck nodded.
LeMond slapped him on the back and said, “Allons-y.”
