Racing the Rain

by John L Parker

  “What is that you’re reading?” he asked, putting his drink on his bedside table and pulling back the bedspread and sheet.

  “Oh, it’s this sort of trashy thing for my book club, God’s Little Acre. I don’t think it’s really your cup of tea, dear.”

  “Isn’t that the pornographic one they banned everywhere?” He sniffed.

  She giggled. He pulled his own book from the lower shelf of the nightstand, a hardcover biography of Winston Churchill, which he was just starting.

  “Well, I’m back to old Winnie myself,” he said. “He’s got the black dog again and this time I’m afraid it might do him in before he can regain power and deal with the Hun once and for all.”

  She closed the book on her index finger and regarded him fondly.

  “I don’t really see the attraction of reliving all that again,” she said. “It was bad enough getting through it the first time. Everything you went through over there, and all the rationing and hardship back here, families losing fathers and sons, getting those awful telegrams. I’d think you’d just want to forget it.”

  “However bad it was for Americans, here or there, it was a hundred times—a thousand times—worse for those poor people over there. I don’t know why, but I just find it interesting, getting a historical perspective on it. When we were there, we were much too close to things, too concerned with details. Not just the details of war, but the details of trying to live with all of that going on around you. Sometimes it was a big accomplishment just to get a shower or find a hot meal.”

  “I suppose. But I’m afraid not even Mr. Caldwell can hold my attention much longer. I was down at the Junior League sorting used clothes first thing this morning, and I haven’t stopped all day. I thank you for the drink and I’ll leave you and Mr. Churchill to work everything out,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and turning her lamp off.

  “Not for long, I expect. I had pretrial motions all afternoon and I’m pooped, too,” he said.

  “I love you. Good night.”

  “I love you, too, Margie.”

  Half an hour later when he got up to see who could possibly be calling in the middle of the night, he opened the door to his porch to find a disheveled, nervous man in a captain’s cap, saying his yacht had broken down and wondering if he could use the phone to call the Coast Guard. Then he halted his tale of nautical woe and smiled.

  “Say, aren’t you Judge Chillingworth?” asked Lucky Holzapfel.

  CHAPTER 54

  * * *

  DON’T SAY A WORD

  The Citrus City main library had once been the home of an early Florida cattle baron, whose grandfather made a living cracking a long bullwhip behind the ears of feral cows. The ancestors of the bedraggled cattle had been abandoned in the swamps by the conquistadors. Cracking those whips was the way they drove the rangy cows out of the swamps and across the grassy wastes of central Florida to Punta Gorda, where they were loaded onto wooden ships and taken north to feed starving Confederate troops. Thus, the term “cracker” came to be applied in a general and mostly complimentary way to early residents of the Sunshine State. It was later appropriated by black people looking for a term derisive enough to apply to white people for all the things black people had been called by them over the years.

  The library was a grand old structure of two stories, handsome in its day before going to seed in the 1930s. Now it has been lovingly restored by civic-minded Citrus Cityites and put to use housing the town’s meager collection of books and magazines. The library had no more reliable patron than “Vincent Natulkiewicz” (as his library card referred to Trapper Nelson), who, every Saturday, rain or shine, would bring in the five books he had checked out the previous week and then troll through the stacks to find five new ones. The head librarian, Marilyn Young, would also save the previous week’s Wall Street Journals for him to take back to the Loxahatchee to pore over. The Tarzan of the Loxahatchee was nothing if not well-read.

  His weekly patterns were known to Quenton Cassidy, so when he needed to talk to Trapper and didn’t feel like making the journey out to his camp, Cassidy knew exactly where to find him at ten o’clock on Saturday morning.

  The dictates of the Dewey decimal system had placed the 900s—i.e., most of the books Trapper was interested in: history, geography, biography—in the cattle baron’s former master bedroom in the second-floor back corner room of the house, far from Ms. Young at the front desk. That allowed them to talk in normal tones unless she wandered in to shelve books or to find something for a patron. She would then shush them despite there being not another soul in the building. It was the principle of the thing.

  “What you got there?” said Cassidy.

  “Biography of Churchill. Friend of mine recommended it,” said Trapper. He added it to the stack on the table behind them and continued down the shelf.

  “Aren’t you going to look for anything?” said Trapper.

  “This isn’t my kind of thing. I prefer novels, like Catch-22, or books about sports.”

  “What are you reading now?”

  “Book called Floorburns. About basketball,” said Cassidy.

  “Can’t leave the sport behind, huh?”

  “I like ones about track, too, but there aren’t many of them.”

  “I’m surprised there are any. What have you read?”

  “I liked Bannister’s book. And there was a kids’ novel called Iron Duke and another one, Junior Miler, that were both pretty good.”

  Trapper was engrossed in a book about Africa, trying to divide his attention between that and his conversation.

  “So where were you at practice day before yesterday? Kamrad was miffed,” he said.

  “I know. Lenny was supposed to tell him. We had a forensics meet at another school. I was doing extemp. I told him about it yesterday,” said Cassidy.

  “Forensics?”

  “You know, debate, public speaking, that kind of thing.”

  “What’s ‘extemp’?”

  “Extemporaneous. They give you a topic and you have to make something up on the spot and deliver it in front of someone, a judge.”

  “I didn’t know you did that kind of thing.”

  “Well, I wanted to do debate, but they go on trips and stuff and it’s pretty hard to do that and sports at the same time.”

  “Hmmm.” Trapper had found a book on Antarctic expeditions.

  “So anyway, I got home and took a nap, then went out for my run really late.”

  “Oh, yeah, you did the seven miles after all?”

  “Yeah, I ran across the bridge and along the beach and back. It was pretty amazing. Big bright moon, cool breeze, no traffic or anybody to bother you.”

  “So you did your workout! I can tell Archie you didn’t skip.”

  “Oh, and I saw your friends again,” Cassidy said.

  Trapper put the book back on the shelf and looked at Cassidy.

  “What friends?”

  “You know, that Lucky guy and his sidekick.”

  “Floyd and Bobby? Where? Where’d you see them?”

  “They were doing a night dive, I guess. They were taking off from the dock behind the Crab Pot, really late. It was pretty dark, but I recognized them.”

  Trapper’s eyes widened and he held his hand up to stop Cassidy from continuing. Without a word he gestured toward the door with his head.

  “Hey, what’s . . .”

  Trapper made a shushing sound and led Cassidy out of the building and into a little courtyard under some frangipani trees in the cattle baron’s backyard. They sat at a picnic table across from each other.

  “Okay, now tell me every single thing you remember,” said Trapper.

  “I pretty much already did,” said Cassidy. “It was around nine or so. Just two guys going out in a boat to dive.” He described the boat and the men as best he could, repeating how dark it was.

  “What’s the big deal?” he said. “I thought you said they were big divers and stuff. Lots of people
go out night fishing or diving.”

  “I’m telling you again: those guys are not my friends. When they’re out late at night, it is not likely for any night dives, or night fishing either.”

  Trapper looked up into the frangipani branches, deep in thought. Cassidy hadn’t seen him look so serious since the incident at Moccasin Cove.

  “I want you to promise me something,” he said finally. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cassidy said, puzzled.

  “I want you to promise me that you will not breathe a word of what you saw to another human being. Can you do that? This is as serious as it can possibly be.”

  “Okay, sure. But I didn’t really see any—”

  “Not a word! To anyone. Not your parents, not your girlfriend, not anyone. Okay?”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Okay, I have to go. I’ll probably see you at practice Monday. Remember . . .”

  “Right. Not a word.”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  His parents were gone, so Cassidy got to indulge himself for lunch: two banana-and-pineapple sandwiches, made with Merita bread, and one with Hellmann’s mayonnaise, the other with peanut butter. He poured a big glass of milk from the wax carton.

  When he sat down at the Formica table, he noticed that day’s Citrus City Sentinel. He hadn’t read it before he left for the library that morning.

  The front page bore a huge headline: “Circuit Judge & Wife Missing from Beach Home.”

  Cassidy momentarily forgot his sandwiches and read:

  Manalapan—Circuit Judge Curtis Chillingworth and his wife Marjorie were reported missing from their Manalapan beach home yesterday morning, according to Palm Beach County sheriff’s spokesman Dan Holt.

  Authorities were alerted when Judge Chillingworth failed to arrive at a hearing scheduled yesterday morning at the Palm Beach County courthouse. They also received a call from a workman who went to the judge’s cottage early yesterday morning in order to begin a building project.

  Police found little in the way of clues except for a broken porch light, a discarded roll of tape, and a spattering of blood. They wouldn’t divulge any other possible clues.

  “We ruled robbery out right away. There was money found in Mrs. Chillingworth’s purse. And their swimming clothes were found inside, so it is unlikely there was a drowning accident,” said Holt. “Right now we are treating this as an abduction.”

  Family members are in the process of raising a reward for information regarding the case.

  Cassidy sat and looked out the jalousied kitchen door to the caster bean tree in the side yard. He remembered seeing Judge Chillingworth at Trapper’s, his stern manner and suppressed smile. He remembered the respect with which he was treated in the rough-and-tumble camaraderie of the camp.

  Now he had disappeared, along with his wife.

  And there was blood at the scene.

  CHAPTER 55

  * * *

  RANKINGS

  “The state rankings came out yesterday,” said Mr. Kamrad. Everyone was sitting on the grass in a semicircle. The coach allowed the buzz to settle down on its own. Finally, he held up a hand for silence.

  “Some congratulations are in order. Our own Mr. Stiggs is seventh in the high jump at 6-21/4, despite coming out late from basketball. He’s only two inches out of first place, so naturally a lot of people are picking him to finish high—maybe even win state. So, way to go, Stiggs!”

  Stiggs, never one for false modesty, held up both arms in triumph, getting a pretty good laugh.

  “Uh, Mr. Stiggs has scratched from the 440-yard event, however,” said Mr. Kamrad, getting an even bigger laugh. Lenny half stood and took a little bow.

  “Okay, that’s not all, men, settle down.” He waited for quiet.

  “Ed Demski is eighth in the half at 2:00.5.”

  Applause and whoops as Demski, sitting beside Cassidy, grinned and hung his head, embarrassed by the attention.

  “And . . .” He waited again. “And, it says right here . . .” He pretended to study the sheet on his clipboard.

  “Hmmm, unless there’s a typo or something, it appears that our own Quenton Cassidy, at 4:33.5, made the list at number ten in the mile!”

  Cassidy was surprised. He hadn’t had much competition in the local meets but had run another hard race against Jim Lee, who ran much smarter than the first time.

  But Cassidy had run tired in every race and was beginning to think that his physical funk was a permanent condition. He certainly didn’t feel like the tenth-ranked miler in the state.

  In a good mood, everyone dispersed to their different events, but a few gathered around Mr. Kamrad to study the rankings more closely. Cassidy waited until the coach finally shooed them off to their workouts.

  “Yes, Quenton?” he said.

  “I was just wondering who’s ahead of me in the mile?”

  “Well . . .” Mr. Kamrad looked a little sheepish. He studied his clipboard briefly, then handed it to Cassidy.

  “Don’t let this discourage you,” he said. “You haven’t begun to peak yet. When you’re tapered and rested . . .”

  Cassidy found the mile list on the second page. There was his name in tenth place all right. In first place he read: “Jerry Mizner, Pompano, 4:20.8.”

  “What? Is this right?”

  Mr. Kamrad gave him a sympathetic smile, taking the clipboard back.

  “Yes, it is. They had a big meet down in Miami and he and this kid in second place, Chris Hosford, from Christopher Columbus, got into it. They both ran PRs.” Cassidy took the clipboard back and looked at the list again. The second-place time was 4:21.0.

  “I was thinking Mizner’s PR was 4:26 something.”

  “It used to be.”

  “Third drops off to 4:25.8. At least that seems human,” Cassidy said. He was trying not to sound defeatist, but he felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Look, Quenton, there’s no need to get psyched out here. The regionals are in two weeks. It’ll be your first heads-up race against Mizner, and you’ll be reasonably well rested for—”

  “Reasonably?”

  “Archie has you cutting back pretty good two days before. You’ll be—”

  “That’s not enough!” Cassidy said.

  “You only have to finish in the top three to go to state. That’s all he’s thinking about right now.”

  Mr. Kamrad smiled grimly, pushed his thick glasses back on his nose, and held up his other clipboard, the one with San Romani’s schedules on it.

  “Don’t forget . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Cassidy. “I know. ‘Archie’s Axioms.’ ”

  “That’s right. And one of them says: ‘Train through everything until it really counts.’ ”

  “I don’t suppose there’s one on there that says something like ‘Give a guy a break’?”

  “You’re thinking of Christianity, or maybe Buddhism. This is . . . SanRomanity!”

  Jogging off to join Demski and the others, Cassidy laughed. SanRomanity, that’s pretty good. Almost rhymes with “insanity.”

  CHAPTER 56

  * * *

  REGIONALS—MIZNER REDUX

  Two days of easy running wasn’t enough rest by a long shot, but it was all he got.

  On Thursday they did a short set of 220s. They were specified to be “sharp,” for which Cassidy never got a definition. So they ran 30s and 31s, and then Cassidy and Demski battled out the last one, with Demski finishing just barely ahead in 27.8.

  On Friday, when Mr. Kamrad announced they were doing a moderate five-mile run, Cassidy felt like walking off the track. He might have actually done it, too, but he saw Trapper’s Jeep pulling up.

  “Why so down?” Trapper asked.

  “The most important meet so far in the season is tomorrow night. Archie—I mean, Mr. San Romani—has us doing a hard five-miler,” Cassidy said. He was trying to keep the whimper out of his voice.

  “I know.
I talked to him last night. He told me this is a crucial time and he’s sure you can finish in the top three to make it to state. That’s the big thing on his mind right now.”

  “Top three? Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. But I have to run against the best guy in the state tomorrow! I’d kind of like to have at least a chance not to get killed again!”

  “Quenton, we’ve trusted Archie before, and he hasn’t let us down yet.”

  “Maybe things aren’t like they used to be,” Cassidy said. “Maybe training in the 1930s was different. People are a lot faster nowadays.”

  “Quenton, you—”

  “How fast did Mr. San Romani run, anyway? What was his best mile? Do you know?”

  Trapper gave him a sympathetic look, like he used to when Cassidy was just a kid and was messing up.

  “Yes, I know,” Trapper said.

  “And?”

  “It was 4:07, Quenton. Less than a half second off the world record at the time.”

  Cassidy took a deep, resigned breath and looked around.

  “Demski! Let’s go!” he said.

  * * *

  There was nothing more definitive in their world than their personal black-and-white numbers, their personal records, PRs. The numbers didn’t lie and they didn’t wear away with time, as even the names on granite tombstones did.

  The regional meet was held at Pompano Beach’s new rubberized asphalt track. Cassidy couldn’t believe how good it felt to run on it, particularly compared to Edgewater’s number-two road asphalt.

  He also couldn’t believe the multihued sweat suits from dozens of schools in the region. He had never been to a meet this big before. What in the world would the state meet in Kernsville be like? If he even made it.