We were like gladiators fighting, and the losers would get thrown to the lions.
Every muscle in my body ached, but I was not about to lose this game. I raced to return a drive from Vincent. I wound up as if I was going to clear; then I pulled back, just tipping the birdie over onto the other side. Leona scrambled for it but missed, falling to her knees on the court.
The crowd roared unhappily.
Our point, making it 12-12. I had just served when something hit me between the shoulder blades. A soda pop can. Vincent smashed the shuttlecock down the center. I pointed out the pop can to the ref, but he didn’t return service to us. Coach looked as if he was about to have a fit.
I was a little shaken, and Vincent and Leona concentrated their shots on me like wolves scenting blood. The score was 13-12, their favor.
“Do you really think it will be that easy?” Leona asked mockingly. “To escape?”
Any lingering thought of collaboration and cooperation with the Coles left me then. Mike and I would win.
Mike correctly judged that a birdie would fall out of bounds and won us back service. He sent the shuttlecock winging over the net. Vincent was tiring—his shot had little zing—but I still stumbled over my feet returning it. We won the point, to the disappointment of the crowd.
It was 13-13.
I limped gingerly back to my usual position.
Leona and Vincent saw, conferred, and elected not to reset the score back to zero.
“Are you okay?” Mike asked before serving.
I winked at him.
Sure enough, Vincent’s first shot was to the far left corner, intending to make me run on my sore ankle. I leaped up and smashed the birdie down between Leona’s feet. “Na-na-na-na-na,” I sang softly. Rage at being conned swept over her face.
I barely heard the catcalls from the crowd. It was 14-13 for us.
I grinned nastily, then served my best backhand with the top of my racket instead of the bottom. The birdie skimmed across the net, flat and fast, then dropped like a rock. Leona lunged forward to get it. The tip thwacked against her racket—
And a gunshot cracked out.
The bullet ricocheted off the net post, and simultaneously the gym was plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER 9
THE INSTANT THE LIGHTS went out, Mike seized my hand and we ran for the door. The crowd was silent for a moment, shocked, wondering who had been shot; then a child screamed, and, as one animal, they stampeded.
Two more gunshots barked overhead. “Kill them!” someone screamed. “They’re getting away!”
It was like running through a nightmare. People pushing and shoving everywhere, a human tide, screaming and crying. Hands grabbed at my arms, my legs. Mike fell once and was almost sucked down. I yanked him back to his feet with strength born of panic.
Someone had thrown open the doors, shedding cloudy light on the mass of humanity. Mike and I were at the forefront of the wave, but not the first. The pressure from behind created a terrible bottleneck as everyone strove to reach the light, to reach safety.
A man yelled himself hoarse, exhorting everyone to stay calm and not panic. A few might have listened, but the gun blasted again, destroying all reason.
The crowd ripped Mike’s hand from me. It was either let go or have my arm broken.
A surge from behind popped me through the door like a cork from a bottle.
Dim sunlight. Air.
I gasped in a few breaths, looking desperately for Mike, but the crowd kept pushing me forward. Pavement scuffed under my running shoes.
Once outside, the people milled around uncertainly. I stayed with them, just one more blond in a sea of them. I realized I was still holding my badminton racket and dropped it immediately. I couldn’t do much about the distinctive white top and short skirt.
A few smarter people ran for their cars and screeched out of the parking lot.
I thought that was an excellent idea: escape in the pandemonium before the shooter found me. The bullet had whipped within inches of my head. Someone had tried to kill me.
A flood of people spilled out the fire doors. I kept watching for a dark head. Where was Mike?
“Hurry.” A strange man in a red jacket grabbed my arm. “This way.”
I turned, ready to twist free, but saw Mike over his shoulder. He’d gotten out ahead of me somehow. The stranger pulled me in Mike’s direction, and I didn’t resist.
I thought Mike might know the muscled blond man, but the questioning look he flashed at me when we joined him told me he did not. I shook my head. I didn’t know who he was either.
“This way,” the stranger said. “My van’s parked over here.”
Mike shrugged, and we followed, swerving through the running crowd like separate strands of hair being braided together.
“My name’s Dave Belcourt,” the man said when we reached his navy blue van. He shook Mike’s hand, then mine. “Your coach has told me a lot about you. I represent Nike running shoes. We’re interested in signing you up to be spokespersons for our company.”
It would be just like Coach to try to drum up sponsors before we’d even won our first tournament.
“Get us out of here, and we’ll talk,” Mike said.
Dave grinned. He was in his twenties, but the grin brought out a pair of dimples and made him look like a kid. “It’s a deal.” He slid open the van door, and we piled inside.
Mike sat in the back while I sat in the front seat with Dave.
“Can you believe this?” Dave said as he nosed forward into the parking lot, honking his horn to avoid running people down. “It’s a riot.”
“It’s insane,” I agreed.
We turned out of the parking lot onto the street. Escape beckoned just ahead.
“I’ve heard of hometown fanatics, but that was crazy,” Dave said. “I mean, to actually shoot at one of the contestants …” He shook his head.
I shivered, and it wasn’t all faked. “I won’t feel safe until we get out of this town.”
“I don’t blame you a bit,” Dave said fervently. “Shall we just drive around for about fifteen minutes? I can tell you some more about Nike while we wait for things to cool down.” Dave signaled, and we turned down a secondary road just within town limits that said “Agricultural Hall 5 km.”
Mike and I exchanged quick glances in the mirror. I nodded slightly and started asking Dave questions about his Nike ad campaign while Mike unobtrusively searched the back of the van.
Dave seemed to be a cheerful individual and talked my ear off for the next ten miles about how he’d gotten an idea for a commercial while watching us on the court. “We’ll start out with a shot of all that footwork, twisting and turning and leaping …”
I kept an eye on the mirror but did not see one vehicle in pursuit. Good.
Mike touched my arm; I took that as my signal. I screamed.
Dave slammed on the brakes. “What the hell?”
“A body.” I was already scrambling out of my seat belt. “There was a body in the ditch.” I threw open my door and jumped out.
“Are you sure?” Dave followed me doubtfully. “Maybe it was just a garbage bag or—”
Mike leaped on his shoulder, tackling him down onto the highway. Dave was big and strong enough to pose for athletic commercials himself, but the move knocked the wind out of him. Before he could recover, I stood by his head. “Make one move and I’ll kick your skull in.”
He went very still. “What—the hell—are you doing?”
“Hush, now. We’ll have plenty of time to chat later.” Mike pressed his knee into Dave’s back. He swiftly bound Dave’s hands together with a length of rope he must have found in the back, then patted Dave down for weapons.
“Are you robbing me? My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“Good idea,” I said. Mike handed it to me, and I put it in my skirt pocket to examine later. “Now get up.”
Painfully, Dave rolled onto his knees on the pavement. His chin wa
s scraped and bruised, and he got up slowly.
“Into the van,” Mike said.
“I don’t under—” In midsentence Dave pivoted, kicking his leg straight out at the right height to catch Mike painfully on the chin, but Mike wasn’t there anymore. He ducked out of range, and I kicked Dave in the back of the knee, buckling his other leg.
Mike and I surveyed him on the ground. “Some people are just slow learners.” Mike shook his head sadly.
“Real slow,” I agreed, but my confidence was an act. Inside, my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Sullenly, Dave got up. We strapped him into one of the back seats in the van and tied his feet together. He kept up his innocent act. “Why are you doing this? I was trying to help you. Nike would have paid you millions.”
We ignored him. Mike climbed into the driver’s seat and put the van in gear. We couldn’t afford to sit here much longer. Sooner or later traffic would come by.
“Where were you taking us?” I asked.
Dave looked bewildered. He really was very good. “Nowhere. I was just driving around.”
“You can cut the act,” Mike told him. “You gave yourself away just after we left the parking lot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear to God. Please, I have a wife and a little girl at home. Her name is Cindy.”
I winced. “Going a little over the top, aren’t we?” I pulled out his wallet and flipped through the little plastic windows. “Funny, but I don’t see any pictures of little girls in here.” Dave was silent while I took out his driver’s license. It really did say Dave Belcourt, and the photograph looked like him. They’d come prepared.
All the dates on the money were right, all of it pressed new as if it had just come out of a bank machine.
However, tucked inside one of the pockets I found something very interesting indeed: a plain white card with the name David Jared Belcourt and a twenty-digit number. It was made of hard plastic like a credit card, but it was thicker, made of two layers held together by a tiny screw. “Is there anything here to crack it open with?” I asked Mike.
Dave started to protest, then caught himself.
“There should be something in the toolbox under the seat.”
I found a thin-bladed nail file and turned the tiny screw, opening it. I showed the inside to Mike in silence. It looked, from what I vaguely recalled from computer ads, like a silicon chip.
“What’s this, Dave? Your identification? Your driver’s license? Your bank account? Or all three?” I watched him carefully. He was sweating. “I think it’s all three. What happens if I grind it to pieces, Dave? Do I wipe out your life savings?”
“What do you want?” he gritted.
“That’s the spirit,” Mike said. “We’d like to know why you and your friends just tried to kill us.”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with that?” Dave tried one last bluff.
I ticked items off on my fingers. “The Nike story was clever but a little thin.” Somehow I suspected Nike running shoes and the nature of commercials would have changed in some form over a hundred years. “Your van was parked with the nose pointing out for a fast getaway. You’re wearing a jacket, while all the others inside the gym had taken theirs off because it was so hot. But the clincher was when you knew the gunman was shooting at us. Every other panicked person inside was convinced the madman might shoot them next—which is why they ran. If you knew we were the targets, you should have stayed where it was safe, up in the stands, rather than risk the stampeding crowd below. So I think you were outside the whole time—the backup, in case we escaped.”
Dave’s expression changed. “You supercilious little bastards. Homo sapiens effing renascentia. The scientists can’t shield you forever. You’ll burn in end, just like the others. They smelled like pork.”
Mike stepped forward as if to hit Dave, but I stopped him. Dave’s taunts about the Orphanage fire weren’t important. The rest of what he was saying was.
“He’ll get you,” Dave vowed. “He’s smarter than both of you put together.”
“Who is?” I asked.
Dave clamped his mouth shut after that, but he’d already told us more than I would ever have guessed on my own.
Homo sapiens renascentia, not Homo sapiens sapiens.
Renascentia was Latin for “renaissance,” which meant rebirth and renewal. Not a new species but a new subspecies.
Homo sapiens sapiens were current humankind. The Cro-Magnons were the first sapiens sapiens to appear, 35,000 years ago. Homo sapiens neanderthalensis had been the Neanderthals. Depending on which theory you subscribed to, Neanderthals had either been assimilated by the Cro-Magnons or killed off by the Cro-Magnons. Off with the old, on with the new. Survival of the fittest.
The endless tests made sense now. So did the attack. Apparently some people, like Dave, felt threatened by us.
“An interesting story, Dave m’boy,” Mike said in a jocular British accent. “Also, a crock of manure. We’re no less human than you are.”
I stared at him. Did he really not believe we were a different subspecies? Or had I missed something important?
I’d missed something. I followed Mike’s gaze to the rearview mirror where a police car rode on our tail. We’d taken about five turns at random. They shouldn’t have been able to find us so fast.
Unless there was a tracking device on the van.
Which meant Dave wasn’t a terrorist; he was in league with the scientists. This had been their plan from the beginning. All the gunshots and screaming—that was just a bunch of extras hired for a movie, intended to flush out our true nature with real danger.
I remembered Leona’s mocking words: “Do you really think it will be that easy to escape?” Had she somehow known what would happen?
We’d blown it.
Swearing under his breath, Mike pulled over, and we waited for the cops.
CHAPTER 10
THINGS WENT DECEPTIVELY well—at first.
I’d been sure the scientists would haul us away to some compound, but instead the cops arrested Dave as one of the terrorists, and Mike and I were sent home on the bus with Coach Hrudey, who was still upset over the tournament being called a tie. To his credit, I don’t think he realized the gunman had been shooting at us. Mike and I both fell asleep on the bus—a sedative in the air, not in the food, as I had made sure not to eat or drink anything—and woke up in Chinchaga. I slept in my own bed that night as usual.
When I woke the next morning I still couldn’t believe Mike and I had gotten away with it. Before the blow fell, I felt wary but also energized.
Our continuing freedom raised a lot of interesting possibilities. Maybe it had been a coincidence that the cops had found Dave’s van so quickly. Maybe the van had had a tracking device but no bugs. Maybe the scientists were playing some deeper game.
I was eager to discuss everything with Mike on our morning run, but when I went outside, Mike wasn’t there.
I looked at my watch, saw that I was five minutes early, and jogged over to Mike’s house, figuring I’d meet him halfway, but I didn’t encounter him.
I stood outside on the dewy grass and threw pebbles at his window. There was no response. The blind was down, so I assumed he was still asleep, fighting off the effects of the scientists’ sedatives.
Vaguely concerned, I rang the doorbell, a rude thing to do at seven-thirty in the morning, but I didn’t care. Although Mom and Dad were now behaving like newlyweds, I still harbored a lingering hostility toward Mr. Vallant.
Mrs. Vallant finally opened the door, wearing a black negligee and a matching peignoir. “Yes?” She didn’t sound as though she was in a very good mood.
A faint alarm began to ring in my brain as I pushed past her. “Hi,” I said cheerfully. “I’m here to collect Mike. We’re supposed to go for a run this morning.”
She crossed her arms, a look of sullen triumph on her face. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. M
ike’s not here.”
My heart began to beat harder. “Where is he?”
She smiled maliciously. “Why, dear, didn’t he tell you? He received special acceptance to the university two weeks ago. He left on a one o’clock flight last night.”
“Ah,” I said softly, as if my whole world hadn’t just crashed down around me. The scientists had taken Mike; I didn’t believe for a moment her implication that Mike had gone willingly.
“I loaned him a book. Do you mind if I take a look in his room for it?” It wasn’t really a question, since I didn’t wait for an answer. I zigzagged around her and dashed down the hallway and into Mike’s room.
She trailed after me, her voice falsely sweet. “Oh, dear, I’ve upset you, haven’t I? I hope you weren’t serious about Michael. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a flirt. You’re not the first girl to cry over him.”
The enjoyment on her face made me feel sick.
Mike’s bed was messy, but I couldn’t tell if Mike had slept in it or just not made it Friday morning. The closet was open and empty. His racket was jammed in a pile of dirty socks in the corner instead of in its wood press.
I picked out a Hardy Boys book from his shelf—The Missing Chum—and turned to leave the room. Mr. Vallant joined his wife in the hallway. In a burgundy robe, open to show his chest, he looked shady and disreputable. Despite the gray in his stubble he seemed to think he was pretty hot stuff. He ran his eyes over me like a measuring tape. “Hello there, pretty Angel. Say hello to your mother for me, will you? The firm’s transferring us, and I might not see her again.”
No word about his son, about Mike being packed off without warning.
I pictured how much nicer he would look with a black eye. “You didn’t deserve him,” I told them, slashing my gaze from one to the other. “Either of you.”
I left the house at a dead run, chased by memories.
Sitting together on the bus ride home, sharing whispered secrets. “Tell me something about yourself nobody else knows,” he’d said. “Anything.”
So I’d told him how as a kid I’d loved the taste of strawberry ice cream, but I hated it now because I’d figured out they’d used the sweet taste to disguise the pills they were drugging me with and I’d been such a glutton I hadn’t even noticed.
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