by Alan Cook
Melody glanced at Drake. “You look a bit more like your old self with the bandage off. Your nose is discolored and swollen, though. I don’t know whether you’ll ever be as beautiful as you were.”
He had taken the bandage off before they started the run. “I was tired of wearing that damned thing. I felt like a cripple. That’s a luxury I can’t afford now. Just don’t hit me in the nose.”
“I really appreciate you not quitting. As least we’re abiding by the terms of the letter. I hope it isn’t too hard on you.”
“I’ll survive. I don’t want anything to happen to your mother. Unfortunately, it’s not a long-term solution. Either of us could twist an ankle at any time and not be able to run at all.” Drake was silent for a minute. “One way to keep my mind off my body is to see what we can deduce. For example, the letter is full of grammatical and spelling errors. It was written by somebody whose English isn’t great. A foreigner.”
“Be careful how you speak about us foreigners. Or, it could be somebody who wants us to think he’s a foreigner. Did you notice the incongruity? Even with all the errors, the typing itself is perfect.”
“No typos except the spelling errors, which are consistent. No cross-outs. No evidence that the typist even used that white liquid they use to cover errors. An experienced typist did it, but not necessarily one who knows proper English. And it looks like it’s been typed on a good typewriter, like an IBM Selectric.”
“You mean the one with the bouncing ball?”
“Right. Most business offices use them.”
“He knew where my mum lives.”
“He knows a lot about you. He’s got connections, whoever he is. He knows where we’re staying. This is not a fly-by-night operation.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Well, yours and mine are all over the letter. Mine are on the envelope, and I even took notes on it. We didn’t exactly follow good evidence procedure. There may be others, but we can’t go to the police.”
“What did you find out about the messenger?”
“Not much. Not even sex.”
“Like yes or no?”
“Like boy or girl. Whoever it was was apparently young—and nimble. Got away before the desk clerk could note any identifying characteristics.”
CHAPTER 7
Drake and Melody decided that if they were going to find out anything, they needed to get better acquainted with the other people associated with Running California. When they arrived at the motel—courtesy of Peaches, who met them, noted their time when they finished the run, and drove them to the motel, all without saying more than five words—the first people they saw were Tom Batson and his running partner, Jerry Kidd.
Drake invited them to have dinner with Melody and him. They accepted and agreed to meet after Drake had his appointment with a chiropractor. Thirty minutes later Drake returned to the lobby, having showered and changed his clothes. He was able to move a little better—he was becoming slightly less stiff. By the time they finished the run, he might be in the kind of shape he should be in right now—if it didn’t kill him before then. Peaches, his driver, was sitting in the lobby reading a magazine about martial arts.
They walked out to the company car. Drake sat in the passenger side of the front seat. In a nod to the warm weather, Peaches was wearing a summer-weight suit with the jacket on to hide his gun, Drake was sure. Although not as tall as Drake, he was broader, with a bull neck and large head topped with short, dark hair. Drake decided to see if he could get Peaches to talk.
In a conversational tone he asked, “How long have you worked for Giganticorp?”
Peaches made a turn onto the street in front of the motel and glanced at Drake. “Long enough.”
That wasn’t a promising start. “Are you stationed in San Jose?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“How many employees does Giganticorp have there?”
Peaches looked at Drake as if he thought Drake were trying to pry company secrets from him. Was Giganticorp so private that they didn’t even release employment figures? What could he ask Peaches that wouldn’t be considered confidential? He wanted to ask his real name, but that would sound like an interrogation.
“I guess Giganticorp is a good company to work for.”
When Peaches didn’t say anything at first, Drake wondered whether he had used up his quota of words for the day.
Finally, he said, “It’s a job. Better than some, worse than others, but it keeps beer in the cooler.”
Encouraged that Peaches had uttered more than one sentence at a time, Drake was going to try to keep the conversation going, but at that moment they arrived at the chiropractor’s office. When Peaches drove him back to the motel an hour later, he had retreated into his shell and only grunted in response to Drake’s questions.
***
“Fred tried to call my mum at noon, but there was still no answer. That would have been eight o’clock at night her time. She should have been home.”
Melody and Drake were waiting in the motel lobby for Tom and Jerry, the runners they were going to have dinner with.
“Did you try again from here?”
“It was too late. I don’t want to call her in the middle of the night there. It would scare her to death. When I was working for the agency, although she didn’t know exactly what I was doing, she suspected enough that she said what she feared most was that call in the middle of the night because something had happened to me.”
Tom and Jerry appeared in the lobby, two runners cut from the same mold: medium height, skinny frame. They wore their hair down over their ears, but not long enough for them to be mistaken for hippies. More like the Beatles. Tom’s was red and Jerry’s was brown. It flopped when they ran.
“Do you want to go to an Italian place?” Tom asked. “Italian food’s good for carbohydrates.”
“There’s one about two blocks from here.” Jerry looked at Drake. “Do you think you can walk that far?”
“I don’t have my cane with me, but I think I can make it.” Drake used an old man’s voice. “If not, you can carry me.” He exaggerated a hobble as they started along the street. Young whippersnappers.
“Congratulations on being in first place.” Melody was trying to direct attention away from Drake.
Fred had posted a typed listing of the teams on a bulletin board in the motel and written down the time of each team so far. Drake and Melody were so far behind that they didn’t even try to figure out how far.
“Thanks,” Tom said. “But we’re only about five minutes ahead of three or four other teams. Not exactly a comfortable lead with so far to go. We’ve had to learn to pace ourselves. A couple of teams tried to break away today, but they ran out of steam and we caught them.”
Jerry nodded. “They underestimate the difficulty of running on sand. It slows you down and takes a lot of energy, something they don’t account for. They think they can run as fast on sand as pavement.”
“I was in the race when you won Boston,” Drake said to Tom. “I was a few hills behind you, however.”
“So was everybody else.” Jerry grinned at his teammate. “He blew them away.”
“Jerry ran under two-thirty in that race,” Tom said.
They were clearly the team to beat. They reached the small restaurant and were seated immediately at a square table for four with a red and white checked plastic tablecloth. It was noisy and friendly. Drake ordered a bottle of beer. Melody had iced tea. Tom and Jerry split a carafe of red wine. Each team had been issued two credit cards for food and incidental expenses.
“How did you two become teammates in this race?” Melody asked.
Tom looked surprised. “I was invited to enter and pick my partner. Jerry and I train together in Redding, so it was a natural. What about you?”
Evasion time. Drake signaled Melody with his eyes. “We didn’t pick each other. Giganticorp picked for us. I guess that’s why we’re in last place.”
Tom looked from one of them to the other. “Didn’t you know each other before?”
How much had Fred let slip? “Only casually. We’d run into each other a few times.”
Jerry laughed. “Run into each other. That’s good. So the beanstalk boys picked you. We call Fred and Peaches and the others the beanstalk boys. Giganticorp—giant—‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ Get it? You two must have been chosen to add color. A girl and a war hero.”
“I’m not a war hero.”
“We were chosen because we make a good team.” Melody had the look in her eye that Drake knew meant that you better not underestimate her. “If Drake hadn’t been hurt, we’d be doing much better.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Tom said. “I’ve watched you run. You’re the best female runner I’ve seen. And I’ve seen the women who’ve run Boston since they started letting them in.”
Melody picked up male admirers wherever she went. It was obvious that Tom was among that number. Also that she was susceptible to his flattery. Something stirred inside Drake. He tried to squelch it. He’d had his chance and blown it.
Tom looked at Drake. “If you were in top shape I’d be watching over my shoulder for you two.”
“Thanks. Maybe you’ll still have to.”
***
Drake closed the door of the phone booth located at an intersection in downtown Oceanside, not far from their motel. He had walked back to the motel with the others. After they had said goodnight to Tom and Jerry, he had told Melody what he was going to do.
He had decided against making the call from the motel room. Years of covert operations had taught him that if you didn’t want other people to find out what you were doing, you shouldn’t leave a trail, however faint. With the phone booth door closed, nobody would hear him, especially with the traffic noise. He kept his hand over his mouth on the off chance that somebody might be watching through a pair of binoculars and trying to read his lips.
He lifted the black receiver and dialed zero.
“Operator.”
“I’d like to make a collect call to…” Drake gave the long distance number to the operator. When she asked for his name, he said, “Drake.”
He heard various noises while the operator put through the call and then the sound of a ringing telephone. He hoped Blade would be home.
After half a dozen rings the operator said, “Nobody is answering.”
“Let it ring a few more times.”
After about the eighth ring Drake heard the sound of the phone being answered with a brusque hello.
“I have a collect call from a Mr. Drake. Will you accept the charge?”
“Drake? Who does that bastard think he is?”
“Will you accept the charge, sir?”
“All right, all right, put him on.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Drake.”
“You took long enough to answer the phone.”
“What do you mean by calling me collect?”
“Relax. I’ll pay for it. I’m calling from a phone booth.”
“Yeah, just like you paid for all those drinks you owe me. It’ll be a cold day in hell… Speaking of hell, where the hell are you?”
“California.”
“Since you flunked geography you wouldn’t know that there’s a three-hour time difference.”
“You never go to bed before midnight, unless you’ve suddenly gotten senile. I need your help.”
“That’s not new. I bailed you out your whole career. What’s the matter now?”
“I’m in a race called Running California. You ever hear of it?”
“Not a chance. It sounds crazy, just like you.”
“It’s being sponsored by a privately owned company called Giganticorp.”
“I have a vague hit on that one. I think they supply military products to the government.”
“I need more information on them and their CEO, Casey Messinger. He just announced he’s running for senator from California?”
“You mean in nineteen seventy? That’s more than a year away.”
Drake heard a woman’s voice in the background asking who was on the phone.
“Did you get married?”
“Hell no.”
“Another thing. Somebody—or some group—may be betting on Running California.” Drake filled him in quickly on the details, not mentioning the note or the demands. “I need any information you can give me on that.”
“When I find out something—if I find out something—where can I reach you?”
“I’ll have to call you. We’re on the move.”
“I supposed you’ll call collect.”
“Probably. Oh, and there’s one more thing. Do you remember Melody?”
“How could I forget that babe? Although what she saw in you I’ll never know.”
“She’s in the race. She’s been having trouble reaching her mother in England, and she’s worried about her. Do you think you could have an agent check up on her?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Give me her mother’s address.”
Drake did that. “Thanks for the help. I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than you can ever repay.”
“Say hello to your squeeze for me.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
CHAPTER 8
We have obtained permission for you to run through Camp Pendleton on the beach. This is an isolated but beautiful area, and you should enjoy having the beach to yourselves much of the time. Near the north end of Camp Pendleton there is a bathing suit optional beach, but you should be used to this by now. You will have to go up to the road to detour around the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. We will post a race official on the beach at the path you should use to exit at the power plant. After passing San Onofre go back to the beach and continue to San Clemente State Beach. You will be leaving San Diego County and entering Orange County at this point.
***
Drake was up before the wakeup call at six, stretching his sore back muscles. Stretching through the lingering pain. If he were going to stay in this race, he wanted to do more than cover the distance; he wanted to compete. Even if they could narrow the time differential that the other teams were beating them by each day, that would make him feel he was accomplishing something.
His body felt a little looser. The good news was that after three days of running he hadn’t suffered any new problems. Actually, to say that they were running was wishful thinking—their average pace hadn’t been more than that of a brisk walk.
He put on his running clothes and then a sweat suit to ward off the morning chill. As he was about to leave the room, he noticed the note he had scribbled to himself in the middle of the night. Nighttime ideas disappeared like the stars when the sun rose. Now if he could only read it. He finally decided it was the letters BB. For “bulletin board.”
He took the threatening note from the envelope in the suitcase Giganticorp had purchased to replace the one burned in the accident and went out to the lobby. He handled the paper with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, belatedly being careful to not leave more fingerprints.
Drake held the note beside the notice on the board that showed the elapsed time of each team. The names of the runners were typed with the times handwritten beside the names. He compared the typed letters of the two documents and noticed immediate problems. The sheet on the board was a Xerox copy, not an original. It had probably been typed in San Jose; copies had been made there. In addition, it had a different typeface than the threatening note. IBM Selectric typewriters had removable type balls. Each ball could have a different typeface. If the note he held had been typed on a Selectric, as he suspected, it might be almost impossible to find the actual typewriter that had done the job.
Melody appeared, also in sweats, looking unkempt, which was unusual for her. She had no makeup on, and her sandy hair had been hastily cinched in a ponytail, but loose strands stuck out of her head in several directions.
Drake tried to make a joke. “You
look as bad as I did when you first saw me at Coronado.”
“I couldn’t sleep, worrying about my mum. Fred just helped me call her, but she still didn’t answer the phone.”
“Blade has an agent checking on her. I’ll call him tonight to see if he’s learned anything. The note said she’d be all right as long—”
“I know what the note said. Since we don’t know who wrote it, how can we trust it?”
Good question. Melody was understandably upset. If they didn’t receive any information by this evening, Drake was ready to call in the heavy artillery.
***
“Some researchers invented Gatorade for the University of Florida football team. It replaces carbohydrates and what they call electrolytes—stuff that you lose during vigorous physical exercise. Try it.”
Drake took a swig of Gatorade, finished his banana, and watched Melody shove a mixture consisting of peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s into her mouth.
“I have no problem trying Gatorade, but just be thankful that I suggested we carry the bananas and gorp in our pouches, along with drinks. You whined that it would add too much weight. Aren’t you glad now that we’re all alone away from civilization that we’ve got the food?”
The pouches were held in place by straps around their waists and weren’t really that inconvenient. Some people called them fanny packs, but because “fanny” was a dirty word in England, referring to the female genitals, Drake was careful not to. Liquid was the heaviest thing in a pouch, at a pound for every pint they carried. The food didn’t add that much weight, and Drake was thankful that Melody had insisted they carry it, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He had struggled through marathons before without eating anything and drinking only water. This race was teaching him that it was smart to refuel along the way.
He was also glad that Melody’s mood had improved after they started running, as it almost always did. He was worried about her mother just as she was, but there wasn’t much they could do about it at the moment.
