Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  A new worry stabbed me. I couldn’t let Jake see the necklace. He’d completely freak out.

  I tucked it under my jersey, as I’d seen Juan Carlos do, and I zipped up the jersey as far as it would go. Then I got back on my bike and crossed the road, back toward the staging area.

  I didn’t have far to travel. Jake was pedaling toward me, a sour expression on his face.

  4

  JAKE CRUISED across the street, toward the woods. How much had he seen? I couldn’t tell.

  “I saw GBCN cameras,” I told him, following. “I had to get away. So I came here.”

  He just kept riding. Silent treatment. Fantastic.

  About ten feet from where I’d discovered Juan Carlos, Jake’s wheels left the pavement, and he entered the woods. I turned to follow his path. As my wheels churned through dirt and gravel, my mind churned over possible explanations and excuses I could give him, to explain why I’d been talking to Juan Carlos, why I wasn’t where Jake had left me.

  About five minutes into our off-road riding, I couldn’t watch him anymore, or even think. I fought to control my bike. The woods were closing in, choking the trail. There were slick patches of mud, probably oozing in from the great marsh that had earned Great Marsh Road its name. A mountain bike or a hybrid could handle this stuff, but not our skinny road-bike tires. After nearly skidding out, I hefted my bike over one shoulder and jogged after Jake.

  When Jake dismounted a moment later, he didn’t even stop moving. He slung his bike over one shoulder in one graceful movement, a tactic he’d perfected riding cyclocross on the off-season. While I got whacked in the face and scratched on the arms by every tree branch I passed, Jake glided between the trees, angling his bike so it didn’t get scratched. He was careful that way. About his bike.

  “Hey! Wait up!”

  Jake turned and peered at me through the rear wheel of his bike. The spinning tire spokes changed his face, shuffling it through a Wheel of Fortune of expressions.

  When I was about five steps behind him, the wheel stopped, and I saw the face I’d won. Pissed. So he’d seen Juan Carlos and me talking. Suddenly that necklace I was wearing felt enormous. Alive. Like the telltale heart ticking under the floor in the Poe story we read for English class.

  “It’s eight forty-five already,” Jake said, his voice flat. “The race starts in fifteen. Better keep up.”

  “I’m trying to keep up.”

  “Oh, really? Is that why you took a little scenic detour to say hola to your old amigo?”

  “There’s nothing between us. You don’t like him because he’s confident. And lucky.”

  “Jesus, Tessa. You have such a blind spot about him. I’ve seen how he looks at you. I notice he’s always popping up the moment I turn my back. And I’m not stupid. I see how you look at him, too. You’re both waiting for me to disappear, so you can finally hook up.”

  “Did you seriously just say that? Because that is completely crazy.”

  “Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. “I know you’ve talked before, behind my back. Remember Harvard Square last month? Maybe you talk all the time.”

  That hurt. The Harvard Square meeting last month was actually about Jake. I was trying to get to the bottom of the doping allegations, to help him out. I thought Juan Carlos might have some clue who framed Jake for drugs. But no matter how much I’d insisted, Jake did not believe me. He’d almost punched Juan Carlos in the face after he ran into us there—I’d had to restrain his arm—and then he’d threatened to get Juan Carlos sent back to Ecuador if he moved in on me again. We’d broken up for two weeks about this stupid misunderstanding.

  “Jake. I—”

  Jake held up a hand. “You know what? Save your breath. You’ll need it for the ride. Stay on the wheel out there.” He turned and followed the path around a bend.

  My feet remained rooted. Tears stung my eyes. As soon as I was sure Jake couldn’t see me, I sank to the ground, holding my breath, trying not to cry. When Jake turned cold like that, it felt like getting slammed against ice.

  I took a few deep breaths, trying to pull myself together. Think, Tessa, think. The best thing to do? Bail. I could walk back to the official starting line and sign on as a volunteer. In an hour, I could be at the first checkpoint, serving sandwiches and water to hungry riders. That would undo the lie I’d told to my parents. And when Jake cruised by the food table at the first water stop? I’d throw a sandwich right in his face and call him a—

  No. What I should do was call Kristen, my KidVision producer. I could pitch a show idea about young riders and volunteers. I’d always wanted to do my own story, to say words that weren’t scripted for me.

  My mind raced with new ideas. If I called Kristen with a pitch, that would undo the lie I’d told Juan Carlos. I’d legitimately be here working for KidVision today. Then I could easily meet up with him after the race, hear what he wanted to tell me—my God, what could it be? I could give him back his necklace.

  I stood up again and turned to peer through the thick trees behind me. I could still make out dots of red-and-white cycling jerseys at the starting line. In five minutes, if I pushed my bike and ran, I could be right back there. And maybe I could go back even further, back to my pre-Jake life. Was that my real starting line?

  I dared myself to imagine a permanent breakup. I’d get my best friends back, full-time. Jake had thought Sarita and Kylie were loud, unambitious, and boring. They’d said he was moody and took up all my time.

  And they had a point. If I wasn’t out riding with Jake, I was hanging out at his races, even toughing it out at cyclocross meets in the fall and winter, standing in the rain. I’d paid for that time with my social life and my grades. My parents were freaking out.

  But. If I ditched Jake, I’d lose the good stuff, too. The guy who had patiently coaxed me off my clunky hybrid and reliable old bike paths, and shown me the excitement of the open road. He had nudged me out of my comfort zone in so many ways. My past relationships had taken a long time to get off the ground. Maybe because everyone knows everyone’s business when you go to a small school like mine, and people are leery of labels. But with Jake—I guess because we went to different schools—things had been intense from the start. He’d asked me out, to a bike gear expo, within minutes after that KidVision interview. He called and texted all the time. He’d called me his girlfriend after our third date.

  Things with Jake had moved fast physically, too. Sometimes in our first weeks together, Jake and I would veer off-road on a country bike ride—here in Cabot or in neighboring towns—and find a patch of grass in a meadow. We’d mess around for a while, kissing while our hands explored, and traffic, oblivious to our bliss, rushed past on distant roads.

  “You’re so good for me. You remind me life isn’t always a race,” he said to me one day late last summer, coiling my braid around his fingers as we lay side by side in the grass. “It’s like, I don’t know, I can stop and see the view with you. Pay attention to stuff around me more, instead of always looking over my shoulder to see who’s coming up behind. When I’m with you, I don’t care who’s behind me. I just care who’s next to me. You. I love that.”

  “Me too,” I’d confessed, my whole body thrilling at his words. “Sometimes I feel like my whole life’s been mapped out for me. School, college, everything. But you—”

  He’d grinned. “I’m the unscheduled stop on your map.”

  I’d laughed. “A diversion. Right.”

  “No,” he’d murmured, rolling toward me and cupping my face in his hands. “No way. Not a diversion. The destination.”

  That connection between us was powerful. I couldn’t give up on us now. We just had to get through this ride together.

  I hefted my bike and slung it over one shoulder. Then, in the bushes off to my right, a few yards away, something shiny caught my eye. I backed up a few steps and looked.

&nb
sp; A bike wheel was sticking out from behind a cluster of shrubs. Bizarre.

  I set down my bike and leaned it against a tree. I had to see what this thing was.

  Sidestepping a patch of poison ivy, I circled the shrubs and saw what that wheel was attached to: a black bike frame with streamlined streaks of white and green paint. Its drop handlebars were wrapped with white bar tape, its carbon wheels black and shiny. I wasn’t much of a gearhead, but I knew this bike did not belong off-road. I slowly extracted the bike from the bushes. It felt featherlight compared to mine. It was a fancy racing bike, with Kevlar tires, at high pressure, rock-hard. CADENCE was emblazoned on the frame.

  This bike wasn’t abandoned on someone’s scenic detour. It had been placed here. Hidden.

  Cadence made high-end consumer bikes, but they also supplied teams like EcuaBar with custom-made racing bikes. Could this be one?

  Then I sucked in my breath, sharply, as I saw something else on the downtube. A white decal, with a border of green vines.

  J. MACIAS

  As in, Juan Carlos Macias-Léon. As in, oh my God. What was his bike doing here?

  Team mechanics were supposed to supervise the bikes. Gage Weston had always guarded the bikes like a pit bull. Jake used to complain how the riders had to sign the bikes in and out of the trailer and the team’s storage garage. But maybe this new mechanic, Dylan, was more relaxed . . . and maybe his casual attitude had resulted in the star rider’s bike getting stolen.

  I let out a long breath, trying to process this and figure out what to do. Just minutes ago, Juan Carlos had been praying, having no idea one of his bikes was stashed in the woods less than five hundred feet away!

  But why would a thief hide the bike here, instead of riding away? Or stashing it in a car?

  I knew from Jake that all the EcuaBar pros had two racing bikes. Their spares always had white-taped handlebars. So this had to be Juan Carlos’s spare. Maybe a bike thief had thought the spare would be an easier target. Also, Juan Carlos would still have his main bike fitted and ready to ride. A stolen spare bike wouldn’t throw off his whole race.

  Still, I had to let Juan Carlos or someone on Team EcuaBar know what I’d found. But how? I couldn’t run, with my bike and his, back to the staging area to find him before the professional race began.

  Then I remembered that I had gold: Juan Carlos’s number.

  I carefully leaned the bike against the bushes where I’d found it. I took out my phone, pulled up my contacts list, scrolled to J, and found the name and number he’d typed there. I called. No answer. Not even voice mail. So I texted him as fast as I could.

  Hey, ur spare bike is in woods near where we were just talking! Walking path. Someone should pick it up or should I

  Startled by a sudden noise, I accidentally hit SEND before I could finish the message.

  Swish, snap.

  I sat back on my heels and listened. Birds twittered in branches. I must have heard Jake, ahead on the path, snapping twigs as he walked.

  Swish, snap. There it was again. The sound came from behind me, from the direction of the road I’d come from. That couldn’t be Jake. Footsteps through underbrush distinctly came from off to the right, a few yards from the walking path—and from me.

  SwishSNAPswishSNAPswishSNAP.

  “This can’t be the right place. I didn’t see a spray-painted boulder anywhere.” A man was speaking in a low voice. Talking on the phone, I guessed; I heard only one set of footsteps. “Why here? Mumble. No. Check again.”

  Crouching low, I scuttled a few feet away to the big tree where my own bike was propped, hoping the generous branches would conceal me from this guy’s view.

  “Any chance he’s lying about where it is? Trying to mumble mumble? . . . I don’t know. Put him on. What? Mumble? What do you mean he won’t talk to me? What—no! Lock it. Tie mumble mumble if you have to.”

  I missed a bunch of words, but it sounded like he was up to something. Lock what? Tie what? I turned on the video camera on my phone. I didn’t know if it would catch anything, or if the audio would pick up the conversation. But I was an obsessive viewer of Watchdog, the investigative reporting show on GBCN. And I knew from its host, reporter Bianca Slade, that ordinary citizens could help prosecute criminals. On her list of Qualities of Good Investigative Reporters, the first one was Being Observant. Note details in your surroundings and your day-to-day life. If you can safely and legally capture suspicious details on film, even better. Details. Yes. I made sure to capture the bike on film as I panned the area. I also filmed the walking path I’d come up, and I rotated slowly 360 degrees.

  Through the screen, I glimpsed a blue bicycle helmet through the trees. The guy wearing it came closer, into view. He looked huge—broad shoulders, biceps, thick neck.

  “Fine. I’m calling mumble,” said the guy in the blue helmet. “He should know.”

  I heard the sharp beep of a hangup. Then, after a pause, “Hello?”

  The start of a second phone call.

  “Mangoes,” the guy said in a low voice, “are best at this time of year.”

  Mangoes? In New England? Was that what he was looking for—a secret mango grove? We didn’t grow mangoes anywhere near here. Maybe he meant mangoes at the grocery store. Or maybe the guy was just deranged. An escapee from some institution.

  I had zero desire to meet him in person.

  Still holding my cell phone in one hand, the video still recording, I stood up, grabbed my bike, and slung it over one shoulder. I tried to get back to the walking path as quietly as I could.

  “Mumble mumble call you back.” The guy’s phone beeped again. “Hey!” the man shouted.

  It took me a moment to realize he was not talking on the phone anymore. He was talking to—and staring at—me.

  I spun around and ran down the path, away from him, my bike wheels banging against my body.

  5

  “STOP! RIGHT now!” the guy shouted, thrashing through underbrush.

  I glanced back and saw him leap easily over a felled log.

  I stopped short. I was an idiot, running with my back to him. The guy could have a gun.

  We stood about five yards apart and stared at each other. Remembering Bianca Slade’s advice about details, I tried to memorize everything about this creep in case I had to report him. Assuming I got out of these woods alive.

  He looked to be in his mid to late twenties—thirty, tops. His brown hair was cut close to his head. A Bluetooth device with a blinking light was attached to one ear. He wore cycling shorts and a Chain Reaction jersey. He looked like a cyclist at first glance. But he had a football player’s physique, not a cyclist’s. He wore mirrored aviator sunglasses instead of cycling shades. Gleaming white tennis shoes, not cycling cleats.

  A bike would help the look, too. Only he didn’t have one.

  His nostrils flared. “Take off your helmet,” he said, his voice harsh. “Your sunglasses.”

  With shaking hands, I set down my bike and removed both those items. I hoped that was all he’d ask me to remove.

  Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt the force of his gaze as he looked me up and down from behind those mirrored shades. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m doing the cancer ride. Chain Reaction?”

  “You don’t have an official jersey.”

  “I didn’t buy an official jersey.”

  “And why not?”

  “I-I-I only wear organic cotton.” My tongue felt thick and dry. Could this guy be a ride official, checking out my story? No. Ride officials didn’t skulk around in the woods. They were out on the ride.

  “Did you follow me here?” he asked next.

  “No!” Wait. Maybe he was a bandit rider, too. “I am doing the ride,” I insisted. “I was just on a cut-through.”

  “A cut-through.” The man smirked.
“Now I get it. You’re a cheater.”

  “I’m not a cheater. I’m just—”

  “You’re wasting my time. Give me your phone.”

  I looked down at the phone, still recording. My hand was so hot and sweaty, the phone almost slipped out.

  He snatched the phone, then wiped it on his jersey with a look of disgust. He looked at the screen and jabbed the button to stop the video recording. He played back what I’d recorded, then hit PAUSE. “That bike. Where’d you see it?”

  I pointed in the direction we’d run from. “Back there. Down the path.” Juan Carlos’s bike. Was he an undercover detective trying to bust a bike thief? He didn’t seem like a cop. Then again, I hadn’t had many encounters with police. Or any encounters, actually.

  “How far back?” he asked.

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Try to recall.”

  I squinted helplessly into the woods behind him and the curved walking path. I swear more trees had sprung up, fairy-tale style, in the two minutes that we’d been talking. “Maybe ten yards back? It was near that big rotted-out tree stump. I found it in a bunch of bushes.”

  “Okay. You’ve done me a favor. I’m going to let you go. But here’s the deal.” His eyes locked on mine. “You were never on this path. You never saw me. You never saw that bike.”

  Mutely, I nodded. That wasn’t how cops generally talked. He definitely wasn’t a cop.

  “You breathe one word about this bike or our little chat, and you will pay. I can screw things up for you bad. Do you understand?”

  “I got it. Can I have my phone back?”

  “In a moment.” He reached into his jersey pocket, checked his own phone as if for a message, and repocketed it. Then he looked through my phone for a minute or two, scrolling and typing, before handing it back to me between two fingers, as if it were something dead.

  “I took the liberty of deleting your little home movie,” he said. “Now go. Go! Before I change my mind!”