The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2011 Edition

by Rich Horton (ed)

  He slows, tasting blood in his throat.

  He throws a glance to his left.

  The earth wall is close and tall, and Harris runs on top. The kid has never looked this serious, this mature. To somebody, he says, “Yeah.”

  Then he slows and makes a sharp turn, jumping onto a little deer trail that puts him behind Lucas, maybe twenty meters back.

  That feels like a victory, owning the lead.

  But Lucas can’t turn back now. Not without risking a hack from that piece of metal. Or worse than a hack. He throttles up again, and Harris matches his pace, and he cuts across that last loop in the trail, raspberry bushes snagging his tights. Then he slows, letting the kid buy maybe half of the distance between them while he makes ready for the next turn.

  Rusted iron legs hold the vanished tracks high above the stream. The trail lurches to the left and drops under the trestle, and then it lifts again, flattening and turning right before reaching a long pipe-and-wood bridge. Lucas runs the curve tight, saving a half-stride. Maybe ten meters separate them. Maybe eight. He listens to the chasing feet, measuring their pounding. Instinct knows what happens next: As soon as Harris is free of the bridge, he surges. Youth and fear and all that good rich adrenaline are going to demand that Harris end this race here, in the next moments. That’s why Lucas surges first. He leaps off the end of the bridge and gains a little, but the pounding behind him ends with some fast clean footfalls that halve the distance and then halve it again. Harris is tucked behind him. A small last surge will put him in range, leaving the boy where he can clip Lucas with his weapon.

  But Lucas shortens his stride, just to help his legs move quicker, and Harris is paying a cost for matching him. He gives a hard grunt before accelerating. Except he has somehow fallen back another couple strides, and his exasperation comes out from his chest. He curses—not a word so much as an animal sound that says everything. Those baby legs start to fill with cement. Frustrated and baffled but still too stupid and young to know what has happened, Harris slows down just a little more. His intention is to rest on the fly, gathering his reserves for another surge. This will be easy, in the end. He can’t believe anything else. Lucas is nearly twice his age, and there’s only one ending in his head, stark and bloody and final. Harris lets the old man gain a full fifteen-meter lead, and just to make sure that Lucas knows, he calls out to him. He says, “Give up.” He breathes and says, “You can’t win.”

  Lucas has won. He knows it, and the only problem left is mapping out the rest of this chase.

  During one of the big storms last summer, an old cottonwood tumbled across the trail. The city didn’t have the money to remove it, and feet and bike tires made a new trail before winter. Trees fall and detours are made, and that’s one reason why there aren’t many straight lines in the woods. Chainsaws and rot take away the trunks, but new twists are added and established and eventually preferred. The dead tell the living where to walk, and the living never realize that that’s what they are doing, and it’s like that everywhere and with everything, always.

  Big turns are coming. Three, maybe four loops are going to practically double back for a few strides. Lucas doesn’t know which one to use, but his plan, much as he plans anything, is to work Harris into a numb half-beaten state and then take him around and jump through the brush, heading north again. But always keeping just ahead, teasing the kid with the idea that at any moment his luck will change, that his legs will get thirty minutes younger and he’ll close the gap between him and this gray old fool who doesn’t understand that he is beaten.

  TEN

  The annual track club meeting was held in the restaurant’s basement. A stale shabby room was crowded with long tables and folding chairs and fit if not always skinny bodies. Paper plates were stacked with pizza and breadsticks, tall plastic cups full of pop and beer. Conversations centered on January’s fine weather and yesterday’s long run from the Y, bits of grim international news making it into the chatter. The Y group had claimed the back table, fending off most of the invaders. Chance placed Masters’s wife at one end—a heavily made-up woman who made no secret of her extraordinary boredom. Sarah sat between her husband and Crouse, her focus centered on photographs of the new baby. Pete and Varner and Gatlin ruled the room’s back corner, entertaining themselves with catty comments about everybody, including each other. Lucas was in the middle of the table, facing the rest of the party. Everybody was keenly aware that he was drinking Pepsi. Audrey had brought her daughter—the fastest fourth-grader in the state—and in a shrewd bid of manipulation set her next to Lucas. Children liked the rough voice and kid-like manner, and the girl was a relentless flirt. She said she liked watching him run. She said the two of them should run together sometime, and Mom could come along, if she could keep up. She asked Lucas how he trained and did he warm up ever and why didn’t he ever get hurt?

  Harris was sitting on the other side of Lucas. A big bellowing cackle grabbed everyone’s attention, and with a matching voice he said, “He doesn’t get hurt because of the booze, darling. Beer keeps joints limber.”

  Embarrassed silence took hold.

  Even Harris took note. Trying to make amends, he gave Lucas a friendly punch in the shoulder, and when that wasn’t sufficiently charming, he leaned back and said, “Naw, I’m just teasing. Forget it.”

  Pete noticed. Saying nothing, he stood and wormed his way along the back wall, reaching around Lucas to grab up the Pepsi, taking a long experimental sip. Then he smacked his lips, saying, “Just checking,” and he gave Harris a big wink, as if they shared the same joke. The kid laughed and shook his head. Pete set the cup aside, and as his hand pulled away, he kicked a table leg, and as the cup started to tumble, he made a show of reaching out, pushing it and its sticky dark contents into Harris’s lap.

  The boy cursed, but in a good-natured, only half-pissed way. And the rest of the runners choked their laughs until he had vanished into the bathroom.

  Sarah used the distraction to slip away.

  Masters’s wife noticed the second empty chair. From her regal place at the end of the table, she said to her husband, “What’s your girl doing at the podium? She’s talking to that camera, isn’t she?”

  Masters squirmed and said nothing.

  Always helpful, Crouse said, “Wade’s backup is watching. Don’t tell him, but we’re giving him a special award tonight.”

  The woman sneered. Then because it was such an important point, she used a loud voice to tell everybody, “The man is dead. He has been dead for months, and I think you’re crazy to play this game.”

  A new silence grabbed hold. Some eyes watched Masters, wishing that he would say or do anything to prove he had a spine. Oddly though, it was Sarah’s husband who took offense. A boyish fellow, small but naturally stout, he possessed a variety of conflicting feelings about many subjects, including Sarah’s weakness for one man’s memory. But defending his wife mattered, and that’s why he leaned across Crouse’s lap to say, “You should know, lady. All that makeup and with that poker stuck up your ass, you look more dead than most ghosts do.”

  The woman blushed, and she straightened. And after careful consideration, she picked up her tiny purse and said, “I’m leaving.”

  Masters nodded, saying nothing.

  “I need the car keys,” she said to him.

  Then with the beginnings of a smile, Masters said, “It’s a nice evening, honey. Darling. A long walk would do you some good.”

  The pace is barely faster than knuckle-walking. Lucas pushes north, crossing old ground, the wind chilling his face but nothing else. He’s going to hurt tomorrow, but nothing feels particularly tired right now. His breathing is easy, legs strong. The trail is smooth and mostly straight, and he has a thirty-meter lead, except when he forgets and works too hard, and then he has to fall back, pretending to be spent, giving Harris reason to surge again. Or he fakes rolling his ankle in a hole. Twice he does that trick, limping badly, and Harris breathes hard and closes
the gap, only to see his quarry heal instantly and recover the lead in another few seconds.

  The third ankle sprain doesn’t fool anyone. Lucas looks back, making certain Harris sees his smile, and then on the next flat straight piece of trail he extends his lead before turning around, running backward, using the same big laugh that the kid uses on everybody else.

  Furious, Harris stops and flings the steel weapon.

  Lucas sidesteps it and keeps trotting backward, letting the kid come close, and then he wheels and sprints, saying, “So after Wade died . . . why did you stay in town?”

  “I didn’t kill the guy,” Harris says.

  “Good to hear,” Lucas says. “But why stay? Why not pull up and go somewhere else?”

  “Because I like it here.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m the fastest runner here,” he says. “And I like winning races.”

  Slower runners are up ahead. Everybody looks warm and exhausted, survival strides carrying them toward Lucas. He didn’t expect to see them, but nothing that has happened today has made him any happier. “So you didn’t kill Wade?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you chasing me?”

  Somehow Harris manages to laugh. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m just out for a run, and I’m letting you lead.”

  Audrey and Carl are leading their pack. Lucas surges to meet up with them, and he stops and turns, and Harris stops with that good thirty meters separating him from the others. Everybody shakes from fatigue, but the kid can barely stand. All of his energy feeds a face that looks defiant and unconcerned and stupid. With a snarl, he says, “I brought the son-of-a-bitch back to you. See?”

  Lucas shrugs and says, “Harris killed him. He told me.”

  “I did not.”

  “I heard you,” Lucas says. Then to the others, he says, “Take us both in. Let the cops sort the evidence. Like those glasses of his . . . I bet they’ve got some juicy clues hidden in the gears.”

  Harris pulls off the glasses.

  “Watch it,” says Pete.

  Harris throws the glasses on the ground and lifts a leg, ready to crush the fancy machinery into smaller and smaller bits. But Carl is already running, and the kid manages only two sloppy stomps before he is picked up and thrown down on his side, ribs breaking even before the bony knee is driven into his chest.

  “We weren’t sure what to do,” Pete says to Lucas. “Some of us thought you were guilty, others didn’t want to think that. We tried calling you, and when you didn’t pick up, I figured you had to be running for Mexico.”

  Harris tries to stand, and Carl beats him down again.

  “We took a vote,” Varner says. “Would we come looking for you, or would we just head back to the Y?”

  “So I won,” Lucas says, smiling.

  Audrey dips her head and laughs.

  Sarah is next to Carl, watching the mayhem up close.

  “No, you only got three votes,” Pete says. “But you know how this group makes decisions. The loudest wins, and Audrey just about blew up, trying to get us chasing you.”

  Lucas looks at her and smiles.

  And she rolls her eyes, wanting to tell him something. The words are ready. But not here, not like this.

  Then Sarah steps up and hits the cowering figure. She kicks once and again, and polishing her technique, she delivers a hard third impact to the side of the stomach. That’s when Masters pulls her away, holding her as she squirms, saying words that don’t help. And Carl kneels and pokes once more at the aching ribs, and he picks up every piece of the broken glasses, talking to the ground as he works, saying, “Okay. Now. What are we going to do?”

  Back from the bathroom, Harris made a final pass of the food table before reclaiming the chair next to Lucas. Then the track club president—a wizened ex-runner with two new knees—leaned against the podium, reciting the same jokes he used last year before attacking the annual business. Board members talked long about silly crap, and race directors talked way too long about last year’s events and all the new runners who were coming from everywhere to live here. Then awards were handed out, including a golden plaque to the police chief who let the track club borrow his officers andhis streets. But the chief had some last-minute conflict and couldn’t attend, and nobody else from the department was ready to accept on his behalf. With a big mocking voice, Pete said, “They’re out in the world, solving crimes.” And most of his table understood the reference, laughing it up until Coach Able and Tom Hubble met at the podium.

  Both men were lugging the night’s biggest award.

  For five long minutes, the presenters took turns praising the dead man. Lucas listened, or at least pretended to listen. Little pieces of the story seemed fresh, but mostly it was old news made simple and pretty. Mostly he found himself watching the serious faces at his table, everybody staring at their plates and their folded hands. Even Harris held himself still, nodding at the proper moments and then applauding politely when the big plaque was unveiled and shown to a camera and the weird, half-real entity that nobody had ever seen.

  Then the backup’s voice was talking, thanking everybody for this great honor and promising that he would treasure this moment. Sometimes Wade sounded close to tears. Other times he was reading from a prepared speech. “I wish things had gone differently,” he said. “But I have no regrets, not for a moment of my life. And if there’s any consolation, I want you to know that I am busy here, in this realm, and I am happy.”

  Then he was done, and maybe he was gone, and the uncomfortable applause began and ended, and the room stood to leave. Most of the back table wanted a good look at the plaque, but somehow Lucas didn’t feel like it. He found himself walking toward the stairs, and Harris fell in beside him, laughing quietly.

  Or maybe the kid wasn’t laughing. Lucas looked at him, seeing nothing but a serious little smile.

  “Want to run tomorrow?” said Harris.

  “No.”

  “Tuesday at the track?”

  “Probably.”

  Harris beat him to the stairs, and Harris held the door for the old man. Then as they were stepping into the cool dark, he said, “You know what? We’re all going to be living there someday. Where Wade is now.”

  “Not me,” said Lucas.

  “Why not you?”

  “Because,” he said, “I’m planning to die when I die.”

  ELEVEN

  Another pot of coffee helps take the chill out of the kitchen. Out the back door, Lucas watches snow-flakes falling from a clear sky—tiny dry flakes too scarce to ever meet up with each other, much less make anything that matters. He has been talking steadily for several minutes, telling the story fast and pushing toward the finish, and only sometimes does he pause to sip at the coffee. Once or twice he pauses just to pause. Then Wade comes out of the silence, making a comment or posing some little question.

  “So after Sarah kicked the shit out of him,” he says. “What did you do with the bastard?”

  “We picked him up and took turns dragging him and carrying him back to the old right-of-way, then across the creek and out to Foster. That was the closest road, and we got lucky. Some fellow was driving his pickup out of town, hunting for firewood. Except for his chain saw, the truck bed was empty. Gatlin promised him a hundred dollars to take us back to the Y, and Crouse called his sister-in-law, giving her a heads-up. The girls rode inside the cab, in the heat, and the rest of us just about died of frostbite. But we lived and made it back before ten-thirty, and the cops were waiting, and I’ve never been so happy to see them.”

  “Has he confessed?”

  “You mean, did Harris break down and sob and say, ‘Oh god, I did such an awful thing’? No. No, he didn’t and he won’t. I don’t think he even knows that he’s a wicked son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I guess he wouldn’t.”

  “Harris probably doesn’t believe this is going to mean anything. In the end.” Lucas takes a long sip, shaking his head. “When
we were marching him out of the trees, he said to me, ‘There’s nothing to find. That phone’s new. It isn’t going show anything important. Any money that I’ve got has a good story behind it. And the physical evidence is so thin it took them months just to throw Carlie back into the free world. So what happens to me? A couple months in jail, a lot of stupid interviews, and I’ll tell them nothing, and they’ll have to let me go, too.’ ”

  Silence.

  Lucas sets the empty cup on the table, using his other hand to shift the unfamiliar phone back against his ear. “I don’t know, Wade. Maybe you should be careful.”

  “Careful of what?”

  “Wails,” he says. “Yeah, I told the cops my guess. My theory. I don’t think they took it to heart much. But then again, this is a whole different kind of crime. Law enforcement doesn’t like things tough. They’re happiest when there’s bloody boot prints leading to the killer’s door.”

  The backup laughs.

  Lucas doesn’t. Leaning forward in his chair, he says, “My phone still doesn’t work.”

  “You borrowed that one. I see that.”

  “Masters says that it was a Trojan or worm or something. Set in long ago, ready for the signal to attack.”

  “I’ll buy you a new phone,” Wade says. “That’s no problem.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a bigger problem.”

  “What?”

  “Wails,” Lucas said. “I was tired when I remembered him this morning. My head was pretty soggy. But the story made a lot of sense, at least for the next couple hours. Except while I sitting at the Y, chatting with the detectives, little things started bugging me.”

  “Things?”

  “About Wails, I mean. Sure, the guy stole money and killed himself. But do we even know you were the reason he got found out?”

  “I don’t know if I was,” says the backup.

  “You’ve said that before. I remember. You aren’t sure what happened, because that’s one of those stories that the real Wade never told you.” Water is running hard in the basement. Lucas doesn’t hear it until it shuts off. “Anyway,” he says, “I think it’s a lot of supposing, putting everything on this one dead man. Yeah, the guy was a liar and a big-time thief, but that’s a long way from coming out of the grave to kill another man who did him harm.”