had been difficult for Drake to obtain information about. It was privately owned but apparently wealthy enough to easily afford the million dollar prize that would go to the winning team. That was enough information for Drake who was a capitalist at heart. He viewed free enterprise as a good thing. He had been working as a real estate agent for several years.
Fred wore a business suit, white shirt, and tie. His clothes made him look more like an IBM sales rep than a race coordinator. He smelled of some kind of aftershave. As an employee of Giganticorp, he was first and foremost a businessman, but race coordinators, in Drake’s experience, usually looked as if they could run a race. Fred looked like the conception of an artist who liked circles. His body was round, his face was round, even his short haircut was round.
“Do you have any idea who hit you?” Fred asked.
The question was phrased in an interesting way. Not “Did you get a look at the truck?” or “Did you get a look at the driver?” How much did Giganticorp know about him? Probably not as much as he imagined.
“It was a pickup truck. I didn’t get a look at the driver. I don’t even remember the color. It looked pretty much like any other pickup truck, except that I caught a glimpse of the front bumper before it hit us, and it appeared to be larger than usual-perhaps reinforced.”
“Hmmm.” Fred wiped his sweating face with a large handkerchief. “So you don’t have any idea who it was?”
It occurred to Drake that he’d better be careful in dealing with Fred. He might look like Humpty Dumpty, but looks could be deceiving. “I’m not on any list that I know about.”
“I understand that you used to work for the government on some sensitive projects…”
Fred made it an incomplete sentence that Drake would feel he had to complete. He resisted the impulse.
“Yeah. That was a while ago.”
“Do you want to file a police report?”
Drake hadn’t gotten that far in his thinking. The taxi driver was being taken care of. He was being taken care of. He wouldn’t be able to give the police enough information to help them find the culprit. If this were the work of a former enemy, the police would be powerless, anyway. But why would they come after him now? Because the race would undoubtedly generate publicity? Because his name might be in the papers? It didn’t make sense.
“I don’t think talking to the police would accomplish anything.”
Fred nodded. “The red tape would hold up the race.”
A thought tugged at Drake’s brain. Something about the collision. Just before he had ducked his head, he had noticed something about the truck. Or heard something. That was it. The noise of the engine had lessened. The driver had backed off the gas pedal-perhaps even put on his brakes. He hadn’t hit the taxi as hard as he could have.
What did that mean? Drake decided not to mention it to Fred.
“Isn’t the race supposed to start in…” Drake looked at his watch “…about an hour?” By some miracle, his watch was still working. It was coming up on noon. As he recalled, the race was scheduled to start at one.
“The start has been postponed until tomorrow morning. Casey is with the other runners now, explaining it to them.”
The race was already being delayed because of him. “I’m sorry I screwed it up. Are you going to be able to replace me?”
“Replace you? Of course not. You’re going to be in it.”
“Fred, perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m in no condition to run a race. Especially a race of six hundred miles.”
Fred sounded enthusiastic. “You’ll be fine. I just talked to the doctor. The glass cuts will heal quickly. The bruise on your chest is temporary. He’ll put a splint on your nose to hold it in place and protect it.”
“What about my back pain?”
“The x-rays show nothing but a little scoliosis.”
Curvature of the spine. “I’ve had that all my life.”
“That’s what the doctor suspected.”
“But what about the pain? I can hardly walk.”
“We’ll bring in physical therapists, massage therapists, whatever you need.”
“I couldn’t stand for anyone to touch me right now.”
“The doctor’s going to give you a prescription for morphine.”
“How come you know all this before I do?”
“Here comes the doctor now to tell you.”
CHAPTER 2
As Peaches, or whatever his name was, drove Drake and Fred to the Hotel del Coronado where the runners were going to spend the night, Drake reflected that he looked like a classic hood instead of a businessman. His conservative suit didn’t hide his bulging shoulders, and Drake was certain he had a gun concealed beneath his jacket. His only expression was a perpetual scowl. Drake decided that he needed to be as wary of Peaches as Fred, but for a different reason.
The most impressive thing about the Hotel del Coronado wasn’t the gleaming white expanse of the building located on the beach, or the contrasting red roofs, but that it had been in business since the nineteenth century and had played host to “presidents and princes,” as the brochure Drake read stated. If this was typical of how the runners were going to live during the race, he wouldn’t fight it.
His room didn’t have an ocean view. That was a concession to economy. It cost more to see the sea. The room was in the Victorian Building, the oldest part of the hotel, and was labeled quaint, meaning that it wasn’t large and the furniture was old. It had the odor of quaint.
Drake still wasn’t convinced he wanted to be in the race, especially if it were going to get him killed. He hadn’t figured out why anybody wanted to kill him for running the California coast, but somebody must not like him.
He had an out. The person who had recruited him by phone, whose name he had forgotten, had told him that his teammate had already been picked. The recruiter couldn’t tell him who his teammate was, for reasons Drake didn’t understand. Both members of a team had to cross the finish line before both members of each of the other teams, in order to claim the million dollar first prize. He had reserved the right not to participate if he didn’t like his teammate.
Fred wouldn’t tell him who it was on the way to the hotel. “You’ll find out when you get there.”
Why the mystery? Well, he was at the hotel, and he still didn’t know. He was being given a few minutes alone to “freshen up.” He didn’t have any luggage-that had been burned in the taxi-so freshening up consisted of washing his hands to get rid of the hospital smell. And noticing in the bathroom mirror how ugly he looked with two black eyes and the tape that covered his nose and much of his face.
He did have a new shirt and pants. Peaches had purchased them for him while he was at the hospital, because the clothes he had been wearing were covered with blood. Fred had promised that underwear and more clothes, and even a toothbrush and razor, would show up at the hotel. He had yet to see them.
He did one other thing. He opened the bottle of morphine tablets that the doctor had given him, swallowed one, and flushed the rest down the toilet. He knew from his training that morphine was one of the most addictive drugs in existence, and he wasn’t having any part of it, even if it cost him a lot of pain. He wouldn’t be controlled by anything or anybody.
There was a knock on the door. Drake opened it and saw a pleasant-looking man wearing a colorful sport shirt, glasses, and a concerned expression on his face. Youngish, but with a touch of gray in his otherwise dark hair that was neatly in place and cut with precision.
He extended his hand. “Casey Messinger. I’m very sorry to hear about your accident. Terrible thing. I’m looking into it.”
“Nice to meet you.” Drake was surprised at the strength of his grip. His name sounded familiar. “Are you by
