The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 24

by Gardner Dozois

  “He’s waiting on us,” Varner says.

  And with a quiet sick voice, Audrey says, “Who’s chasing who?”

  Sarah paid for the shoes and left, and Tom vanished into the back again. His voice drifted out of the storeroom – one side of the conversation exchanging pleasantries before asking the real question. Lucas drifted to the front of the store, up where a tall sheet of corkboard was covered with race results and news clippings and free brochures telling new runners how to train for competition. A younger, badly yellowed Wade smiled down from a high corner, holding a famous pair of shoes in one hand. Tom came out with a box while Lucas was picking his way through the news clipping, one word after another.

  “I’d pull that old thing down,” Tom said. “But people expect it. I’m afraid customers would get mad, not seeing it there.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Lucas said.

  Tom examined the clipping. “I was here that day. In fact, I saw the kid snatch up those shoes. Out the door and gone, and Wade came charging from the storeroom to chase him. I told him not to. The kid was on meth. I could tell. But you know Wade.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I knew he’d catch the thief, and that’s what scared me.”

  Lucas gave up reading. It was the photograph that mattered. It was that big smile and the hair that was still thick and blond and the rugged looks wrapped around a crooked nose, and it was how that younger Wade held those shoes up to the camera, no prize in the world half as important.

  “That shoe thief had a knife,” Tom said.

  “I remember.”

  “But things worked out. Wade just kept running him until he collapsed, and nobody got cut.”

  Lucas dropped his eyes, watching the floor.

  “He was the first salesman that I hired,” said Tom. “Wade was still in college. I had no idea he’d stay here for twenty years. Honestly, I didn’t think he would last that first week. He was too intense, I thought. Too perfect, too driven. The crap he would pull sometimes. God, these are just shoes. The world isn’t going to end if you don’t happen to make that one sale.”

  Tom was looking at the same piece of the floor, explaining. “But like nobody I’ve ever known, Wade had a talent for names and faces. For feet and gaits. He was everybody’s first doctor when they got hurt, and he loved selling shoes, and even dead, he’s still practically managing this place.”

  “What else?” Lucas said.

  “What else what?”

  “What stupid crap did he pull? Besides chasing shoe thieves, I mean.”

  Tom swallowed, thinking before answering. “He fired clerks for little things. No warnings, just gone. If a customer gave him a bad check, he wouldn’t take another check from that person. Ever. And he couldn’t keep his nose out of private concerns. He had this need, this compulsion, to steer the world toward doing what’s right. You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I was at that party too, Lucas.”

  Lucas looked at him.

  “I never would have called the cops on you.”

  Lucas didn’t know what to say. He tried a small shrug.

  Tom was nervous but proud. He thought that he was making a customer for life. “Wade was a good man, but he thought everyone should be.”

  One last glance at the photograph seemed right.

  “Ithaca Flyers. Is that your shoe?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “This is the new model, but he says you’ll like it.”

  “Well,” said Lucas. “The guy was usually right.”

  The group shuffles over to the pump. Masters pulls a little bottle off the back of his belt, sharing the blue drink with Sarah. Pete gives the handle a few hard shoves and drinks, and then the others take turns. Everybody is tired, but not like runners beaten up by miles. They look like cocktailers after Last Call, faces sloppy and sad and maybe a little scared by whatever is coming next.

  Lucas drinks last, holding the frigid bowl with his bloodied palm, the water warm and thick with iron.

  “Sucking the ground dry?” says Jaeger.

  Lucas stops drinking. But instead of standing, he drops down, stretching his legs with a runner’s lunge.

  Jaeger turns and leaves.

  “Hurry,” Sarah says.

  Masters is squeezing the last taste out of a gel-pack.

  She says, “Now.”

  He nearly talks. Words lie ready behind those big sorrowful eyes. But he forces himself to say nothing, folding the foil envelope and shoving it into his belt pocket before taking a last little swig from the bottle, diluting the meal before it hits his defenseless stomach.

  Everybody is stiff from standing, and nobody mentions it. Nobody does anything but run, lifting their pace until they see Jaeger floating up ahead. Sarah is in front, sniffling. A flat concrete bridge carries West Spenser across the stream. Jaeger throws back a quick glance before following the trail under the bridge, hugging the east bank.

  “It was him,” Varner says.

  Crouse says, “Sure.”

  “Wade was our friend,” Varner says. But that isn’t enough. Shaking his head, he says, “Wade was my best friend. He got me into running. Sold me my first shoes, when I was fat. And he was a groomsman at my wedding. Remember?”

  With an edge, Pete says, “Yeah, none of us had reasons.”

  Sarah slows. “What does that mean?”

  They bunch up behind her.

  “One of us had a motive?” she says.

  Pete drops back to Audrey. “What do you think, princess? Your old boyfriend kill Wade, or didn’t he?”

  The trail dives and widens, its clay face pounded slick. The stream lies on their right, pushing past the concrete pilings and dead timber, the wet roar hitting the underside of the bridge before bouncing over them. It is hard to hear Audrey saying, “I never believed he was guilty.”

  They come out from under, emerging into the calm. Climbing the slope, nobody talks. Then Audrey says, “Carl is self-centered and stubborn, like a little boy. But he’s never been violent. Not around me.”

  Carved by chainsaws, a simple bench sits beside the trail, waiting for the exhausted. They run past and the trail drops again and hits bottom, and Crouse gasps as they climb. “You two dated?” he says.

  “Years ago,” she says, ready to say nothing more.

  Crouse has to surge to catch her. But it’s worth the pain to tell her, “I don’t see it. I don’t understand. Why is Carl attractive?”

  For several strides, nothing happens. The trail twists away from the stream, nothing but trees around them. Then Audrey slows and looks at Crouse, her face pretty and pleased when she says, “Look at that body, those legs. And now guess what I saw in him.”

  The man reddens.

  She laughs, saying, “Little boys can be fun.”

  Jaeger looks back again, holding the gap steady.

  “So did he ever talk about Wade?” says Pete.

  She keeps laughing. “Carl loved, and I mean loved, how that man kept trying to beat him. It fed him, knowing one person was awake nights, trying to figure out how to pass him at the finish line.”

  Nobody reacts.

  Then she says, “Lucas,” and comes up beside him. “I don’t think I ever told you. But when you started training with Wade, Carl wasn’t sure how long he would stay on top. ‘Wade found his thoroughbred,’ was what he said.”

  Everybody but Pete glances at Lucas. Pete just dips his head, asking the trail, “What about you, Pepper? Is Jaeger the killer?”

  Lucas drops his arms and slows. The stream comes back looking for the trail. Suddenly the world opens up, and they chug along a narrow ribbon of earth, perched on a bank being undercut by every new flood. To their right is nothing except open air. A string of bodies are pushing against the brush on the left. Audrey is in front of Lucas, Pete behind. Pete says, “If it isn’t Jaeger, who was it?”

  Lucas runs with eyes down, and a quiet, puzzled voice says, “If it wasn’t Carl?”r />
  “Yeah?”

  “Me,” he says. “I could have beaten Wade Tanner to death.”

  Eight

  Audrey slows, nearly tripping Lucas.

  He says, “Sorry,” and drops his hands on her shoulders.

  “Was it you?” says Pete.

  “No,” Lucas says.

  “How can you even think it?” says Audrey.

  Lucas lets go of her, eyes down, head shaking.

  Varner and Gatlin are in the lead. Feeling the others fall back, they pull up reluctantly, and Varner says, “Who’s hurt?”

  Nobody answers. Six runners stand on the crumbling trail, flush against the drop-off. Lucas turns his back to the water. “It’s just how things look,” he says to Audrey, to everybody. “If you think about it.”

  “Keep talking,” says Pete.

  But Masters speaks first. With a voice nobody has ever heard – an angry, sharp, defiant voice – he says, “Wade was an ass.”

  Everybody turns.

  The man’s face is red, his jaw set. “I’m tired of thinking about the man,” he says. “I’m tired of talking about the man. And I don’t want to have another conversation with that goddamn software.”

  “Don’t,” says Sarah. Then again, softer, she says, “Don’t.”

  Nobody wants to look at her. It is easier to stare at the madman with the sleek black glasses and the long-built rage.

  “Let’s run home,” says Audrey.

  Varner and Gatlin return to the pack. “Who’s hurt?” says Varner.

  Pete says, “Nobody. We’re just having a meeting.”

  “We couldn’t have,” Sarah says. “Nobody here would kill him.”

  Which makes Pete laugh. Except his face is flushed and he can’t stop shaking his head, blowing hard through clenched teeth. With one finger, he pokes Lucas in the chest. “Was it you?” he says.

  “No.” A spasm rips through Lucas’ body. One foot drops over the soft lip of the trail, and he brings it back again, stepping forward just far enough to feel that he won’t fall in the next moment. Then Pete puts a hand flush against Lucas’ chest, not pushing but ready to push, waiting for the excuse.

  And now another voice comes in.

  “I’ve got a list of suspects,” Jaeger says. “Why don’t you listen to me now?”

  The old burr oak stands on the bank, undermined to where a tangle of fat curling roots juts into the open air. Jaeger stands in the shadow of that doomed tree, smiling. Pulling off the baseball cap, he uses the long sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes and the broad forehead. Then he puts the cap back where it belongs, and he says nothing, the smile never breaking.

  “Give us names,” says Pete.

  “Okay, yours,” Jaeger says. “And Varner.”

  “Why?” Varner says.

  “Cause you’re mean boys. I barely know either of you, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve never hurt you. But here you are, chasing me, both of you looking ready to bust heads. All you need is a reason. So maybe Wade is a good reason. Who knows?”

  Varner curses. Pete gives a horse snort.

  “Then there’s the little guy,” says Jaeger. “I’ve got a guess, Mr. Gatlin. But it’s a sweet one.”

  “What?” Fast Doug says.

  “You ran for mayor when? Three, four years back? And Wade helped. I heard he gave you names and phone numbers for every runner in town. Stuffed envelopes, dropped money in your lap. But then news leaked about some old business back in Ohio. Sure, those troubles were years old. Sure, the girl stopped cooperating with the cops and charges got dropped. But you know how it is. Nothing’s uglier than reporters chasing something that looks easy.”

  Gatlin opens his mouth and closes it.

  “Did Wade know your sex-crime history?” says Jaeger. “Was he the leak that got the scandal rolling?”

  Quietly, fiercely, the accused man says, “I don’t know.”

  Jaeger laughs. “But it could have been Wade. We know that. Love him or not, the guy had this code for how people should act, and not living up to his standards was dangerous. He could be your buddy and remain civil, but if you were trying to run for public office and he decided that you were guilty of something, he’d happily drop a word in the right ear and let justice run you over. That wouldn’t bother the man for a minute.”

  “So everybody but you is guilty,” says Pete. “Is that it?”

  Jaeger winks at Crouse. “Wade liked pretty girls. And pretty wives were best. Which is funny, considering the man’s ethics. But adultery isn’t a crime. Romance is a contest, a race. There is a winner, and there is everybody else, and I’m looking at you but thinking about your wife. She is a dream. A fat toad like you is lucky to have her. And believe me, a guy like Wade is going to be interested, and by the way, whose baby did she just have?”

  Crouse tries to curse, but he hasn’t the breath.

  Audrey says, “Carl.”

  “With you, darling, I don’t have guesses.” Jaeger’s face softens. “Maybe you two had a history. Maybe there was a good reason for you to cripple him and kill him. I heard your marriage fell apart a couple months ago. Anybody can draw a story from that clue. Except you never tried to kill me, not once, and I gave you a hundred reasons to cut off my head while I was dreaming.”

  Audrey cries.

  Jaeger points at Sarah. “But you,” he says. “At the races, I saw you chatting it up with the dead man. I’m not the most sensitive boil, but everything showed in those eyes. If you didn’t screw Wade, you wanted to. And maybe you didn’t do the bashing, but you’ve got a husband. And worse, you’ve got this tall goon following you around. What would Mr. Masters do if he discovered that his training buddy was cheating on her husband and on him?”

  Breathing hard, Masters stares at the back of Sarah’s head.

  “No end to the suspects,” Jaeger says.

  “What about Pepper?” says Pete.

  “Yeah, I was saving him.”

  Lucas feels sick.

  Pete turns and looks at him. “The party,” he says.

  “At the coach’s house,” says Jaeger. “I’ve heard stories. Not that anybody invited me, thank you. But my sources claim that a brutal load of liquor was consumed. By one man, mostly. Years of sobriety gone in a night, and then the drunk drove away.” He smiles, something good on his tongue. “And that’s when somebody called the hotline. Somebody told the world, ‘Lucas Pepper is driving and shit-faced, and this is his license plate, and this is his home address, and this is his phone number.’ ”

  Lucas manages ragged little breaths.

  “A night in jail and your license suspended,” says Jaeger. “But there’s worse parts to the story. I know because my first source told me. That next Monday, when I crossed paths with Wade, I asked about you, Pepper. ‘Where’s your prize stallion?’ I said. ‘Why isn’t he running in this miserable heat?’ That’s when he launched into this screaming fit about drunks, about how stupid it was to waste effort and blood trying to keep bastards like them on track.

  “I know something about ugly tantrums,” Jaeger says. “And this was real bad. This is what the witnesses saw when they saw us in that park. They assumed it was two men fighting. Which it was, I guess. Except only one of the men was present, and I was just a witness, trying to hang on for the ride.

  “Wade told me about that party and how he watched you drinking and drinking, and then he made it his business to walk you to your car, and that’s where he got into your face. Standing at the curb, he told you exactly what you were, which was the worst kind of failure. He said he wasn’t sure he was going to give you even one more chance. Why bother with a forty-year-old drawerhead, spent and done and wasted?

  “And that’s the moment I turned around. It was a hot sticky evening, and that was my excuse. But really, I was embarrassed for you, Lucas. I didn’t know that was possible. I turned and ran home, and Wade went on his merry way, and I can guess what happened if he came around the bend and ran into you trotting by yoursel
f.”

  Lucas stares at Jaeger but glimpses something moving. Something is running through the trees, and nobody else sees it.

  With the one finger, Pete punches Lucas. “Is there something you want to tell us, Pepper?”

  Sniffing, Audrey whispers his name.

  Jaeger removes the cap again, wiping at his forehead.

  Lucas is the only person who doesn’t jump when Harris trots up behind Jaeger.

  “Hey, guys,” says a big happy voice. “I finally found you.”

  In November, in the warm dark, Lucas rode up to the Harold Farquet Memorial Fieldhouse. He was stowing bike lights when Varner appeared. “I must be late,” said Lucas.

  “What’s that mean?” said Varner, not laughing.

  They went inside. Half an acre of concrete lay beneath a shell of naked girders and corrugated steel. The building’s centerpiece was the two-hundred-meter pumpkin-orange track. Multipurpose courts filled the middle and stretched east. Athletics offices and locker rooms clung to the building’s south end. Banners hanging from the ugly ceiling boasted about third-place finishes. The largest banner celebrated the only national championship in Jewel history – twenty years ago, in cross-country.

  Thirty people had come out of the darkness to run. Most were middle-of-the-pack joggers, cheery and a little fat. Masters and Sarah were sharing a piece of floor, stretching hamstrings and IT bands. Audrey ran her own workout, surging on the brief straight-aways. Lucas watched her accelerate toward him and then fall into a lazy trot on the turn, smiling as she passed.

  Varner vanished inside the locker room. Out of his pack, Lucas pulled a clean singlet and dry socks and the still-young shoes. His shorts were under his jeans. Kicking off street shoes, he changed in the open. His phone rang, and glancing at the number, he killed the ring. Then Audrey’s phone rang as she came past, and she answered by saying, “Kind of busy here, Mr. Tanner.”

  The indoor air felt hot and dry. Lucas walked toward the lockers, bent and took a long drink from the old fountain, the water warm enough for a bath. Burping, he stepped away. Heroes covered the wall. Someone made changes since last winter, but the biggest photograph was the same: The championship team with its top five competitors in back, slower runners kneeling at their feet. Able and his assistants flanked the victors. The coach looked happiest, standing beside his main stallion. By contrast, Jaeger appeared smug and bored, his smile as thin as could be and still make a smile. The big portrait of the school’s national champion runner had been removed. Three different years, Carl Jaeger was the best in Division II cross-country. But that man was in jail, and the dead man had replaced him. Newly minted prints of Wade had been taken from past decades, each image fresh and clean. Testimonials about the man’s competitive drive and importance to the local running community made him into somebody worth missing. Lucas read a few words and gave up. Farther along was a younger Audrey, third-best at the national trials. Her hair was long but nothing else had changed much. He studied the picture for a minute, and then she came around again, saying, “Don’t stare at little girls, old man. Hear me?”