The Concealers

by James J. Kaufman

  “You got it,” Wilson said, and led her strategically through the crowd, out the door to the limo.

  Wilson directed Jimmy back to the West Side residence. Almost subconsciously as she recalled the excitement of the evening, Beth moved her body languorously across Wilson’s. What had come over her? She reached for the switch to the window. “Jimmy, please take the long way home.”

  Sitting crossways to Wilson, Beth took his face in her hands and murmured, “This has been wonderful.” She turned her head toward the gentleman who’d been her patient only a few hours earlier and locked his gaze in hers. She could smell his well-groomed hair, breathe in the earthy scent of peanuts and beer on his breath, and feel the smoothness of his skin. He was taller than Larry though not as muscular. She found his trim good looks and urbane manner intoxicating.

  “By the way,” she said, “in all this time, I forgot to ask your first name.”

  Suddenly she found herself doing something she could hardly have imagined that very morning: she kissed him deeply—and he responded in kind. Somewhere in there she heard him say, “Preston. It’s Preston.”

  Beth’s head was still filled with the piercing, pulsating music as she felt Wilson unzip the back of her dress, and she yielded to the freedom from its release. She felt the cool leather on her skin and the heat rising from his body. She knew this was having sex, not making love, but right now she didn’t care. She felt appreciated, and it felt good. She would deal with the rest of it in the morning.

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 1, 2012

  As she lined up for check-in, helmet cradled under her arm, Katherine’s thoughts were not on the race as she knew they should be, nor were they about some academic question or multiple intertwined facts in a research project. This time it was personal, her mind wrestling with an old dilemma, one she’d come to think of as Incomplete Reconciliation. In her heart she felt a hole. It stemmed from her phantom father, killed while serving in the U.S. Air Force before she was born.

  April Fools’ Day? The irony was not lost on her. What kind of fool had she been, to get herself into this sort of commitment? But there was no time for second-guessing now.

  Instead she compartmentalized, counting the things she was certain of: number one, that she had more questions than answers; two, that her mother’s love was unconditional; and three, well, that nothing in life was certain.

  Most questions were easy, thought Katherine. Others plagued her, crying out for answers, particularly the big ones. She always worked hard to find the answers, applied herself, did her homework. But to do so meant asking more questions, including finding the right ones to ask. And some answers simply eluded her—chief among them, to get to the heart of it, was what would her life have been with a father?

  Nothing like facing your own mortality to bring up the big questions. As to the second certainty, of course, she was grateful and felt blessed. Her mom loved her, had raised her while working long hours as a nurse, and had been there for her every step of the way.

  As to the third, Katherine had learned that some things happen—good and bad—no matter what she did; they were beyond her control. She accepted that reality.

  Another, timelier, question. Had she lost her mind? As she approached the check-in stand, her New York driver’s license showing her motorcycle endorsement in hand, Katherine counted her blessings, prepared for the worst, and hoped for the best.

  After check-in, Katherine struggled to straddle-walk her CRF-450X Honda trail bike into position. That Sunday morning the spring clouds hung low, spreading a thick fog over the Berkshire range, and she could make out little of the trail ahead.

  She checked out the racers, the words of her motorcycle coach circling through her mind: Find your man—the right Class A rider—and follow him. Katherine settled on 6A. She sized him up at about six-foot-two, with broad shoulders and sandy-blond hair slightly visible from the back of his helmet. From the front, she’d seen him only for a few seconds, when they were lining up, but like hers, his face had been mostly obscured by helmet and goggles. Still, there was something about his posture, the way he sat on his bike as if he had nothing better to do.

  Katherine glanced down at the newly purchased sports watch on her wrist: Four past eight. Rows of five riders had been departing every minute since the 8:00 a.m. start; one more to go before hers.

  Only at that moment did Katherine have second thoughts about the wisdom of her project. Worst case: I’m going to go off a cliff, injure myself or die . . . if I don’t get stuck in a swamp or drown in a river first. An unfamiliar burn took hold in her stomach, and her heart began to pump like mad. Had her drive for perfection overtaken her good sense this time? Watching would have been enough to write the paper. It still would be.

  As the fifth row of riders surged forward, leaving nothing ahead of her but the yawning void of the starting line, Katherine hung back. Her mother had totally understood her junior-year trip to work with at-risk women in Uganda, but she’d almost had a stroke when she learned about Katherine’s first parachute jump. What would her mom think now if she got herself killed in a motorcycle race her first time out, just so she could cover it firsthand?

  As if that were the one incentive she needed, Katherine shoved the bike forward to rejoin the pack. In her riding lessons, she’d worried that if her bike went over, she’d never have the strength to pick it up, especially with the heavy boots, the race suit, and all the protective gear. Five-six and 127 pounds was no match for 440 pounds of steel, aluminum, and rubber. Too late to dwell on that now. Odometer, check. Roll chart, check. Race computer, check.

  The flag dropped. Katherine fumbled to put her bike into first gear, still trying to get used to the metal shank and the massive O’Neal boot. She swore and then recovered, shifting to second and then moving quickly forward to catch up.

  Katherine Beth Kelly, wearing number 6D, was in the race.

  * * *

  She wasn’t looking to win, of course. And besides, the riders were racing against the clock, not one another. If she could maintain the target twenty-four-mile-per-hour average between the checkpoints, she hoped only to avoid a wipeout and complete the 75.6-mile course. If you finish, you win, she had reminded herself in her practice sessions. She understood that the Berkshire Mountains Enduro would test all the riders’ skills under an incredible array of conditions.

  Riding in the race hadn’t been on the course syllabus—that was all Katherine’s idea. Self-aware and confident at twenty-three, she never did anything halfway. And on this assignment, which she expected to help seal her master’s degree from New York’s select Fletcher Thomas School of Journalism and a top job in her field, she was convinced that firsthand participation was the only way to learn about Enduro racing and discover why people pursued it so passionately.

  6A was already well out in front, as Katherine lagged behind all the other racers in her group. Follow the arrows, don’t overpower the bike, and pay attention to the trail, her instructor had told her. Pick your spots and stay out of trouble.

  The signs led through deep woods, around sharp turns, and over ridge tops. On the downside, the narrow trails were steep and slippery. The riders in her own group were now out of sight, and others were passing her on the trail. She knew she was falling behind, but she wasn’t sure by how much. She couldn’t read her watch, which jumped around on her wrist. Katherine wished she had thought to mount it on her handlebars. She glanced at her bike’s computer but was too nervous and excited to read it.

  An hour in, Katherine was becoming accustomed to the rhythm of the trails. The open areas were easy and gave her a chance to catch her breath. Somehow, she had managed not to get stuck or fall off. So far, so good. Now, where the heck was 6A?

  Ahead, Katherine could see a slight opening. It was a checkpoint, a clearing about the size of a small house, surrounded by tall walnut and pine trees. Three race officials check
ed in racers stopping for a water break, and a couple of riders had pulled off to the side to inspect their bikes.

  She caught a glimpse of 6A cleaning his chain, but as she came closer, he remounted and sped down the winding trail. She rejoined the trail and followed as quickly as she could, each turn sharper and steeper than the one before, branches hitting her on each side. After a punishing few minutes that seemed like hours, she suddenly heard a thunderous noise. Just ahead was a wide creek filled with large angular stones. Crowds of spectators on both sides shouted encouragement and guidance to the riders. “Over here, enter over here . . . stay away from there.”

  Katherine spied 6A through the trees, his motorcycle powering down the middle of the creek. She hesitated at the creek bank, aware of other riders behind her as they yelled, “Move it! Go, go, go!” She headed down the steep bank and froze. Riders swerved around her, plunging into the water like horses fording a swollen river, almost knocking her over. There was no room to turn around. Bikes kept coming. One rider sailed over her and into the creek. Katherine’s face burned; her legs shook. She took a deep breath and revved the throttle. The front wheel jumped up, almost smashing her face. “No!” Katherine screamed as she struggled to regain control of the big bike. The coach’s words came back to her: Let the clutch out slowly and twist the throttle, giving it power gently at first, and then put the hammer down. Her bike lurched forward, and she was in the creek.

  As she fought to keep the bike in balance, Katherine could feel the cold water seeping into her boots. Keeping the water out of the engine’s air intake was what she needed to worry about, she thought, recalling her preparation. Scanning the creek, she looked for the shallowest parts that would make passage easier. She was losing time and she knew it. Riders were whizzing by, drenching her and the bike. She could barely see through her helmet’s face shield, but she had to keep pushing.

  Katherine blipped the throttle carefully and turned to avoid slipping on the rocks or hitting a submerged log. Finally, she spotted the next arrow, on a big log pointing up the slippery creek bank. She turned her bike, gunned the powerful 449-cc four-stroke engine, and flew up the bank. “Yes!” she cried, as she regained the trail, reveling in the cheers of the crowd behind her.

  After several more checkpoints and close calls—she had lost count of how many by now—Katherine guessed she must be past the halfway mark. And 6A was long gone, she figured. She was tiring fast, and thirsty.

  Rounding a sharp corner, she encountered mud, a slough too wide to avoid. There was nothing to do but power through it. Katherine twisted the throttle, but in her speed, she failed to look ahead, where a large log lay directly across the trail. She hit it and flew over the handlebars and somersaulted onto her back. At first she felt as if she were floating, and then she felt pain shooting through her chest, right arm, and lower back. She opened her eyes and nearly saw double—this would not be the time for a migraine, she thought. The bike was leaning against the log, still running.

  A rider came along, stopped momentarily, looked in Katherine’s direction, and yelled, “You all right?”

  “Just fine,” Katherine muttered to herself as she shook her head, painfully lifted her right arm, and gave him a thumbs-up. The rider turned his bike around, rode about twenty feet back up the trail, and then wheeled around again to face the obstacle. Gunning his motor, he jumped the log on the left side where it was narrowest. Katherine could feel the heat and smell the exhaust of his bike as he flew over her shouting, “Give it up, girl—this ain’t for everyone!” and disappeared down the trail.

  No way, she thought as she willed herself to a sitting position. But I see why they insisted on all the body armor.

  She presumed that no bones were broken. The bike was another matter. Banged up, its engine still running, it had become wedged into an offshoot of the log. She rose, walked over, and killed the ignition. Much as she tried to pry the bike loose, though, she didn’t have the strength to free it.

  Katherine pondered her vulnerable position as she heard the approach of another motorcycle behind her. To her surprise, the rider downshifted and pulled to a stop behind her. He stood his own bike on its kickstand, and without removing his helmet, motioned to a stout limb on the ground nearby. Dragging it over, he helped her jam it between her bike and the offshoot. Together they pried the wheel loose, bending one of the spokes but leaving the tire intact, and righted the bike again. The rider waved her on as she rode about fifty feet back up the trail, turned around, picked her spot, gunned the engine, and sailed over the log as she had seen the earlier rider do.

  Two hours and two more checkpoints later, Katherine noticed more light coming through the surrounding woods. The trail was flattening out, too, and she could feel her speed increasing. Suddenly, as if she had passed through an open door, she found herself on a large grassy field, just a few hundred yards from Tucker’s Pub, where she had started the race. She stared with disbelief at a huge sign: “IF YOU FINISH, YOU’RE A WINNER!”

  People of all ages were gathered at the finish, the children cheering and clapping. Some riders who’d finished long before her were standing around their bikes talking; others were sitting or lying on the ground, looking up at the sky. Several tents lined the north side of the field, the largest surrounded by flags and streamers. The tantalizing aroma of hamburgers and hot dogs filled the air.

  Katherine parked her bike alongside the others and walked into the big tent, where she pulled off her gloves, lifted her face shield, and gulped down a bottle of cold water. She struggled with the chin strap on her helmet, her fingers throbbing with pain after the ride. Finally, she got the strap loose and pulled the helmet off, throwing it on the table. Grabbing another bottle of water off the table, she poured it down the back of her neck. She was already soaking wet with sweat and dirty creek water. She was sure she looked dreadful, but frankly she didn’t care. She’d survived.

  “Glad to see you made it,” a voice behind her said.

  Katherine turned around and looked into the muddy face of the six-foot-two guy with the sandy hair, who held out a gloved hand to shake hers. “Sean O’Malley. Don’t see many women on the trail. Your first time at the Berkshire?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Katherine Kelly. I think I owe you one,” she added. “At last I get to meet the man behind the number.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s my very first race—ever,” she said, pouring more water on a napkin and then using it to wipe some of the grime off her face. “My coach told me to pick a top rider to follow. I did. But I couldn’t keep up with you. I saw you at a checkpoint, but you took off like a shot.” Katherine was aware of her messed-up hair but too tired—and exhilarated—to care.

  “Yeah, there’s a three-mile free zone after that stop, so I turned it on,” said O’Malley.

  “Free zone?” Katherine asked, reaching into her pocket for her notepad and pencil. She’d seen “free zone” in her research but apparently had missed its strategic significance.

  “It’s when they don’t take points away for arriving too early.”

  “Oh,” she replied, detecting a reaction from O’Malley as she wrote. “Hope you don’t mind?”

  O’Malley nodded his assent. “Checked out your bike when you walked in the tent. Honda four-stroke was a great choice. Low-end torque. Takes the hills like a tractor, and you don’t have to lean forward to compensate. And it’s set up right.”

  “Really?” she said, continuing her note-taking. “How’s that work? Low-end torque, I mean.”

  “Gives your bike the power to dig in going uphill . . . otherwise, depending on how steep it is, the front of your bike can flip over your head. The important thing is, you got through it,” O’Malley explained. “Who turned you on to Enduro racing in the first place?”

  “I’m not turned on to Enduro racing. At least not yet. I’m writing a story about it.”

 
“You’re a reporter?” O’Malley asked.

  “Not yet, exactly—still a raw apprentice. I’m finishing my master’s in journalism in New York.”

  “Cool. So you got your motorcycle license, joined the American Motorcycle Association and the New England Trail Riders Association, all of that?” O’Malley asked.

  “I had my license, but . . . yeah, a lot of hoops.”

  “All for a story,” O’Malley said, shaking his head.

  “An assignment—a paper on an action sport. Where I grew up, off-road anything was a big deal for the guys, as long as there was mud or dirt. They’d drive old cars up hills and race motorcycles. Motocross. Enduro.”

  “Did you race?”

  “No, but my boyfriend did. That was years ago. I did think it was neat, particularly the cross-country enduros. There were races all over. When I got this assignment I went to the IDR Speedsville Enduro to see what it was like. Couldn’t see much, though. I decided the only way to be able to write about it was to do it,” Katherine said.

  “Where was . . . where’d you grow up?”

  “A tiny village in upstate New York. Marion.”

  “Amazing,” O’Malley said. Then he stood. “I’m going for a beer, Katherine. Want one?”

  “No, but I’d love a Gatorade. I’ll go with you,” she said, trying to keep up with O’Malley as she registered the pain in her back, right arm, and left leg. She was relieved to see the guys from the shop loading her bike onto their truck along with a few other customer bikes. She was sure she didn’t have the strength left to move it herself.

  While they were waiting for their drinks, O’Malley looked at Katherine and said, “How’d you get the bike, if you don’t mind my asking? It’s a pretty sophisticated machine for a rookie.”

  “A friend of mine from home has a motorcycle shop, and he knows a motorcycle dealer in the city. Are you sure you’re not a reporter?” Katherine joked. “Let’s talk about you. Besides being a Class A rider, what’s your story?”