FriendorFoe

by Frances Pauli

  He nodded. She'd convinced Spaulding to let her take his place. She'd convinced The Spartan to leave them alone in the cave. Whatever Agnes had cooked up, she'd accomplished a mighty task to see it play out her way.

  "We have one more obstacle before the homestretch, a series of sand pits and springboards that should be easy enough."

  Simon nodded. It sounded like a nice workout. "Right."

  "Then, on the homestretch, I sprain my ankle and go down." She squinted at him and pointed a finger toward his chest. "You keep running, no last minute chivalry. By the time I limp across the finish line, you'll have won and Spaulding will have a hard time blaming me. Unlike him, I can fake an injury."

  Brilliant and ironic. Their children would be geniuses. "Good. Good plan. And then what?"

  She lost him in a flash when she answered, "Then Spaulding and I leave town forever."

  The Sacrifice

  Agnes scrambled up the net before Simon could catch her. They didn't have time for debate and she'd seen the argument brewing behind his frown. The accident had brought out the search party and she gauged they had about three minutes to get out of this ravine and back on course before a rescue descended.

  As it was, the bloody helicopter kept buzzing over. She scowled at the flash of orange and hauled her body up along the stone face. The netting twisted in her grasp and she dangled out over the drop for seconds before shifting her body back into a secure position. She glanced down and found Simon at her heels. Twelve more feet before she could haul out onto solid ground and he caught hold of her ankle.

  "Agnes!"

  "Let go of me, Simon." She turned her foot to the side and tried to dislodge his grip without sending him tumbling back to the mats.

  He grunted and held fast. "We--need--ouch--to discuss this."

  "No discussion." Agnes risked a fall and jerked her foot away. "It's already done." She snagged a handful of netting and pulled away. She moved quickly, grabbed each successive cross strand and worked her feet non-stop until she made the top and rolled out of the ravine and onto the sand again.

  She lay there for a moment and let her chest swell and fall until the rhythm settled. When Simon's arm snaked into view, clamping onto a square of net and pulling his head and torso into sight, she rolled away and stood. She stomped the feeling back into her legs and looked away down the course.

  "Agnes." Simon tried again. He lay near the precipice, one arm still wound in the netting and the other supporting him.

  "Just keep running, Simon." She spun on her heel and raced across the short stretch to the first springboard. She could feel the fatigue threatening her pace. Her muscles complained at moving again so soon, but Simon pounded along just a step or two behind. She chalked his tenacity up to an overdeveloped sense of justice.

  The wishful little girl wanted to believe it was her--the idea of her leaving--that disturbed him, but adult Agnes shushed the thought even as it formulated. Simon had a hero's sensibility and that, not some competitive flirtation, pushed him to question her plan.

  She shook off a wave of disappointment. She'd already made this sacrifice fifteen years ago when her family packed her off upstate. Now she would earn the reward. Today, she'd pay back Mr. Maxwell and save the town. Agnes. Poor Agnes would be today's hero and if only Simon and the mayor knew it, she could live with that. She smiled. Just Simon would have proved sufficient.

  Now she heard him breathing alongside her. Their steps matched as they arrived at the pits. She expected him to fall back and give her the lead, but he burst ahead two strides from the pit, slammed off the board and soared across the sand trap before Agnes's feet hit the platform. She pushed off, felt the thrust of the spring and arched out over the obstacle just as he landed.

  The pits lay to either side of a narrow path, winding along the last stretch of canyon and covered in a dusting of loose sand. This skittered under foot and provided enough of a hazard to slow the competitors between jumps. The danger lay not in a fall, but in struggling to drag oneself out against the pull and shift of the deep sand.

  She jumped the second pit and skidded along the path a few feet before regaining her balance. Simon wobbled along ahead of her, not looking back. Agnes sighed. It was for the best. She'd just about convinced herself he intended to play along when he slipped, waved his arms wildly and vanished over the side of the walkway.

  Damn. Agnes clenched her jaw and kept jogging. She neared the spot where he went over, fixed her eyes forward and called softly, "Simon, this isn't going to work." The sand rolled under her feet, but she kept moving. "Simon! Get back up here."

  He didn't answer. Agnes slowed to a walk and tried to peek casually into the pit. "Simon?" She hissed his name, "Simon?" She stopped and looked over the side.

  He sprawled on his back halfway down the slope. Sand caked his clothing and hair and his eyes didn't open when she called his name again. He didn't even twitch.

  Agnes swung her legs over and slid down the wall. "If you're faking, Maxwell." The sand shifted under her feet. "I'm going to kill you."

  He lay still when she dug her heels in beside him, didn't flinch as she scrabbled her way to a stop alongside his body. She bit her lower lip and reached a hand to his chest. Maybe he wasn't faking, maybe he was really hurt. Agnes held her breath and pushed the thought away. When his chest moved under her palm, she let out a relieved exhale.

  "Simon?" She pushed him and his body rolled under her touch, completely limp. A stab of fear pinched her lungs. She crawled up over him and leaned toward his face. His breath brushed against her cheek. Alive, at least. "Simon, can you hear me?"

  Steely arms clamped around her waist. Before she could scream, the sand shifted and Simon had rolled them both over and pinned her beneath him. Agnes caught the flash of his eyes before he was kissing her again. She completely forgot to struggle. His lips moved against hers and her body arched into him. She tried to free her arms, to find his hair with her fingers, but he held her fast. She pressed upward, felt the iron of his chest against her shirt and moaned. His tongue darted over her lips before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

  "I don't like your plan," he said.

  "Simon." She kicked her feet and they slipped another foot toward the pit's bottom. "Listen."

  "No, Agnes, you listen." He leaned down and brushed his lips against her mouth briefly, sending another shockwave through them both. "There has to be another way. We can sort this out without sending you away again."

  "There is no other way, Simon," her voice cracked. "It's too late to go back now."

  "We could tie. You sprain your ankle and I carry you across the finish. Nobody loses."

  "Except the town." Agnes shook her head and pressed her eyes shut against the ache in her chest. He would throw this thing, to keep her here. "The town would lose, Simon. We have a chance to get rid of The Spartan, to free the town from my family's madness for good."

  "But--"

  "No, Simon. We can't. We owe this much to your dad." Just like that, she'd won. She could see it in his eyes.

  When he kissed her again, she melted. Simon's touch lit fires all through her body and Agnes wanted to remember every second of it. She needed to remember the softness of his hand at her neck, the taste of his lips, all of it. She'd carry this moment with her when she left for good.

  Suddenly the idea lost its appeal. She imagined staying, kissing Simon, feeling like this tomorrow and the next day. His tongue danced against hers and her spine arched in response. Would it be so bad to stay? They could orchestrate a tie. They could work against The Spartan together. Maybe they could control his movements enough. She pushed against Simon's chest hard enough that he slipped away. Control. The only power worth having, Agnes. She sat up and watched him struggle to regain his purchase on the slope.

  "Time to finish this, Simon. For your dad." She didn't wait for him. Simon could handle the sand pit. Simon could probably handle anything. Agnes fought her own battle out of the sandy trap and d
ragged her body back up onto the solid walkway. She pushed against the planks, got to her feet and took off at a run without checking his progress. It was too late to look back now.

  * * * *

  His whole body burned. He flattened out against the pit's side and practically swam up onto the walkway. Agnes had already vaulted the next pit and the sight of her landing in a crouch, flexing and taking off again, ignited even more fires under his skin. He groaned out loud and stood.

  He could still catch her. After the pits, he could catch her on the homestretch and try to reason with her. His feet shifted against the sandy boards and he chuckled. The course designer should have taken into account the soles of Simon's sneakers--made from the same grip-tech material as the bottom of Maximus's high, blue boots.

  He stopped playing and dug in, launched the next pit and ran full tilt toward the last one. As he sailed over it, Simon saw Agnes peek over her shoulder. She sped up, entered the final straightaway and put on enough speed that a flash of doubt interrupted his plans. What if she really meant to win?

  He tore after her. The canyon walls fell away and they raced full out toward the rickety bleachers in the distance, the rodeo grounds and the finish line. Simon focused on his breathing and cut Agnes's lead in half. He saw her look back again, but this time she winked at him and he knew she meant to do it. His legs churned faster. Ten paces between them and he'd have a second, maybe two, to dissuade her.

  Nine paces and she slowed.

  He leaned forward, felt the air sweeping by his face and knew she'd never hear him.

  At six paces, she screamed.

  Simon watched her ankle buckle and winced. Her running shorts hit the ground. She fell to her side in a puff of dust just as he reached her. She stared up at him and shook her head. Keep running, Maxwell. Just keep running.

  He'd seen the tears in her eyes. He'd seen the ankle fold when she fell. Unlike my brother, she'd said. I can fake an injury. Simon clenched his teeth as he passed her. He growled against his instincts, his every nerve pressing him to stop and help her. Fake an injury, my ass, he thought. More like take one for the team.

  The ground blurred in front of him, but his feet continued to lift and fall. The rhythm pounded in his ears until the sound of the crowd joined it. He blinked, found himself closing on the outlying fences, on the decaying chutes. The stands across the arena teemed with screaming faces, faces that relied on him to keep the town peaceful, to keep The Spartan at bay.

  He hated all of them, just for a second, before he swept across the arena and through the glossy, yellow band of tape that meant he'd won again. It clung to him, dragging to either side, a tie that held him to the town as surely as any real bondage. His fists closed around the strip. Simon paused just short of tearing it.

  It was over. Spaulding had lost for the last time and the town would be free of the Rutherfords. Simon turned in a circle. Shouldn't that free him as well? He caught a flash of lights as Oliver Jones drove the aid car through the throng, heading out across the homestretch to Agnes. He tried to follow, but the stands emptied, spilling into a sea of surrounding bodies. He couldn't move a step against the tide.

  The cheers of the town drowned out the sound of the siren. Simon watched it flash over their heads and willed it to hurry to Agnes's side. The crowd pushed him toward the stands where the Mayor waited. Spaulding and a gaggle of both Maxwell and Rutherford business associates huddled around him. Simon sagged in defeat and let the people drive him where they would.

  The fanfare continued as he reached the steps. The mayor smiled and waved him forward. The crowd cheered and Simon took a step up. He looked over his shoulder at the ambulance in the distance. Oliver would take good care of her. He nodded. Oliver would be absolutely thorough, which was why she'd known better than to fake a sprain, why she'd committed fully to a plan that would be fail proof. And Spaulding couldn't blame her, not with a real injury to back up her claim. Agnes thought of everything. Simon looked at Spaulding. Had she accurately estimated her brother's reaction? Had she compensated for that shaking-white rage, that murderous glare? He feared she'd overestimated her ability to handle her brother. A knot of concern curled up in his stomach.

  Simon climbed to the top of the platform, stood beside the mayor while the crowd roared and chanted his name. He cringed at one, erroneously hollered, "Maximus!" and plastered on a thin, unflinching smile. Over the assembly he could see the white van returning, this time without the light show. Simon waved as the mayor pronounced him the victor and watched Oliver's ambulance carry Agnes across the finish line.

  "Did you trip her, Maxwell?" Spaulding snarled from the back of the stage. "Too much for you to lose to a girl?"

  The mayor slid between them before he reached Spaulding. His grab closed around air six inches from Rutherford's face. Spaulding turned three shades whiter, his expression pinched into a furious mask, but the proximity of Simon's fist stalled any further accusations.

  "Simon!" the mayor chastised. He pushed on Simon's chest. "Control, Simon. The town is watching."

  He wanted to say, Bugger the town, but knew he'd never utter the words. Control. For Agnes, Simon. He let his fist drop and stepped back with the mayor's help. "Later, Spaulding," he said through his teeth.

  "There won't be any later," the mayor interjected. Satisfied that Simon would stand down, he turned to Spaulding and raised his voice for the entire crowd to hear. "You have twenty-four hours, Rutherford. Pack up your family's things and get out of town."

  The crowd roared from the arena.

  Simon watched Spaulding search the throng. He could see the indecision, the desire to argue shadowing the sharp features.

  "Surely you don't expect," Spaulding kept his voice low enough for only those in his immediate vicinity. "You don't think my sister's wager--you can't."

  "I most certainly do."

  The joy in the mayor's words convinced Simon he needn't have feared the man's loyalty.

  "I expect you gone by morning."

  Two days before, Simon might have cheered that victory. He'd have reveled in Spaulding's expression at that moment. Instead, he looked past his foe, over his left shoulder to where Oliver's ambulance crawled past the stage. Gone by morning. All the years of familiar warfare ended here and now and Simon Maxwell had little reason for celebration.

  * * * *

  The ambulance rolled past the grandstand. Each rut in the hard-packed arena sent the van bouncing and caused little lances of pain to jolt through her lower leg. Broken, Agnes? She might have gone a little overboard there. She'd meant to twist it good and hard, sure, but she'd never intended to leave the scene this way, heading for the hospital and completely isolated from the action up on that stage.

  Isolated from Simon. She caught a glimpse of him through the dirty window. The dust of the rodeo grounds hazed over her view so that his blue suit looked muddied standing over the crowd. She turned away from the window and studied the gauze woven around her ankle.

  She could call her driver from the hospital and arrange to have all of her things brought from the house. Agnes nodded. She could be out of town before dawn. The mayor and Maximus would see that Spaulding also complied and justice would be done. Agnes smiled despite the empty feeling in her chest. She'd done what she set out to do. She'd given the town to the Maxwells for good.

  The year her father ran the race alone, Agnes visited the prisoner in her basement every day. After the race, when her parents made no move to set Mr. Maxwell free, she began to fear they'd bitten off a touch more than they knew how to chew.

  The arguments, in hushed tones whenever one of the children entered, convinced her that her family had crossed into a place from which they wouldn't be returning. They feared the law, though not enough to obey it, and the repercussions of kidnapping hovered over the house and drove everyone's nerves toward snappish.

  She thought about this and about her own future as she watched Mr. Maxwell do pull-ups on the cage bars.

  "Why
do you think they're keeping you?" She tilted her head to one side and examined his form. Agnes had learned a great deal about form in the last week. "Are you exhaling on the lift or the drop, Mr. Maxwell?"

  "Lift," he said, grunting. "I think they don't know what to do with me, Agnes. I think they've got themselves in quite a pickle."

  "Me, too." She sank into her cross-legged meditation, elbows on knees, chin in hands. "Do you think Simon misses you?"

  "I suspect he does, Agnes."

  "Do you think I should let you out?" She'd been saving that question for last, afraid of the answer he was bound to give. Still, she'd decided his family and Simon in particular most definitely missed him by now.

  "Well." He dropped out of form and rolled his shoulders. Crossing to the bunks, he sat down on the lower one and gave Agnes a very serious look. "What do you suppose would happen to you if you did let me out?"

  "I don't know," she told him the truth. "I'm scared to find out."

  "Then I think you'd better not." Just like that, he absolved her of any responsibility. "I don't want you to suffer, Agnes, not for me."

  "Spaulding caught me doing sit-ups," she blurted it and then immediately turned scarlet.

  Mr. Maxwell only nodded and made a thoughtful face.

  "He just poked fun," Agnes added.

  "I'm sorry about that, Agnes."

  "I can handle Spaulding."

  "I know you can."

  "I think I want to let you out."

  "Are you sure, Agnes?"

  "Yes."

  Oliver's ambulance jolted over the curb in front of the hospital, effectively ruining her daydream. Her ankle throbbed beneath the gauze and little tingles in her backside said her butt had gone to sleep somewhere along the way.

  She sighed and waited for someone to open the van. She'd call her driver as soon as she got her hands on a phone. If things went smoothly, she could be out of town by the time the cast set.

  Justice

  Maximus crouched on the stone wall, watching the house empty. Goons redesigned as movers flowed in a steady stream in and out of the Rutherford estate, carting boxes and furniture to the waiting vans. It looked like Spaulding would hold good on his end of the deal--at least for now.