It was the bib! Every official runner in every country had to wear one. And each bib was attached to a sweaty shirt with metal safety pins, a perfect conductor of electricity. But until I knew how the shock was triggered, Gurn was in mortal danger.
With shaky fingers, I punched Gurn’s cellphone number but it went directly to his voicemail. Damn, damn, and blast! Just like Stephen, he’d turned it off before the race. What’s with these runners, anyway?
I called Frank, who answered on the first ring. I could tell the first set of runners was coming into the home stretch. Several hundred yards back, yells and screams were going up from the crowds. The whoops almost drowned out Frank’s voice.
“Frank, you’ve got to stop Gurn. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Franks shouted into his cell. “But Charley was trying to keep him in sight. I think Gurn broke free from his group about five minutes ago in a burst of speed. Time to find him and tackle him to the ground?”
“Yes, stop him at any cost. It’s in the bib.”
“The what? I can’t hear you.”
“The bib. The bib!”
Frank didn’t answer me. It sounded like some sort of tussle on his end of the line, and then the phone went dead.
I leapt out of the car and began to run toward Thirty-Fourth Avenue, while punching the speed dial for Richard. “Richard, I need your help.” I said, when I heard him huffing and puffing on the other end of the line. “Stop running, goddamn it, and listen to me.”
“I did stop the minute I saw your number. I’m off to the side. I can’t help it if I’m still breathing hard. Holy crap, this is tough. What’s up? And speak up. I can hardly hear you.”
“Richard, it’s in the bib. I think some kind of electrical mechanism, wires or something, put inside the bib and then activated toward the end of the run. Is that possible?”
“Sure it is,” he said gulping in air. “All you need is a remote to set it off.”
I looked down at the keys and car opener still in my hand. “Like the ones you use to unlock the doors or trunk of a car?”
“Yeah, as long as you’re close enough. Jesus Christ, is that how they’re doing it? Someone close by is probably triggering a small battery. When it melts—”
“Never mind the physics lesson. Just get here as fast as you can, even if you have to take a cab.”
I hung up and redialed Frank, while running against the crowds like an upstream salmon. No answer. I panicked. There were hundreds of people now, all pushing and shoving to get to the front of the two lines on either side of the running path. A burley man steamrollered into me, almost knocking me to the ground, but kept going without a backward glance. So much for chivalry. I should have punched his lights out when I had the chance. So much for being a lady.
My phone rang, and I looked at the incoming number, hoping it was either Gurn or Frank. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered, anyway.
“Lee! It’s Frank. Can you hear me?”
“Barely.” I put a finger in my free ear to block out some of the sounds of the crowd. “Where are you?” I looked around
the mass of people bumping into each other and me, hoping he was nearby.
“My phone got knocked out of my hand by a group of kids, who tromped all over it. I don’t even know where the hell it is. I’m calling you from one of my men’s. What have you got?”
“Where are the runners now? Can you see Gurn? We’ve got to stop him.”
“No, but the first group is less than a quarter of a mile away. If he’s with them, he should be here in about five minutes. Hey! Look out, lady, and watch your kid, too,” I heard him snarl at someone. “It’s chaos here, Lee, utter chaos. Fenner’s got two men looking for Gurn right now, but unless we billy club somebody, we’re not going to get them to move aside.
“Where are you?” I wailed in frustration. I turned, and for one split-second there was a space in the crowd. I saw Frank’s back not twenty feet away. “I see you, Frank. Turn around!”
The crowd closed in again, and he was gone. I pushed my way toward the spot where he’d been. I never saw him but felt him grab me and spin me around.
“Okay, let’s go.” He held my wrist tight, and together we fought the onslaught of the revelers and spectators. “What’s this about a bib?” he shouted back at me.
“It’s in the bib, Frank. I noticed Gurn’s was extra thick. Probably from the wiring. I think the electrical charge is triggered by someone using a remote control near the finish line.”
We stopped in front of two uniformed policemen, the taller one holding a megaphone. Frank shouted something into the ear of the shorter man, who nodded, turned, and fought to get closer to the front of the runners’ path. I noticed both men had a walkie-talkie, and they handed a third squawking one to Frank. He listened for a moment before turning to me.
“Lee, I think we’ve finally got this organized. I’ve told the cop closest to the front runners to pull Gurn out of the group.” His walkie-talkie squawked again. He put it to his ear, and a look of surprise and concern crossed his face.
“What? What is it?” I shouted.
He dropped the walkie-talkie down to his side, looked at me, and bellowed. “Gurn got by him. The cop said he couldn’t keep up with Gurn. He’s radioed for the next man to take over, but Gurn’s so close now, that person might have to be me.”
Adrenalin pumping, I fought my way through to the front of the line, despite protestations and occasional shoves in return. Once there, I saw three, lean men heading toward us and to the finish line. Two men had copper-colored skin, while the third man was almost blue-black in color and smaller. Their sweaty, sinewy bodies gleamed from the sun’s glare, defined muscles moving in perfect harmony to propel them forward. Even as stressed as I was, it was one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen. All three were nearly side-by-side and passed me in a flash.
Maybe ten yards behind came Gurn, also poetry in motion. His face aglow, I could tell in an instant the endorphins had kicked in, and he was in another world, the runner’s world.
I tried to spurt out onto the path, followed by Frank. A surprised staffer whose job it was to keep the path free of spectators, caught sight of us, signaling others. A heavy-set man wearing an official’s blue windbreaker, deliberately tripped Frank. Frank stumbled, not quite falling. I reached back to steady him, but a strong arm grabbed me. I struggled, screaming Gurn’s name out repeatedly, screams lost in the hubbub, blasts of horns, and cheering.
Gurn, unaware, passed us in a burst of speed. He was running alone, the rest of the pack far, far behind. Gurn was only yards away from coming in the deadly fourth place winner. Twisting and turning, I broke free from the staffer’s
grasp but had lost precious time. I ran out into the center of the path, yards behind Gurn. There was no way I could catch up with him. Frank pushed the heavy-set man away and joined me. Together we ran forward, yelling at the top of our lungs.
“Gurn, Gurn! Your shirt! Take off your shirt! Gurn!”
With the last frantic scream of his name, our voices were in unison. The sound rose above the urging yells of the crowd.
Gurn slowed down and looked around but continued moving. He was within feet of the finish line. He could have loped over, coming in fourth. Everyone could see it. Nobody, including Gurn, understood why he’d stopped. The crowd cheered him on, their spirit instinctively propelling him forward.
I screamed his name again. I could tell he’d heard me but couldn’t find me. Confused, he still moved forward. Finally, he pivoted around and saw us coming up behind him. The finish line was only inches away. Now he was backing up, still on his collision course with death.
Frank, in a moment of inspiration, slowed down, tore at his own shirt, drawing it up and over his head. He pointed to Gurn’s yellow one. By this time I’d almost reached Gurn’s side and saw he comprehended.
Gurn grabbed the garment, pulling it over his head in a fluid, often done movement. With his
right hand holding the shirt, his arm stretched up into the air, the yellow fabric nearly free of his grasp. Almost in slow motion, I saw a flicker of something residual touch the tip of his middle finger. His face registered shock. He was thrown to the ground, almost as if he had been tackled by an unseen opponent. The shirt lay beside his motionless body, now drawn up in a fetal position.
“Dios mio, Dios, mio,” I cried out, hurling myself at his side. Frank was on top of us and rolled Gurn over on his back near the sideline. Frank searched for a pulse. I felt the breeze of a woman runner passing me, the muted sounds of her
running shoes pounding the dirt. Several of the people close to us stopped cheering and looked down at the small scene unfolding before them.
I pushed Frank out of the way, grabbed Gurn by the shoulders, and pulled him onto my lap, fighting back sobs. Gurn’s eyelids fluttered then opened. A grin spread across his face.
“Now this is the way to finish a race, in a gorgeous woman’s arms.”
I felt a freeing sound of laughter leave my body. I hugged him so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe, but I wouldn’t let go. Finally, I looked down at his wonderful, still alive face.
“Gurn! You scared me to death. I thought you were—” I broke off speaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw nimble fingers stretching out from within the crowd, reaching for the yellow shirt.
I threw myself at the hand, grabbing the unknown assailant’s forearm, and locked myself around it. Gurn let out a yelp. In the shuffle, his head hit the hard, packed down dirt.
What followed was just like the nursery rhyme, “The House That Jack Built.” I was attached to the arm that was attached to the hand that was attached to the shirt that lay on the ground that Gurn wore. Using the arm, I pulled myself off the ground then gave it a fast yank. A smallish, nondescript man fell forward to his knees but quickly rose again. He struggled, but it was useless. I was major mad, and I wasn’t letting go for nothing.
I heard Frank shout out a curse word and lunged forward to assist. Meanwhile, Gurn had rolled over on his stomach, got up and came to help, wobbly though he might have felt.
In a spurt of anger and to end any more struggling on the man’s part, I kicked him in the gonads as hard as I could. It was a totally un-PC moment, but the crowd went wild. They
didn’t know what was going on, but they sensed this guy was the villain. With a cry of pain, said villain doubled up and fell to the ground. I felt the whoosh of several more runners at my back, one clipping me on my shoulder.
Assisted by my two shirtless guys, I dragged the man by the scruff of his neck outside the running line. The crowd cleared a space for us, paying rapt attention to everything we did. We had become much more entertaining than the race, itself. I saw news cameras pointed at us out of the corner of my eye. I knew we would be on the six o’clock news.
Oh, goody, I thought. Mom will just love that. Another lecture coming up on my unladylike behavior.
Chapter Nineteen
To Recapitulate
“So tell me again how it was done. I don’t quite get it.” Flint leaned back against the myriad of pillows in his hospital bed. He reached up and straightened one behind his head, the bandages on his chest peeking out from underneath an incongruous, pale blue hospital gown, dotted with small flowers. An IV was dripping into his left arm, but otherwise, his face was robust, and his manner alert.
Nonetheless, I was apprehensive and not just a little guilty. We had already done fifteen minutes on Spaulding’s break-in and attempt to kill me.
“I don’t want to tire you out.” I looked over to Knoton, seeking his take on whether or not I was sapping too much of Flint’s energy. Honestly, though, you’d never have guessed he’d been at death’s door three days before.
“You must be joking,” the slighter version of Flint said. Then Knoton laughed. “Right now you’re entertaining him and keeping him from driving us all nuts.”
Flint joined in the laughter. “I think I’m what they call a bad patient.”
“He’s already threatened to get up and walk out twice,” Knoton said. “And the first time was when he was wheeled back from the operating room.” He took his father’s right hand, squeezing it hard. “You’re one tough man, Dad. A Shoshone brave, if ever there was one.” There was no small amount of pride in Knoton’s voice or on his face, as he looked at his father. “But I don’t like this getting shot business.”
“I’m not so thrilled with it myself, son, but it’s a hazard of the game.” Flint smiled at his son and turned back to me.
“But go on with your story, Lee. How did you figure out how they killed all those runners?”
“Well, I have to thank Tugger for pointing me in the right direction.”
“Ah, the cat that saved your life strikes again.” Flint looked at his son. “And I thought cats weren’t good for much except catching mice.”
“The boys think our Fluffy is one in a million, Dad, and she’s never even seen a mouse,” Knoton said with pride. He looked at his father. “My sons just love our tabby cat. You should get one, Dad. You need the company.”
Flint rolled his eyes. “If I ever get a pet, it’ll be a Pinto pony. But go on, Lee. How did you do it?”
“It was pretty straight forward, once I discovered they did it with the bibs. The syndicate had to be sure to recover the rigged bibs after each race during the commotion. Then they’d toss the original one on the ground nearby. This way no one would find the wiring hidden inside. Spaulding and the co-owners of the Fantasy Lady are being indicted as we speak.”
“So it was right in front of everybody the entire time.” Flint shook his head in disbelief.
“Let me get this straight,” said Knoton. “They ran wiring inside the bib, attached to a small, high voltage battery triggered by…what? Remote control?”
I pulled out my car opener attached to my keys. “Right. A garage door opener or an auto fob like this.” I waved my keychain around. “There is actually a small radio transmitter inside this. Who knew?”
“Well, I did, for one,” said Flint. “The world's first remote controls were radio-frequency devices directing German naval vessels to crash into Allied boats during WWI.”
I raised eyebrows. “That’s pretty nasty.”
“War is pretty nasty,” said Flint, shrugging.
I went on. “And every runner has to wear a bib with his or her number on it, pinned in place on a T-shirt. And every runner sweats.”
“So it revolved around the electricity, pins, and sweat,” observed Knoton.
“Yes,” I said.” I read on two different autopsy reports, there were small burn marks on a couple of people, but nobody thought it was connected to their deaths.”
“How did they get a specific bib on a specific runner?” asked Knoton. “They’d have to get that right or what’s the point?”
“It was highly organized,” I said. “Down to paid-off staff members who’d register the runners, package the bibs and pins, and substitute the lethal bib for the real one when instructed to do so. The syndicate would take bets on sure fourth and fifth place runners and then alert their lackeys to fix the race, for which they were paid handsomely.”
“I’m taking it, someone on the lower rung sang,” said Flint.
“Like the third act of Aida,” I replied.
“You two sound like an old gangster movie,” observed Knoton.
“Thanks. We try.” I winked at Flint, and he winked back. “The songbird in question was the man I caught with the remote control in his pocket, trying to take back Gurn’s bib.”
“I understand you kneed him right in the groin,” Flint said with a smile on his face. “At least, that’s what the newspapers say. Nick had a good laugh about it, I can tell you. I’m thinking you might have done that to him, once upon a time.”
“Old habits die hard,” I joked. “Where is Nick, anyway?” I looked around the small hospital room, as if he might pop up from behind the privacy screen.
>
“Probably at my office fielding calls, or at the gym working out. He’s still trying to get back in shape. He’s turned out to be a not so bad guy, our Nicky Boy. I’m going to need some assistance until I get back on my feet, and he’s offered to
help out,” said Flint. His eyes searched mine before he said, “It going to be okay with you if he turns out to be a PI, like the rest of us?”
“Just don’t let him date any daughters of your clients. He’s not always so good with women.”
“I’ll remember that.” Flint hooted with laughter, took a deep breath and grimaced. “Man, my chest hurts when I breathe or laugh.” He looked at me with mock sternness. “So don’t make me laugh.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As if on cue, Nick strolled in, carrying a large brown bag. He looked more like the old Nick I remembered. He had a good five pounds of weight back on him and was buffed up, but not overly so. He sported a new haircut, and his clothes were fresh-looking and ironed. My ex- seemed surprised and pleased to see me. I almost didn’t mind seeing him. What a difference having another and better life makes.
“Lee! I hoped you’d still be here.”
He set the brown bag on the moveable tray table at the foot of the bed and opened it. The mouth-watering smells of Chinese food filled the room.
“Have some Moo Goo Gai Pan,” he said. “There’s plenty.”
“Ah,” said Flint, propping himself up in bed. “Lunch has arrived.”
“Are you supposed to have this stuff?” I was concerned and looked over at Knoton.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 66