"Do I look like a Chad to you?" I asked.
Donna surveyed me with mock seriousness. "You could pass for one."
"Are we certain Chad is really sick?" I asked, considering rousing the poor guy from bed myself. "Does he live around here?"
"I don't know," she said. "It says here he registered and lives in Big Plain. 'Bout twenty minutes away. I don't know him, myself."
"What if he shows up?" I asked.
"He won't be showing up," Donna said. "Now that's enough whining. Chad sounded incredibly sick last night. You're fortunate to be feeling well enough to run. Be grateful for your health. "
"Oh, cripes. Now I just feel bad," I said, accepting a handful of safety pins. "I'll try my best to be excited. It's only three miles, right? And they have beer at the end?"
"Three point one miles," Donna clarified. "And more beers than you can count."
"I'm doing this for you," I said, lining up at the start. The rush of runners had arrived, and Donna turned on her organizer mode, shouting instructions to her volunteer staff, handing out bibs to bright-eyed runners, and chasing around her own children, who thought that wearing racing numbers on their heads was a fun prank.
In no time at all my stomach was churning as the announcer stepped atop his ladder. He held a gun in his hand, and it would be so very Midwestern if it were the real thing. I had my suspicions it just might be. Inching farther away from him, just in case, I found a snug spot near the middle of the pack.
I recognized a few high school friends milling about, but nobody so close that I felt inclined to chat. Alfie, a cop who barely topped five feet in height and had a smattering of acne that rivaled the Andes Mountains, waved over-enthusiastically in my direction.
Frantically, I scanned the crowd for someone—anyone—who I could talk to instead. Having Alfie as my first kiss was maybe the biggest stain on the history of my life. But technically, it wasn't really my fault. I'd hit his watermelon-sized noggin with a dodgeball in kindergarten, and he'd cried for what seemed like hours, wailing loudly as I asked him to please not tattle. He eventually offered to stop and not tell on me if I gave him a kiss.
One little peck on the cheek to pay off a bribe, and you'd think we'd been married and divorced twice. I couldn't escape the guy.
To my relief, someone to my left spoke. "Do you know him?"
I turned to see a handsome man eyeing my racing bib. I didn't know him—which meant he probably wasn't from around here. At least, he hadn't grown up here, or I would have remembered. Already, eyes of the single women in town scanned me over with curiosity, noting the stranger I dared converse with in public. In nail salons all around town, we'd be the center of gossip for the foreseeable future. I was confident that according to next week's inevitable rumors by ladies with puffed, gray locks, chatting about as their permed hair set, we'd be engaged before the month was over.
"Uh, unfortunately," I said. "We went to school together."
The man nodded knowingly. "I see."
"Yeah," I sighed, taking a peek out of the corner of my eye at the man. He was young—early thirties, maybe, and traditionally handsome with chestnut-brown hair and soft hazel eyes that focused on me when he spoke. I imagined that most women who talked with him felt like the most important person in the world, at least when he looked at them. "I don't live here anymore, though. I moved to Los Angeles about ten years ago."
"Shame," he said, sticking a hand out. "I'm Lance. I'm not from the area, but I just got a job as the principal of the elementary school here in Little Foot. I figured I should make an appearance at the town 5K. I've never been to a, uh, Hot Dog Days celebration before."
"It's pretty special." I smiled. "I'm Misty."
"I'm not a runner," he said, facing the front where the announcer was counting down. "So we'll see what happens here."
"I wouldn't have guessed," I said. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I felt my cheeks flame with embarrassment. "I mean…"
"Don't worry, I'm flattered." He gave a laugh. "Well, looks like we're about ready to go. I'm gonna head to the back."
"Oh, really?" I asked. "You can run with me if you like."
I hated myself for offering, but part of me liked his company, and a larger part of me wanted to avoid Alfie.
Lance shot me a confused look and glanced at my number. "Uh, aren't you a fast runner? You know, judging by your starting heat. The lower the bib number the faster the runner, right? Then again, I'm new at these things. You'd know better than me."
"Oh," I said, not really sure the answer myself. Since it wasn't my bib, I wasn't sure exactly how fast or slow I was supposed to be. Since I didn't make a habit of running for fun myself, I wasn't sure how the system worked. I shrugged in response.
Maybe I should've corrected him instead, and let him know that the racing bib wasn't mine and that the number on it was someone else's, but the truth was that I didn't mind him thinking I was fast.
I gave a tiny finger wave goodbye, and his face lit with the brightness of his former smile as he politely picked his way through the crowd and to the back of the pack.
"You're third leg of the relay?" a voice grunted. "Didn't think they'd send a girl. And where's your bandana? How do you expect us to read your number on the fly?"
"Excuse me?" I said. "Do I know you?"
A man with a red handkerchief tied around his forehead shook his head as if disgusted at my ignorance. "Get in line."
Instead of arguing with the man, I shuffled away from him and took up my stance with a group of friendly moms dressed in "Beat Cancer" shirts. They were jovial and understood the idea of a Fun Run.
Third leg of what relay? I wondered. What bandana? I didn't run a lot of races, but I was pretty sure this one was no relay. Unfortunately, I had to run this whole thing by myself.
I shook it off, thinking instead that the only variety of leg I wanted after the race was one made out of chicken or turkey. Or hot dogs—so many varieties of hot dogs. With my mind wandering firmly towards food, it took me a moment to realize that the gun had gone off.
It was only when the crowd of people around me started bustling forward that I noticed something had happened. The starter was still waving his maybe-real-gun about with reckless abandon, so I stayed far to the opposite side of the path as my feet padded along.
I caught Donna's eye as I crossed the starting line, and I knew the racing chip that acted as a timer and was attached to my shoe had begun to record. She was waving at me so hard her entire body shook. I grinned at her and waved back, feeling great. The burn in my lungs hadn't yet set in, nor the exhaustion in my legs. The weather was a pleasant high seventy degrees at the moment—it'd be a scorcher later, but by getting up first thing in the morning, we'd hit the best part of the day.
The crowd on the sidelines had set up all varieties of signs and banners, whistling and cheering for friends, family, and complete strangers as the runners surged forward.
Maybe I should run more often, I thought. Everyone was so supportive. So happy.
"Move faster," a voice growled behind me.
I turned to see the man with a red handkerchief tied around his forehead glaring furiously at me. Startled, I picked up the pace a bit.
Everyone was supportive except for him, apparently.
Feeling his glare on my back, I focused on the rest of the crowd, happy as clams on this beautiful summer morning. I didn't know what the man's problem was—the run was supposed to be fun. Clearly, he didn't know the definition of the word.
The memory of the sourpuss faded quite quickly, and I even began to enjoy the brief three point one mile jaunt through the town of Little Foot. The houses stood quaint and charming, and brave little flowers struggled to keep their blossoms smiling even in the face of life-throttling heat. Roses snaked up trellises, and grinning dogs barked greetings as we passed by their lawns.
People were out walking their pets and cuddling their children—everyone seemed to be up early, whether they were participat
ing in the race or not. They waved to us runners and shouted greetings. The town oozed friendliness and warmth—and not just from the sun.
Maybe I could get used to this place, I thought. Not Little Foot in particular, but Little Lake. Where I'd come from. After all, my family was there and, most importantly, my youngest sister. My grandmother was aging rapidly, which was another reason I'd agreed with Donna that it was time for a trip home. It was a great opportunity to sit and chat with my grandmother again, listen to her stories, bask in the dusty sunlight of her spacious front porch.
Yes, this place wasn't as bad as I remembered. Instead of stifling, it now seemed cozy. Instead of nosy, people seemed interested. And feeling loved and cared for surprisingly meant more to me than I'd ever expected. Despite being an independent soul, it was nice to know that Donna missed me. That my sister was waiting for me at the door when I showed up from the airport. That a stranger would bother to wish me luck on a Fun Run.
My mind was so preoccupied with large life decisions I'd neglected for so long that the first nudge of my hand went unnoticed. The runners' pack had thinned out by now, and I was relatively alone during this stretch of the race. At two and a half miles, I was almost there. Thanks to the beautiful scenery and a self-entertaining mind, I was well on my way to finishing this thing. Donna would be so proud.
The second nudge on my hand was a lot less subtle. Looking back, I saw a man with a blue handkerchief wrapped around his head coming up fast on my left. Thinking he wanted to pass, I moved over and muttered a sorry.
"Take it," he growled. "Why are you running so fast? You'll become the last leg if you don't slow down. You'll ruin everything."
"What?" I asked, slowing down my pace. Looking about, I noticed we'd arrived at the most sheltered place in the race. The course had taken a short turn through the local nature center, and the public was briefly cut off from watching the runners. Though the woods were stunning in the crisp morning light, they provided more privacy than I wanted at the moment.
Glancing around, I could see the tail end of a runner far ahead, but that was it. Nobody except the man was behind me. No women pushed strollers along the side, and no dogs clamored to say hello. The stillness in the air sent a chill up my spine.
"Take it," he said, pressing something into my palm.
His voice was so adamant, so forceful, that I accepted the small cloth sack reflexively.
With a final glare, he peeled off the path and disappeared into the woods, his footsteps crunching behind him.
My heart pounded, and my breath came in gulps, but it had nothing to do with the race. I picked up the pace, wanting to emerge from the secluded path as fast as possible. It wasn't much farther until the end of the tree line.
A movement just outside of the path caught my eye. Squinting, I thought I could make out a man just on the edge of the trees, partially shielded behind a large oak. Strange, I thought, as I continued jogging—this whole race was starting to give me the creeps. A moment later, the man waved in my direction, and I smiled back, recognizing him as the starter.
Still, I couldn't help but notice the all-too-real looking gun still dangling from his fingers, and I wondered why on earth he'd chosen to watch the race hidden half in the nature reserve. Surely he'd be expected to be present at the finish line?
As he stepped out from behind the trees, I ignored his increasingly dramatic waving in my direction. I was so close to the finish line now, if I could just push on a little farther, I'd be done with this race once and for all.
When I burst forth, the noise of cheering nearly stopped me in my tracks.
So close! The crowds were already lined up to watch the participants finish the race. I was a short distance out, but I could see volunteers placing medals over the shoulders of runners glistening with sweat. Donna was nowhere to be seen yet, but she'd be here soon, I hoped. I was anxious to put the strange events of the race behind me.
Looking down, I felt the small pouch that the man with the blue handkerchief had passed off to me. I was so close to the finish line that I didn't want to open it on the run. At the same time, my mind wandered with curiosity. Part of me wanted to drop it and forget about the whole thing, but another part of me thought that would be a bad idea.
My curious side won out, and I clamped down on the pouch and pushed hard for the finish line.
The second my foot crossed the line drawn with chalk on the pavement, hands clapped me on the back, congratulations rained on me from all directions, and I even picked out the faces of a few people I'd seen on the track. Some were puffing hard, others looked as if they'd just had a massage instead of run a race—their faces relaxed and happy and only mildly glistening with sweat.
I belonged more to the first category. The heat of the day was really starting to pick up, and I was still a bit spooked from my encounter with the pushy man with the handkerchief wrapped around his head, not to mention the chill that'd gone up my spine after seeing the starter semi-hidden in the woods. Looking down at the pouch, I tried to guess what was inside. The crunching sounds of hard, small objects rubbing together made me think of a bag of pebbles. But some of the edges were sharp—almost like a seashell that'd been broken in half with a jagged, pointy end protruding.
I began to open the sack very carefully. My hands tugged at the neck of the bag with slow, steady movements. But when a voice whispered in my ear to "Give me the bag" my hands shook with surprise, and I nearly dropped the whole sack.
"I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it," a man said before I could see who was speaking. I felt a firm metal rod poke against my sore, tired back. "Now give me the diamonds."
Diamonds? My mind flicking between one thought and another. Why were there diamonds here in Little Foot? And why, more importantly, had they fallen into my hands?
I gasped as I looked over my shoulder and recognized the starter—a man who'd worn a goofy expression before now wore a no-nonsense smirk, his eyes darkening by the moment. He jabbed me in the lower back once more with the gun.
"Give it to me," he hissed.
"Relax," I said, holding my hands out front as inconspicuously as I could. I'd been so startled by the starter's transformation, and by his gun touching my skin, that I'd barely noticed that he'd corralled me off to the side, past the tents containing bananas, bagels, and water as a post-race refreshment. We were secluded by a one-story strip mall now—he'd taken me around the corner into a deserted alley between the finish line and the mall. Still, I was close enough to society that people would hear me if I screamed.
I'd barely opened my mouth to yell before he clamped a hand over my lips and nudged me on the lower back with the gun. "Scream and you're dead. This thing has a silencer. Nobody will bat an eye over the cheering of the crowd. Plus, how many real gunshots have they heard and not said anything?" The man turned me around and smirked. "Naïve town."
"We're not naïve," I said. "We're nice people that don't go shoving guns up people's backs."
"Enough with the chitchat," he said. "Are we going to do this the pleasant way, or will I have to hurt you?"
I extended the hand with the dirty little rucksack. "Where did the diamonds come from?"
He snatched the pack out of my hands, peeked inside, and let out a low whistle. I had no desire to scooch closer and see for myself—the mystery sack had already caused enough trouble, and I just wanted to be left alone.
"See?" he said with a smile, showing a gold crown over one of his teeth as he gave a nasty laugh. "That wasn't so hard. We can make you part of the team, maybe. Would you like that? Help us out on future races?"
I glared but said nothing as he was still indiscriminately waving the gun in my direction. "Whatever you're up to here, you won't get away with it. My best friend worked hard to organize this run, and I won't let you ruin it."
"I beg to differ. If I'm caught, it won't be because of you." He pointed the hand with the diamonds in it at me, pretending his finger was a gun. "Because if you tell
anyone about this, or if you get the police involved, or if you open your trap at all…" He mimed the gun going off in my direction, blowing pretend smoke from his index finger as he let his hand fall to his side. "I said I don't want to have to hurt you, and I'm a man of my word."
"Why?" I called as the man stepped backward, his gun still trained my way.
"Why what?" he asked.
"Why diamonds at a Fun Run?" I asked.
"Why not?" he shrugged. Then, with his former goofy grin, he gave a wry laugh. "You honestly don't think diamonds are only a girl's best friend?"
I inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying my best to maintain composure.
"Now, little lady, you'll let me walk out of here with no further ado. A single scream and I'll be back for you." He gestured towards the opposite side of the alley and started marching away. "Don't you move yet. Don't you move until I'm out of this alley. And if you call the police or alert them to this incident at all, well…let's just say you won't be running any more races."
A wave of relief washed over me as I realized he didn't intend to hurt me. I didn't push my luck, standing stock still until the barrel of his gun disappeared around the corner of the alley. The roar of a motor was my signal that he'd probably gotten into his vehicle and made a getaway and I was free to go.
I turned back the way I'd come, forcing my already tired legs to jog back towards the finish line. I needed to find Donna. And I needed to find out why her run hadn't been as fun as promised.
* * *
Battling my way through hundreds of hungry runners clamoring over one another to grab hot dogs and sodas at the refreshment table, I scanned for Donna's blonde bob. I caught a glimpse of her bright hair over by the condiments table and headed towards her.
She spotted me and waved as I approached, holding up a hot dog as long as her arm. "It's not just anywhere you can have a morning run and then get jumbo dogs for breakfast."
I pasted a smile on my face. Donna was talking to a gaggle of other moms, all nodding in agreement. The pride for Little Foot ran deep. Which was ironic, in a way, since it was expressed in the form of a hot diggity dog loaded with obscene amounts of ketchup and mustard and relish. Little Foot didn't believe in awards—they believed in the good stuff.
Killer Beach Reads Page 53