Sebastian and I eat without talking. He seems more shell-shocked than I feel. We’ve both seen competitors get injured during these races, but I am probably the only one who has seen corpses and pools of blood. Lucky me.
It doesn’t seem right to enjoy dinner after seeing two comrades blown to bits. But the chicken in mushroom sauce is incredibly tender and I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything as good as the fresh strawberries and mangos in a tangy orange syrup. Maybe it’s true that you appreciate everything more after a traumatic event. But when I remember that Maddie will never again taste a strawberry, I have a hard time swallowing.
Sebastian receives another basket of flowers and at least a dozen letters of support. I get nada. The Secret Service gal looks embarrassed for me, but I just shrug. Actually, I’m relieved not to receive another mysterious item from Africa. I don’t have enough energy for any more worry right now.
Teams Two and Ten come in halfway through the meal, looking as if they’ve been dragged behind a truck all day long.
I want nothing more than to go to bed, but the television hounds await, and our Secret Service escort shepherds us in the direction of the media tent. I guess they were giving us time to compose ourselves as we ate tonight. But they can’t leave us alone indefinitely; they want all the gruesome details.
Catie and Ricco are already in the media tent, silently watching the vids of the day’s race. They are both totally shocked. Tears glisten on Catie’s cheeks. The land mine accident is the big story of the day, of course. On the vid, the race officials swear that all explosives were cleared from the island before the big race. The military groups that last trained on Verde Island disavow any knowledge of land mines. A snarky reporter asks if one of the competitors could have planted the bombs. Everyone is eager to point a finger, but nobody knows who to point at.
Scenes of me bending over Maddie and of Sebastian staunching Jason’s blood play on the big screen over and over again. Thankfully, the footage was shot from far overhead and they don’t focus on the blood and guts and there’s no sound involved. I see Maddie’s lips move and I watch Jason writhe on the ground, but I can’t hear any words or moans of pain. Sebastian and I are lauded as heroes.
As the reporters in this tent close in on me, I look over their heads to watch the screen on the far wall. I don’t see any footage of us discovering the dead buffalo or of Sebastian chucking the rock that set off the first mine, so I guess he was right in saying the Secret Service would squelch certain awkward parts.
“What did Madelyn Hatt say to you as she was dying?” the reporters all want to know.
Mr. and Mrs. Hatt are parked in front of the screen, watching their daughter die over and over again. How can they stand it?
Mrs. Hatt rocks in her chair, sobbing with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Mr. Hatt’s skin is gray. His posture is as rigid as a statue.
“Maddie’s dying words?” a reporter presses again, shoving a microphone so close it makes me cross-eyed.
I’m not going to tell these media ghouls Maddie’s last words. Her family wouldn’t want everyone to know she was raving about condiments instead of saying something profound and comforting.
“That’s private,” I tell the microphones. “That’s between Maddie and me and her family.”
A lump lodges in my throat. I do my best to swallow it down as I pull back my shoulders, but my voice still sounds like a croaking frog when I say, “Madelyn Hatt was one of the best racers I know. She will be missed.”
I can tell by their exasperated expressions that I’m not giving these newsquackers anything they want to hear. After a minute, they move on to Sebastian. One of the race officials, oddly dressed in a three-piece business suit, hands my partner a huge beribboned medal.
“For saving Jason Jones’s life,” he explains.
Sebastian’s face goes crimson, and I know he’d like the ground beneath him to open up and swallow him. Then he grudgingly puts his fingers on the medal, and his mortification segues swiftly to anger when the official clutches it tightly while turning toward the cameras, stretching out the moment for a few more frames of himself with The President’s Son.
The robot suits won’t let me leave without my partner, so I retreat to an uncomfortable metal folding chair at the far end of the tent to watch this charade. I have barely sat down when Maddie’s parents approach. Her mother collapses into the chair on my left and her father takes the one to my right, flanking me like a pair of prison guards. For a brief second, I envision myself bolting out of the tent for a moment of a solitary peace under the stars. Instead, I grip the metal seat with my hands to stay in place.
Mrs. Hatt places one hand gently on my knee. Her lipstick is smeary and dark smudges shadow her eyes; she has rubbed mascara all over her face.
“Thank you for being with Maddie today,” she murmurs in a voice so low I have to tilt my head close to hear.
How am I supposed to answer that? “You’re welcome” would be ridiculous and nothing else seems right, so I just nod.
“What did Maddie say to you?” her father asks. His posture is tense. I have the feeling he’d punch a hole in the wall with his fist if there was a punchable wall anywhere near.
I swallow hard, trying to come up with something appropriate. I know so little about Madelyn Hatt, and most of what I know is not what parents would want to hear. Did Maddie have brothers and sisters? Did she have a boyfriend?
“I know she said something,” her father prompts again. “I saw her lips move.”
“She said to tell her family and friends that she loves them.”
It’s vague, but I’m sure it’s what everyone wants to hear. I would like to think that my parents at least thought about how they loved our family as they lay dying, even if they didn’t have anyone to say it to.
Both the Hatts nod. Maddie’s mom wipes tears from her eyes, streaking more mascara down her cheeks.
Her father puts his hand on my other knee. Now I’m really trapped.
“Anything else?” he says.
His breath smells like beer. I’m dying for a glass of wine or beer or a shot of tequila. But I’m seventeen, so that’s not going to happen here, at least not in front of all these cameras.
“Did she say anything else?” Mr. Hatt clearly wants more.
“She asked me to p..promise…” I stutter, then take a gulp of air to continue, “…well, she was … fading at this point, so it doesn’t make sense, but she asked me to promise to take care of … salt and pepper?”
Mrs. Hatt’s expression changes to dismay. Or maybe it’s horror, I can’t really tell. But Maddie’s father shakes his head, suddenly furious.
I shouldn’t have told them about the salt and pepper. “She was losing consciousness when she said that,” I tell them. “Her brain was probably, you know, misfiring.”
“Salt and pepper?” Maddie’s father plants both feet on the ground and leaps to his feet, shooting his chair backward. With a loud clunk, the chair hits the one of the poles of the tent frame. Canvas sways around us. Several people look our way.
“Her last thoughts are for goddamned salt and pepper?” he growls.
I shrug sadly. “That’s what she said.”
“After all we’ve been through.” Then he takes a deep breath, looks at his wife, and says, “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
Somehow, the way he says it does not sound like he just lost a beloved child. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt because I know people grieve in different ways.
A painful sounding sob escapes Mrs. Hatt. She bends at the waist and buries her face in her handkerchief.
After a few seconds, Mr. Hatt says, “We’ll sue for millions.”
Mrs. Hatt sobs again, then wipes her face and nods like that is a solution.
Maybe Maddie didn’t have such supportive parents after all.
Sebastian’s press conference is finally over and I’m ready to stagger to our sleeping tent. But as I stand up to joi
n him and his Secret Service contingent, a race official grabs my arm. “Call for you, Miss Grey.”
It’s Emilio again. Two nights in a row?
“You okay?” he asks.
He must have seen the vid of today’s race. I know I look exhausted, and I have a couple of scrapes and bruises that weren’t there this morning. But Private Emilio Santos doesn’t look so good himself. When he leans back from the screen, I see that he has a long scratch on his face and his right arm is in a sling.
“I’m fine, Shadow,” I tell him. “What happened to you?”
“Truck rolled over.” His voice is curiously flat. “Nobody died.”
He looks away for a second as he adds, “At least not in our vehicle.”
I swallow hard and work to keep my face serene. I can’t bear to think about death any more today. I search for something, anything else to talk about. “Verde Island is interesting,” I tell him. “It’s pretty much got everything—beaches, jungles, a mountain…“
“Tell me about the birds and flowers.”
I tell him about the parrots and bee-eaters and orchids.
“All we’ve got here is dust and sand. I’d love to smell an orchid.” He sighs wistfully. “Dreaming about Michoacán is the only thing that keeps me sane, Tee.”
He’s talking about the plans we made to go see the millions of Monarchs that winter in Mexico. It must be a spiritual experience to view all those brilliant butterflies, their sunset wings painting the landscape.
“I can’t wait to go there with you, Shadow.” We’re planning to make that trip after he gets out of the Army and becomes an American citizen.
Then he turns his face to the camera again. “How goes the race?”
So he hasn’t seen the news of the day.
“We’re in second place,” I tell him.
“Win that prize for us, Babe.”
Guilt envelops me like a poisonous fog. I want to duck under its weight, but instead I smile brightly at the screen. “I’ll do my best to win.”
He’s always been so supportive; so gentle with me. When I was at my lowest, I would go off into the orchards or fields by myself so Marisela and the twins wouldn’t see my tears. After a while, Emilio would inevitably materialize and sit down next to me, put his arms around me, and just hold me tight. He never said a word.
I know he understands how alone you can feel even when you’re surrounded by people. His father, Marisela’s brother, is dead. His mother works in a factory in Juarez, or at least Emilio supposes she still does; he hasn’t heard from her in four years.
“I love you, Tee.” He dips his chin and stares intently at the camera lens. “Be careful, sweetheart.”
Do I love Emilio Santos? I care about him. I miss him. I’d hurt if he were wounded; I’d be devastated if he died. Is that love?
“You, too,” I finally say. “Watch your back. And all your other parts, too. I can’t wait to see you in person.”
He purses his lips in a kiss to the camera; and I kiss the palm of my hand and then blow that kiss in the direction of the screen.
“’Night, Shadow.”
After I end the call, I have Maddie and Jason and Shadow and Bailey all weighing on my heart. Sebastian’s waiting with our guards. I ask him if I can borrow a satellite phone for a minute.
He turns to his minders. One wants to know who I’m going to call.
“A colleague at work,” I say.
“Stand here,” he says, pointing to his right side. Then he hands me his phone.
I would much rather have had a little privacy, but it’s better than nothing. I check the time, then I call Sabrina. It’s a little after six a.m. in Seattle. She’ll be up. We Habitat Maintenance Technicians have to start work early so the public doesn’t see all the crap that accumulates overnight in the animal cages.
“Tana?” she squeals. “I can’t believe you’re calling me. I was just watching the news. God, was it awful?”
“More awful than you can imagine.” Tears abruptly blur my vision. Shrug it off, I tell myself, it’s past. I don’t want to relive that scene. I take a deep breath. “How are things?”
“Same ol’, same ol’,” she says. “You-Know-Who slammed Jack into a fence yesterday.”
“He probably deserved it.” I sigh. “Tell the director that no matter what happens here, I will take care of everything when I get home.”
I don’t know how I can keep that promise if I don’t win, and now I’m not even sure I can keep it if I do. But I have to find a way.
“I will tell him,” she says. “But maybe you need to prepare yourself for the inevitable.”
I ignore that. “I’ll be back in a few days. You have to tell him.”
“You are not responsible for what happens to him, Tana.”
“I want to be the one who saves him.”
She doesn’t respond.
After a sad moment of silence, I say, “Don’t let them take Bailey away.”
I hang up only after she promises. I hand the phone back. The secret squirrel raises an eyebrow. I ignore him.
As the robots walk us to our tent, Sebastian wants to know what that call was about.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him.
Tonight when I perform my nightly ritual, the sounds of the surrounding jungle seem subdued. The air seems more oppressive than the two previous nights. The full moon looks so heavy that it might fall out of the sky. The deep shadows it casts show the infinite variety of shapes and textures in the tropical landscape, although everything is rendered in black and white.
“Tonight, I am grateful to be alive and in one piece,” I whisper to the stars.
Sebastian, standing a few yards away from me, murmurs quietly, “Amen.”
I dream that I’m being threatened by President T.L. Garrison. “How dare you endanger my son!” he bellows in my face, leaning close. His breath is foul.
I struggle to get away, but I’m tied to a chair. I’m also wearing the pendant around my neck.
He lifts it from my chest and wraps his fingers around it. I feel the elephant hair cord tighten against the back of my neck.
“Do you know Amy Robinson?” he asks, frowning.
I say nothing. Then I see Mom pass by the open doorway behind him. She pauses a second and holds her finger in front of her lips.
What the hell?
Then Aaron is dragged into the room by two ninjas. He’s still nine years old. Blood drips down from a gash on his throat. He’s screaming.
“No! Leave him alone!” My screams join my brother’s. “Aaron!”
Aaron’s screams stop when one of the ninjas holds a knife to his throat, threatening to finish the job. My brother’s hazel eyes, so similar to my own, beseech me for help.
“Why should you care what happens to this boy?” Garrison wants to know. “You don’t even know him. Zany Grey has no say in this.” He nods to the ninja holding the knife.
“I’m Amelia!” I yell. “Amelia Robinson!”
Then the Prez digs his fat fingers into my shoulder and puts his face close to mine.
“I knew it,” he growls.
My eyes burst open. It’s dark in the tent. Sebastian is sitting on the edge of my cot, one hand on my shoulder, shaking me. I sit up, gasping. My heart is hammering. I swat his hand away.
His hair is loose. He pushes it out of his face. “Nightmare?”
A Secret Service guy sticks his head inside the tent flap.
Sebastian dismisses him with a curt, “Bad dream, Silverman. Leave us alone.”
Silverman slips back out.
“Amelia?” Bash murmurs softly.
“What?” I’m still shivering in fear, and my heart is beating so loudly I can hardly hear his words.
“You said, ‘I’m Amelia. Amelia Robinson.’”
How dare my subconscious betray me like that? I take a breath, try to work some saliva back into my dry mouth. “I was having a really bad dream.”
“Obviously.”
He waits for details.
I scramble to come up with something plausible. “I dreamed I was pretending to be a friend of mine—Amelia Robertson.” I pronounce the T in the last name carefully. Surely there are thousands of girls in the U.S. with that name.
“You sounded scared.”
More fiction leaps into my brain. “I was terrified. There was this firing squad. They announced they were going to shoot everyone except for Amelia Robertson. We were all claiming to be Amelia.”
“Huh.”
Does he sound skeptical?
“It was a nightmare, Bash. They don’t have to make sense.”
I lick my dry lips and glance around at the canvas walls. Did I yell Aaron’s name, too?
“How loud was I?” I ask. Would the name of Amelia Robinson mean anything to our guards?
“I don’t think you woke up anyone else,” he says drowsily. “You okay now?”
“I’m okay.”
He yawns as he steps back and sits on his cot. “Then good night, Amelia.”
I bury my face in my pillow. Amelia! I lie there cursing for a half hour before I drift off again.
Chapter 9
Mount Everett, the highest point on the island, is the next checkpoint. No, not Everest, but Everett, who, we are told, was the general who first got the brilliant idea of using this island for bomb practice. Like that deserves commemorating his name.
The route seems fairly straightforward—approximately a mile up and over the low rise beyond the camp and then through the jungle, down through a valley with a small stream, and then a steep climb up the mountain, which is a volcano, high enough that it will have snow at the summit. We can’t see the top from our current position in this jungle camp.
I’m glad we still have one remaining climbing rope and two harnesses. Yes, they’re heavy. But we are going up a mountain on the fourth day of the race, which also means we’ll have to come down tomorrow to finish on the beach. There might be cliffs to scale along the way. And this is equipment that none of the other teams thought to bring along. Score one for me.
This morning the land mine incident seems distant, like a horror movie we were forced to watch. Jason was evacuated by helicopter yesterday. He’s reported to be alive but in critical condition. I wonder where they took him.
Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) Page 9