Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (3 page)

“How did your parents die?”

I glare at him for a minute before responding. “I was told it was a scuba diving accident off the Egyptian coast.”

I have invented this story because I know it’s hard to get records from some foreign countries and nearly impossible to ship bodies home from others.

“Why weren’t you with them?”

“I was only seven. They went on a cruise, and left me with an aunt in Tanzania.” I sniff sadly for effect. “She’s gone now, too.”
Please leave my past alone.

“How do you support yourself?”

I wave my fork at the canvas walls. “I win races. Plus, I work.”

He studies his wrist gizmo again, presses a button a couple of times. “You’re a zookeeper?”

“That’s right, I work at a zoo.” Some might say it’s a bit of a stretch to go from shoveling antelope dung and hosing cockatoo feces off the walls to “Zookeeper.” But who wants to read “Habitat Maintenance Technician” on a resume?

“When do you go to school?”

“I don’t.” I lift my chin. “I got my GED last year.”

He lifts a brow at that. I know it’s unusual for a sixteen-year-old to take the GED exam. It’s not that I’m so smart; I just needed to get high school out of the way so I could get on with life.

“A seventeen-year-old makes enough to pay rent in Seattle?”

This episode of twenty questions is getting tedious. I point my fork at his wrist computer. “Google my address, man. I live in a closet.”

This is pretty much true. On paper my place shows as a rented room. Once upon a time it was some sort of utility shed out back of the big house. There are three of these sheds, identical except for the framing around the windows and door. Mine is the one with the bright blue trim. To call my place an efficiency apartment would be an undeserved compliment.

People don’t need nearly as much stuff as they think they do; they just need to team up with friends. If I need a pair of pliers or a piece of duct tape, I ask my neighbors Don or Melody. If Don or Melody needs an egg, they ask me. Poor people are a lot more generous than rich folks that way. I have my own toilet and sink; a room with enough space for a bed, a table and chair, my laptop, and a refrigerator and microwave. I have a door and two windows that lock. What more could a girl need?

Outside our tent I hear a cameraman say, “One more, please? Hold hands and smile.”

He’s talking to Team One. In the perverse universe we inhabit, Catie Cole drew Ricco Rossi to create the wealthiest and most-gorgeous pair of competitors for Team One. The perfect star couple. The media loves the way their alliterative names roll off the tongue, too. I’m okay with all that, and in fact, I’m grateful. It takes the media heat away from The President’s Son and Team Seven for a while.

There’s a brief murmur I don’t quite catch from the other side of the canvas, and then Catie ducks her perfect golden head inside and walks her perfect golden body my way. She’s carrying a bouquet of delicate pink Calla lilies and a box of chocolates. She bestows the flower bouquet on me.

“I have too many flowers to fit into our tent, so I’m sharing.” She smiles brightly at me with her perfect teeth.

I don’t smile back.

“Maddie Hatt gave me the chocolates, but I don’t do candy. I thought you might like them.” She places the box in the middle of the table and glances at Sebastian. “I just want to say, good luck, Team Seven.”

The corners of Sebastian’s mouth flick up. “Thanks, Catie.”

I guess The President’s Son is not immune to her charms.

“Enjoy!” Catie chirps. The robot by the door holds up the canvas flap for her as she glides out.

The box of chocolates looks as if it’s still sealed in the original plastic wrap, but I’m suspicious. “Don’t touch the candy,” I tell Sebastian.

“I know,” he says. “Madelyn Hatt.”

“Ninety minutes,” a loudspeaker blares outside of our hut.

Sebastian and I focus on eating and drinking everything before us so we’ll have a little time to digest before the starter horn goes off.

The instant the starter horn sounds, all twenty of us surge forward like Black Friday shoppers ready to stomp each other into the sidewalk for a bargain on the latest flat-screen. The organizers like to keep us bunched up at the beginning; it makes for a better show.

At the start of the Jungle Marathon in the Amazon, they actually make all the competitors jump through a flaming hoop. At least I don’t have to worry about my hair catching fire at the beginning of this race.

I get an elbow to the ribs from The Mean Hatter and I give one right back before breaking free of the mob and dashing across the clearing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maddie’s partner, Jason Jones, try to trip Sebastian, but Sebastian easily evades his outstretched foot. It’s a miracle that none of the racers ends up with a broken ankle or a couple of teeth knocked out in the first fifty yards.

The teams spread out in different directions, but that’s mostly to add confusion at the start; eighty percent of them will dash through the jungle toward one of the few hiking trails on the island map.

Verde Island has remained uninhabited because the place was used for bombing practice in every war humankind has cooked up over the last couple of centuries. It’s still used for jungle training by various military squads. And once in a while, it is explored by a few outdoor adrenaline junkies with more money and free time than sense. There are trails—some of them made by the feral water buffaloes that live here, some made by Navy Seals learning how to survive in the tropical wilderness, and some by wildlife poachers and recreational hikers. Any of these trails will divert the racers around the steep canyon that Sebastian and I are headed for.

I have to give my partner credit. He doesn’t do the macho thing of trying to beat me out of the starting gate, but instead jogs close by or a little behind me. Of course it’s pretty much impossible to run side by side through the jungle. We orbit around vine-wrapped tree trunks and leap over fallen logs and snarls of broad-leaved plants I’ve previously seen only in pots back home. We check our GPS devices every few seconds, trying to keep our course close to my map line. Every now and then he zags when I zig, but it’s easy enough to find each other again because it’s not remotely possible to gallop through a jungle in anything close to silence.

Humongous flocks of birds rocket off their perches overhead, screeching in harsh tones that don’t match their rainbow beauty. I worry that they might collide with a drone overhead as they break free of the tree canopy, but maybe the birds and the machines are capable of easily avoiding each other. Blurry black and brown shapes are moving far up among the branches, too, so I guess monkeys or some kind of leaping marsupials live here, too. Did the vid briefing mention them? I was too busy trying to stay awake and stewing about my potential partner to glean anything but the most crucial details. After all, the vid was just a repeat of the risks spelled out in the contract we all had to sign when we registered. Natural dangers are what set endurance races apart from mere marathons.

With the climbing equipment, my pack is heavier than I usually carry on a cross-country race. I snug up the straps a bit more so the load doesn’t bounce with each step.

As I jog toward one tree, the leaves explode into a flurry of green and turquoise feathers as hundreds of small birds roosting here take flight. How odd that bee-eaters live on this island. My mother gave me a picture book about Zimbabwe when I was little, and that book had a page about bee-eaters. I always associate these little beauties with Africa, tens of thousands of miles away, but what do I know? Llamas and ostriches roam through pastures all over the U.S. now, so I guess water buffaloes and bee-eaters can be anywhere, too. After all, there’s that one tiger here—how did she end up in solitary confinement on this island?

The interlaced tree branches block out most of the sun, which is a small blessing. Sweat streams down my back and trickles between my breasts. My crotch is a minor wetland on its way to becoming a major swamp. Even my racing bib is soaked through, the big number 7 floating in a pool of damp orange cloth. Sebastian has to be experiencing his own personal downpour. I can only imagine what it would be like to navigate this steam bath in the merciless sun. I guess we’ll experience that soon enough.

There’s always too much time to think during these contests. Non-runners don’t imagine it’s like that, but really, what’s your mind going to do while your body is racing around? My brain tends to venture into places I don’t want it to. I often wonder if Aaron’s a runner. We both had the same long legs when we were kids. Then—and this is
always
my second thought when I think of my brother—I wonder if Aaron is still alive.

I was his big sister. I should have found a way to protect him, even if I was only fourteen at the time.

If my brother is still on this planet, he is twelve years old now. What does he look like? Is he still called Aaron, or has he been reinvented, like me? Does he ever think about me?

Always the same endless questions. Not a single answer.

Early in the morning on Halloween, I crawled out of my dumpster shelter and went to a pay phone. Yes, there was still an actual pay phone for the oldsters outside the pharmacy next to the assisted living place; I guess it was there for nostalgic reasons.

“My parents were murdered,” I told the 9-1-1 operator, “Last night.” I explained about Aaron and the car chase and gave her our address.

“This a Halloween prank?” she asked.

“No!”

I heard what I thought was a sigh, so I wasn’t sure she believed me.

Then she prompted, “And your name is?”

I dithered for a minute about whether to tell her. She said, “Honey, I can see you’re at the pay phone outside the SaveRite pharmacy. Stay in the booth. I’ll send an officer to help you.”

The thought that she knew where I was and was sending the police propelled me into panic mode again. After slamming down the phone, I snuck back to my neighborhood and crept through the back yard across the street. I sat behind the neighbors’ wood fence and peeked through a knothole at my house.

On our front lawn was a real estate sign with a huge SOLD notice draped across it. A moving van filled the driveway. I watched two hairy guys lug out a huge roll of carpet and stash it inside the van, then add a couple of overflowing boxes.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Talston, watched from her yard next door. Joker pawed at one of the round rocks that bordered the driveway until she called him and made him sit down beside her. She gave him a pat on the head. He licked her hand.

I was glad to see Joker alive and with her. She’d always liked our dog and taken care of him when we were out of town.

Where had Joker been last night? I didn’t remember a single bark from our house. Maybe the ninjas darted him or locked him up somewhere.

A patrol car rolled into our driveway, blocking the moving truck. An officer got out. He talked to the workers and then disappeared into the house. After a minute, he came back out with one of the movers. They were both actually
laughing
.

The policeman had a quick conversation with Mrs. Talston. I couldn’t hear a word from my hiding place, but she shook her head. He nodded his, and then jotted down something on a little pad he was carrying. As he pulled open the door to his cruiser, one of the moving guys came out carrying a box. He yelled, “Happy Halloween!” to the cop, who waved and drove away. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

A few more boxes and a rolled rug, and the loading was finished. As the moving truck disappeared down the street, Mrs. Talston spotted a book at the edge of our driveway. When she picked it up, I noticed it had a black tire mark on it from the moving van. Mrs. Talston took a quick look inside. Joker whined and pawed at her pants leg. She shook her head again, pulled up the lid of our garbage can, and dropped the book inside. She wiped her hands on her jeans before she and Joker went back into her house. I thought about crossing the street to look into our windows, but then I spotted the black SUV parked down the street, half-hidden in the dappled shade of a big fir tree.

I waited until after midnight to risk slinking into my own back yard. A glance through the dark windows confirmed what I suspected—our house had been completely cleaned out. Even the carpets had been removed; I could see the tack strips along the edges of the living room. What in the hell had happened?

Only the book lay at the bottom of our garbage can. I practically had to stand on my head to reach it. It was heavy for its small size, and in the dim light, I recognized my mother’s scrapbook. I hadn’t seen it for years. After she got a digital camera, Mom started keeping all her photos in the cloud.

Joker had pawed at a rock alongside the driveway. This particular rock was larger than most in the border, and in daylight, you could see that it was mostly white quartz with a gold-colored zigzag stripe through it. My mother always hid a house key there.

I knelt and picked up the rock, then dug my fingernails into the ground beneath it. Sure enough, about half an inch down, there was the spare key on its flashlight ring in a little plastic bag. A lot of good a house key would do me now, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The ninjas and movers had taken every other reminder of my family. I shoved it into my pocket.

A small sound from the Talstons’ house sent me scampering back to the shadows of the alley. I walked a couple of blocks and edged as close as I dared to the pool of light under a streetlamp before I opened the cover of the scrapbook.

On the first page was Mom and Dad’s wedding picture. Next page—photo of Mom pregnant with me. I pulled out the keychain to use the flashlight for a better look. That’s when I discovered the cylinder on the keychain was not a flashlight, but one of those thumb-size USB memory sticks that plug into computers. I heard a car coming, so I slammed the book closed and zipped the keychain into my pocket and jogged back to this night’s hiding hole, under an overturned rowboat beached near the Community Boat Center in Fairhaven. My bed there was not any more comfortable than the dumpster, but it smelled a lot better. And the sound of the waves lapping on shore provided at least a little comfort. I put the scrapbook under my head for protection from the gravel beneath me.

How could all this have happened? What could the neighbors have thought? I never found any announcement of my parents’ deaths, or of any murders that night in Bellingham. When I called my mom’s office, the receptionist said Amy Robinson didn’t work there anymore. My father worked out of his home office, and that number had been disconnected.

That’s when it occurred to me how strange my family life was. How unusual that my dad had zero relatives left, and my mom’s were all in Zimbabwe. What are the odds?

Zimbabwe. Do I have relatives there? Grandparents? Aunts, uncles, maybe a cousin or two? I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been to Africa. But I’ve studied up on it.

Zimbabwe has a terrifying history. If you think politics in our country are nasty, you should check out how many people get
killed
in Africa around election time. Maybe that’s why Mom left her homeland; maybe her family was on the losing side. She never talked about that. She just showed me photos of the rainbow-colored birds and butterflies and flowers she grew up with.

This memory makes me change course and slow down a little to peer at a Verde Island bush with huge amethyst flowers shaped like trumpets. Then I focus on the center of the closest blossom, and my heart skips a beat. The black-and-yellow bundle in the middle of the bloom is not an exotic flower pistil, but a furry spider with a body the size of a quarter.

Welcome to the tropics.

I veer off and pick up my pace, circumnavigating an odd depression in the ground that must have been left by a bomb. I glance with care at other flowers as I pass, and I double-check the vines to be sure they are vines. I spy a couple of butterflies and I spot two red-striped tree frogs, but no more spiders. (Thank you, Whoever-Is-in-Control-Up-There.)

A few minutes into my wildlife survey, I realize that I’ve lost track of Sebastian.

I stop. Check my watch. Two hours have passed and I’ve covered a little more than fourteen miles. I hold my breath for a few seconds and listen. I hear nothing except the screeching of birds or possibly monkeys, and the thumping of my own heart. I let myself breathe again, and bend forward and wipe the sweat off my forehead. Where the hell is he?

“Sebastian?” I holler, cupping my hands around my mouth. I turn in place, still panting, catching my breath. “Callendro?”

Nothing. A white butterfly flits past my face and lands on the slender trunk of a nearby tree. Then there’s a flash of movement, and the white wings are gone. Perched on the butterfly’s landing spot is a little green lizard that squeezes its eyes shut as it swallows. I didn’t even see that lizard before it struck. Clearly, neither did the butterfly.

“Callendro!” I yell again. When there’s still no answer, the muscles in my stomach tense up. Damn it, if Sebastian’s already ruined this race… I don’t want to finish that thought. I have to shove his sorry carcass across the finish line to win.

I run forward, keeping my course close to the line on my wrist unit, calling as I go. Before long, I switch from yelling his name to shouting things like “Answer me, you sorry excuse for a runner!” and “Goddamn it, Callendro!” and looking up toward the sky and screaming, “Tell me where he is, robot suits!”