Racing the Rain (34 page)

“Okay, now tell me every single thing you remember,” said Trapper.

“I pretty much already did,” said Cassidy. “It was around nine or so. Just two guys going out in a boat to dive.” He described the boat and the men as best he could, repeating how dark it was.

“What's the big deal?” he said. “I thought you said they were big divers and stuff. Lots of people go out night fishing or diving.”

“I'm telling you again: those guys are not my friends. When they're out late at night, it is not likely for any night dives, or night fishing either.”

Trapper looked up into the frangipani branches, deep in thought. Cassidy hadn't seen him look so serious since the incident at Moccasin Cove.

“I want you to promise me something,” he said finally. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said, puzzled.

“I want you to promise me that you will not breathe a word of what you saw to another human being. Can you do that? This is as serious as it can possibly be.”

“Okay, sure. But I didn't really see any—”

“
Not a word!
To anyone. Not your parents, not your girlfriend, not anyone. Okay?”

“Okay, sure.”

“Okay, I have to go. I'll probably see you at practice Monday. Remember . . .”

“Right. Not a word.”

“Right.”

* * *

His parents were gone, so Cassidy got to indulge himself for lunch: two banana-and-pineapple sandwiches, made with Merita bread, and one with Hellmann's mayonnaise, the other with peanut butter. He poured a big glass of milk from the wax carton.

When he sat down at the Formica table, he noticed that day's
Citrus City
Sentinel.
He hadn't read it before he left for the library that morning.

The front page bore a huge headline: “Circuit Judge & Wife Missing from Beach Home.”

Cassidy momentarily forgot his sandwiches and read:

Manalapan—Circuit Judge Curtis Chillingworth and his wife Marjorie were reported missing from their Manalapan beach home yesterday morning, according to Palm Beach County sheriff's spokesman Dan Holt.

Authorities were alerted when Judge Chillingworth failed to arrive at a hearing scheduled yesterday morning at the Palm Beach County courthouse. They also received a call from a workman who went to the judge's cottage early yesterday morning in order to begin a building project.

Police found little in the way of clues except for a broken porch light, a discarded roll of tape, and a spattering of blood. They wouldn't divulge any other possible clues.

“We ruled robbery out right away. There was money found in Mrs. Chillingworth's purse. And their swimming clothes were found inside, so it is unlikely there was a drowning accident,” said Holt. “Right now we are treating this as an abduction.”

Family members are in the process of raising a reward for information regarding the case.

Cassidy sat and looked out the jalousied kitchen door to the caster bean tree in the side yard. He remembered seeing Judge Chillingworth at Trapper's, his stern manner and suppressed smile. He remembered the respect with which he was treated in the rough-and-tumble camaraderie of the camp.

Now he had disappeared, along with his wife.

And there was blood at the scene.

“T
he state rankings came out yesterday,” said Mr. Kamrad. Everyone was sitting on the grass in a semicircle. The coach allowed the buzz to settle down on its own. Finally, he held up a hand for silence.

“Some congratulations are in order. Our own Mr. Stiggs is seventh in the high jump at 6-2
¹
/
₄
, despite coming out late from basketball. He's only two inches out of first place, so naturally a lot of people are picking him to finish high—maybe even win state. So, way to go, Stiggs!”

Stiggs, never one for false modesty, held up both arms in triumph, getting a pretty good laugh.

“Uh, Mr. Stiggs has scratched from the 440-yard event, however,” said Mr. Kamrad, getting an even bigger laugh. Lenny half stood and took a little bow.

“Okay, that's not all, men, settle down.” He waited for quiet.

“Ed Demski is eighth in the half at 2:00.5.”

Applause and whoops as Demski, sitting beside Cassidy, grinned and hung his head, embarrassed by the attention.

“And . . .” He waited again. “And, it says right here . . .” He pretended to study the sheet on his clipboard.

“Hmmm, unless there's a typo or something, it appears that our own Quenton Cassidy, at 4:33.5, made the list at number ten in the mile!”

Cassidy was surprised. He hadn't had much competition in the local meets but had run another hard race against Jim Lee, who ran much smarter than the first time.

But Cassidy had run tired in every race and was beginning to think that his physical funk was a permanent condition. He certainly didn't feel like the tenth-ranked miler in the state.

In a good mood, everyone dispersed to their different events, but a few gathered around Mr. Kamrad to study the rankings more closely. Cassidy waited until the coach finally shooed them off to their workouts.

“Yes, Quenton?” he said.

“I was just wondering who's ahead of me in the mile?”

“Well . . .” Mr. Kamrad looked a little sheepish. He studied his clipboard briefly, then handed it to Cassidy.

“Don't let this discourage you,” he said. “You haven't begun to peak yet. When you're tapered and rested . . .”

Cassidy found the mile list on the second page. There was his name in tenth place all right. In first place he read: “Jerry Mizner, Pompano, 4:20.8.”

“What? Is this right?”

Mr. Kamrad gave him a sympathetic smile, taking the clipboard back.

“Yes, it is. They had a big meet down in Miami and he and this kid in second place, Chris Hosford, from Christopher Columbus, got into it. They both ran PRs.” Cassidy took the clipboard back and looked at the list again. The second-place time was 4:21.0.

“I was thinking Mizner's PR was 4:26 something.”

“It used to be.”

“Third drops off to 4:25.8. At least that seems human,” Cassidy said. He was trying not to sound defeatist, but he felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach.

“Look, Quenton, there's no need to get psyched out here. The regionals are in two weeks. It'll be your first heads-up race against Mizner, and you'll be reasonably well rested for—”

“Reasonably?”

“Archie has you cutting back pretty good two days before. You'll be—”

“That's not enough!” Cassidy said.

“You only have to finish in the top three to go to state. That's all he's thinking about right now.”

Mr. Kamrad smiled grimly, pushed his thick glasses back on his nose, and held up his other clipboard, the one with San Romani's schedules on it.

“Don't forget . . .”

“Yeah,” said Cassidy. “I know. ‘Archie's Axioms.' ”

“That's right. And one of them says: ‘Train
through
everything until it really counts.' ”

“I don't suppose there's one on there that says something like ‘Give a guy a break'?”

“You're thinking of Christianity, or maybe Buddhism. This is . . .
SanRomanity
!”

Jogging off to join Demski and the others, Cassidy laughed.
SanRomanity, that's pretty good. Almost rhymes with “insanity.”

T
wo days of easy running wasn't enough rest by a long shot, but it was all he got.

On Thursday they did a short set of 220s. They were specified to be “sharp,” for which Cassidy never got a definition. So they ran 30s and 31s, and then Cassidy and Demski battled out the last one, with Demski finishing just barely ahead in 27.8.

On Friday, when Mr. Kamrad announced they were doing a moderate five-mile run, Cassidy felt like walking off the track. He might have actually done it, too, but he saw Trapper's Jeep pulling up.

“Why so down?” Trapper asked.

“The most important meet so far in the season is tomorrow night. Archie—I mean, Mr. San Romani—has us doing a hard five-miler,” Cassidy said. He was trying to keep the whimper out of his voice.

“I know. I talked to him last night. He told me this is a crucial time and he's sure you can finish in the top three to make it to state. That's the big thing on his mind right now.”

“Top three? Maybe I can, maybe I can't. But I have to run against the best guy in the state tomorrow! I'd kind of like to have at least a chance not to get killed again!”

“Quenton, we've trusted Archie before, and he hasn't let us down yet.”

“Maybe things aren't like they used to be,” Cassidy said. “Maybe training in the 1930s was different. People are a lot faster nowadays.”

“Quenton, you—”

“How fast did Mr. San Romani run, anyway? What was his best mile? Do you know?”

Trapper gave him a sympathetic look, like he used to when Cassidy was just a kid and was messing up.

“Yes, I know,” Trapper said.

“And?”

“It was 4:07, Quenton. Less than a half second off the world record at the time.”

Cassidy took a deep, resigned breath and looked around.

“Demski! Let's go!” he said.

* * *

There was nothing more definitive in their world than their personal black-and-white numbers, their personal records, PRs. The numbers didn't lie and they didn't wear away with time, as even the names on granite tombstones did.

The regional meet was held at Pompano Beach's new rubberized asphalt track. Cassidy couldn't believe how good it felt to run on it, particularly compared to Edgewater's number-two road asphalt.

He also couldn't believe the multihued sweat suits from dozens of schools in the region. He had never been to a meet this big before. What in the world would the state meet in Kernsville be like? If he even made it.

When he saw how fit the other runners looked, he experienced the “what am I doing here?” fears. It was the old self-doubt he always felt at the bigger events. He wondered if this wasn't all some big mistake. But his training log was his security blanket. At Mr. San Romani's suggestion, Cassidy had taken it along with him in his equipment bag.

“When you're feeling psyched out, get out your diary,” he told him. “Look back over the last few months of forty- and fifty-mile weeks. Look at the quarter-mile repeats at sixty-four and sixty-five seconds where you and Ed beat each other's brains out in the heat. Then try to imagine any of those other guys working any harder than that.”

After getting the feel of the track, he jogged out of the stadium and followed some of the other runners on a path that went around the perimeter of the school grounds. It was a fairly new school, more expensively built than Edgewater. Despite the sun sinking below the horizon, it was still warm and humid. He had left his sweat bottoms in his bag.

Cassidy was used to warming up alone. Demski and Lindstrom's events weren't until later, but the mile was the third event, right after the high hurdles and the hundred. No one else on Edgewater's team had run the 5:00 qualifying time in the mile except for Demski and Lindstrom, and they weren't about to risk doubling in such a big meet.

He was just coming around the tennis courts when he saw the familiar blue-and-gold uniform with the whirling tornado on the chest. Mizner, already in shorts and singlet, looked up and smiled. Cassidy hadn't counted on this. He thought of Mizner as some kind of boogeyman that lived in his daydreams and nightmares and drove him through blistering workouts on the track. He wasn't sure quite how to deal with the flesh-and-blood human being standing in front of him, smiling and offering his hand. Mizner's dark complexion was even more deeply tanned than the last time he'd seen him. With such fine, even features, flashing white teeth, and easy smile, he hardly looked like the ogre of Cassidy's imagination.

Cassidy couldn't help smiling back. They shook hands like it was the most natural thing in the world for mortal enemies to be friendly. Cassidy was skinny as a wading bird, but Mizner's hand felt fragile to the point of delicacy.

“Congratulations on your PR,” Cassidy said. “It must have been some race.”

“Hey, yeah, thanks. I didn't think I was ready to run that fast, but that Hosford guy didn't give me much choice. I think he's got it in for me for some reason.” He laughed.

“What did you do, outlean him at the tape?”

“Pretty much. I thought I had put him away and then he came back on me in the last hundred. That's the first time that's ever happened to me. I'm glad he's in a different region, frankly. I was so blown out I couldn't double back in the two-mile.”

“Eight laps after a hard mile, no thank you,” Cassidy said. “Sometimes I come back in the half . . .”

“You seemed to handle two miles okay in cross-country.” Mizner laughed. “I still have bad dreams about that race.”

Ah
, Cassidy thought,
I'm not the only one.

“Well, I'd better . . .” Cassidy gestured at the path ahead.

“Yeah, me too. Good luck out there tonight.” They shook hands again.

“Yeah, you too,” said Cassidy, and immediately wondered if such a benediction was ever sincere. He guessed he wished him all the luck in the world as long as he was behind.

* * *

Mizner turned out not to need any luck at all.

He led off with a sixty-two-second quarter that devastated the field. Cassidy was in a chase pack of three that followed along meekly as Mizner, instead of blowing up and falling back to them as everyone expected, actually built on his lead over the next two laps.

Mr. Kamrad said only one thing every time Cassidy's group went past him: “Top three, Quenton. Top three.”