Part 17 (1/2)

”You talk to me, not to him!” Keelie demanded. ”And you d.a.m.ned well know what I'm referring to. The perverted little departing gift you and your sister left me.”

I looked at her, over at Manny, back at Keelie, and raised my shoulders. I had nothing.

”Why would I give you a gift?” I said.

”Why? Because you're sick. That's why!”

I looked at Manny. ”You're gonna have to help me out here,” I said. ”'Cause, I got nothing.”

”I'm talking about this!” Keelie grabbed the box Manny held and shoved it at me. ”Your furry friend!”

I stared down at the box. Obviously not chocolate.

”Open it!” Keelie shrieked. ”Go ahead! Open it!”

I shrugged and pulled the lid off and looked inside. I felt my insides do a trap-door number. A dead rat peered up at me.

”Did you see the note?”

It was kind of hard to miss. It was attached to the poor rodent with a pin and was written in bright, red ink.

Happy Bike Trails, Keelie!

I was just about to observe that, indeed it was someone's idea of a cruel, sick joke, but certainly not mine, when I spotted the product lettering on the side of the box.

Chocolate sandwich cookie-generic variety.

A chill that had nothing to do with my recent water ride sent a s.h.i.+ver down to my soggy bike shoes.

I didn't need to see the business name on the box to recognize some sobering truths: One: Uncle Frank was using the cheap Freezee cookie fillers again.

And two: Someone was out to turn this reality ride into a case of real-time road rage.

How do you say ”roadkill”?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

”Pump! Pump!”

”I'm pumping! I'm pumping!”

Head down, thighs burning, I fantasized various payback scenarios specifically designed for a certain short, balding, grouch of a boss who'd orchestrated this week-long sweat fest. Scenarios featured in my ”road rage revenge” ranged from lame pranks featuring fake p.o.o.p and angry, red insects, (or, alternatively, sneaky, sleepy ones) and over-the-counter aids designed to increase the movement of waste through the colon. Okay. So I wasn't as diabolically creative as Nine to Fivers Judy, Violet, and Doralee. I was plotting under pressure here.

Rather than, ”Pump, pump!” my mantra became ”Payback, payback!”

We all have our own motivational tools, right? And revenge? Gotta be near the top of the list.

I had no clue how long we'd been riding or how many wheel revolutions we'd put between the Mo River and us. It was all I could do to pedal and breathe at the same time.

”Come on! Pick it up a bit.”

”Hey! I'm operating on impulse power back here,” I yelled.

And my impulse reserves were how-low-can-you-go.

”We're falling behind,” El Capitn barked.

”So what?” I hollered back. ”You don't get brownie points for time.”

”No. But the brownies could be gone if we're late for the noon meal.”

”Brownies?”

”Obviously, you haven't heard about the TribRide fare.”

”Remind me again.” I had heard some delectable rumors, but none had yet been confirmed.

”Baked goods galore. Brownies. Bars. Cookies. And pies of every type. Berry. Custard. Chocolate.”

”Chocolate?” My formerly dry mouth began to water.

”And that's just dessert. The entrees? They are out of this world.”

”Such as?” I could feel my legs pumping faster.

”Well, for lunch you've got your brats, your barbecued chicken and beef, pulled pork. Subs. And dinner-” He paused.

”Yes! Yes!”

”Carbs are king. That's when you get your pastas. Plates piled high with spaghetti, hot, cheesy, lasagna, and b.u.t.tery, garlic bread.”

I pushed myself harder.

”And then you have the church ladies' specials like chicken and noodles, or beef and noodles. And there's pizza, fried chicken, steak.”

”Steak?” I stepped into it even more. ”Pump! Pump!” Now I was leading the charge.

”Well, would you look at who we have here? The rat-killing rodeo queen. Off any rodents lately?”

I hazarded a quick look to my left. Keelie Keller sat astride a bicycle that would have cost me six months' salary to pay for. Close on her heels...er wheels...biked pals, Tiara and Langley, shadowed by several reality TV crewmen with cameras mounted on their bicycles and helmets.

I'm pretty sure my mouth did one of those ”no-friggin'-way” jaw drop numbers here. Keelie Keller looked like she'd just stepped off the pages of a fas.h.i.+on magazine. No sign of armpit perspiration. No blotchy, sweat-smeared mascara. No dirt streaks or sunburned noses. Not one freaking hair out of place.