Part 26 (1/2)
”Be back in a bit,” he kissed Janelle.
”What's a bit?” she called after him, frustrated.
Running through the damp air, Shane felt as if his heart had been injected with thick sap. Something was wrong with Thailand. The mouse had undergone some failure of its renal glands. His chance to save Lily, and to bring Caleb home, was gone.
Inside the coffee shop the music was horrifyingly up-tempo; its optimism grated on Shane's nerves. He wished he had suggested a bar. He sat in a hard chair. Beside him a woman produced a shrill vibrato laugh after every sentence she finished. Finally, after half an hour, a bell over the door twinkled, and Prajuk hesitated in the threshold. Worry seemed to contaminate his face. Shane watched him inhale one last mad pull from the Parliament an inch from his face. He lifted a hand, and Prajuk came over, reeking of smoke.
”What killed him?”
Prajuk narrowed his eyes, confused. Then he nodded slowly. ”This thing, it works. I told you that it would.”
Shane dropped his head. The flutter of a billion stars. When he looked back up, Prajuk was still staring at him. ”The mouse is fine, Shane. We, on the other hand, are not.”
”What happened?”
”Our Mister Healy.”
”Healy?”
”He called Anthony Leone.”
”He did what?” he shouted.
The two women at the next table turned to them. Shane took a hard breath through his nose.
”He left a voice mail for Anthony. Which Anthony forwarded to me. In this thing he says that he has been working for Prajuk Acharn and Shane Oberest in a lab away from the office. On a biologic which we told him is a Helixia project. He has asked to speak with the head of this project.”
Shane let his head fall against his forearms. ”f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k.”
”And then he told him that he is concerned because we are planning to give this drug to a baby.”
”What did you say to him?”
”Nothing. I just received this thing, this voice mail, on my e-mail. Clearly Anthony expects an answer however.” Prajuk glanced around, as if the cafe were full of biotechnology spies, which, for all Shane knew, it probably was.
”I told you,” Shane said softly, ”if anyone at Helixia found out anything, you're out. You were never part of it. There are no records. I'm taking full owners.h.i.+p of it all. I'm sorry it came to this.” He pushed his hands through his black hair as he thought out loud. ”I can probably tell Anthony that I used your name to get Healy to work for me, but that you never had any part in it, and Healy's exaggerating or lying or something. I'll think about it.”
The scientist stared at him.
”Look,” Shane reminded him, ”we talked to Brad Whitmore. We're not breaking a law.”
”Laws and reputations are separate things.”
Shane's amber eyes lit up. ”Or, tell Anthony that you turned Healy down for an interns.h.i.+p. He's making this all up.”
”How would he know your name?”
Shane's head began to hurt. Outside a soft rain had arrived. The drizzle it left on the windows was, he saw, almost unbearably beautiful.
Shane reached across the table and patted his arm. ”Stop smoking.”
”I like smoking.”
”Everyone likes smoking. But everyone quits.”
”You never even started, not even once?”
”I never did.”
”Because you are a runner.”
Shane saw Fred and Caleb, far ahead of him on a winding morning road, in synch in the dampness of the ocean air. No, he thought. That was something he was not.
8.
On the eve of the Yosemite Slam, they attended a pre-race briefing out in the park.
Whatever Mack had expected in terms of numbers, Caleb thought, this had to be bigger than he had ever hoped for. Whether it was the Internet, or Mack's efforts at press, there were at least six hundred runners here. This was the kind of number Western States drew. Mack had really done this. It was, Caleb thought, something of a miracle.
The Happy Trails Running Club a.s.sembled at the front of a clearing by the Big Oak Flat entrance to Yosemite. Walking among the crowd, Kevin and Alice commented that some new force was present, tangible. They all felt it. Caleb was not sure if it was positive or threatening. Perhaps it was coming from the presence of the camera crews, the trucks, the rumors of this event's difficulty. Perhaps from some other source.
All day, the lines had grown for medical check-ins. All the entrants were weighed, their pulses taken, and given waivers to sign forgoing their rights to sue for any reason. Caleb came in at 173 pounds, up three from the Hardrock. He was given number 24.
As the sun slipped behind Glacier Point, a broad man in his fifties wearing a tan cowboy hat turned on a beige megaphone. Beside him stood Mack, his face hosting a long-toothed grin.
Kevin tapped Caleb's shoulder. ”Barry Strong.”
Mack and Barry were nodding, looking out at the a.s.sembled entrants, at the camera marked ABC SPORTS, behind which stood a young man wearing headphones. The sun was falling rapidly, bathing the field in violet shadow.
Mack pointed to a young woman talking on a phone and gave a questioning shrug. She returned a thumbs-up. Barry adjusted his hat and began to address the crowd.
”Welcome to the Yosemite Slam!” he shouted into his megaphone.
Cheers went up and lasted a good two minutes. The producer flashed another thumbs-up at Mack. It seemed things were going well.
”I want you to take a good last look at yourselves. Okay? Because whoever you are tonight, you'll be somebody else from now on.”
More whooping and clapping. Barry handed the megaphone to Mack, who waved it manically. His voice sounded tinny and distorted through its plastic.
”As you can see, ABC is taping this event. You will see some cameras on the course, at positions we can get a cameraman to. Don't let them distract you.”
He looked around. An awkward stoppage of communication ensued. Eventually Barry took the megaphone back. He paced as he spoke.
”Okay, folks. Rule One. No b.i.t.c.hing. I understand that a few newbies may be in attendance. So let me explain: you volunteered. We don't want to hear it.”