Alan Cook - Run into Trouble

“I’m not a war hero.”

“We were chosen because we make a good team.” Melody had the look in her eye that Drake knew meant that you better not underestimate her. “If Drake hadn’t been hurt, we’d be doing much better.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tom said. “I’ve watched you run. You’re the best female runner I’ve seen. And I’ve seen the women who’ve run Boston since they started letting them in.”

Melody picked up male admirers wherever she went. It was obvious that Tom was among that number. Also that she was susceptible to his flattery. Something stirred inside Drake. He tried to squelch it. He’d had his chance and blown it.

Tom looked at Drake. “If you were in top shape I’d be watching over my shoulder for you two.”

“Thanks. Maybe you’ll still have to.”

Drake closed the door of the phone booth located at an intersection in downtown Oceanside, not far from their motel. He had walked back to the motel with the others. After they had said goodnight to Tom and Jerry, he had told Melody what he was going to do.

He had decided against making the call from the motel room. Years of covert operations had taught him that if you didn’t want other people to find out what you were doing, you shouldn’t leave a trail, however faint. With the phone booth door closed, nobody would hear him, especially with the traffic noise. He kept his hand over his mouth on the off chance that somebody might be watching through a pair of binoculars and trying to read his lips.

He lifted the black receiver and dialed zero.

“Operator.”

“I’d like to make a collect call to…” Drake gave the long distance number to the operator. When she asked for his name, he said, “Drake.”

He heard various noises while the operator put through the call and then the sound of a ringing telephone. He hoped Blade would be home.

After half a dozen rings the operator said, “Nobody is answering.”

“Let it ring a few more times.”

After about the eighth ring Drake heard the sound of the phone being answered with a brusque hello.

“I have a collect call from a Mr. Drake. Will you accept the charge?”

“Drake? Who does that bastard think he is?”

“Will you accept the charge, sir?”

“All right, all right, put him on.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Drake.”

“You took long enough to answer the phone.”

“What do you mean by calling me collect?”

“Relax. I’ll pay for it. I’m calling from a phone booth.”

“Yeah, just like you paid for all those drinks you owe me. It’ll be a cold day in hell… Speaking of hell, where the hell are you?”

“California.”

“Since you flunked geography you wouldn’t know that there’s a three-hour time difference.”

“You never go to bed before midnight, unless you’ve suddenly gotten senile. I need your help.”

“That’s not new. I bailed you out your whole career. What’s the matter now?”

“I’m in a race called Running California. You ever hear of it?”

“Not a chance. It sounds crazy, just like you.”

“It’s being sponsored by a privately owned company called Giganticorp.”

“I have a vague hit on that one. I think they supply military products to the government.”

“I need more information on them and their CEO, Casey Messinger. He just announced he’s running for senator from California?”

“You mean in nineteen seventy? That’s more than a year away.”

Drake heard a woman’s voice in the background asking who was on the phone.

“Did you get married?”

“Hell no.”

“Another thing. Somebody-or some group-may be betting on Running California.” Drake filled him in quickly on the details, not mentioning the note or the demands. “I need any information you can give me on that.”

“When I find out something-if I find out something-where can I reach you?”

“I’ll have to call you. We’re on the move.”

“I supposed you’ll call collect.”

“Probably. Oh, and there’s one more thing. Do you remember Melody?”

“How could I forget that babe? Although what she saw in you I’ll never know.”

“She’s in the race. She’s been having trouble reaching her mother in England, and she’s worried about her. Do you think you could have an agent check up on her?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Give me her mother’s address.”

Drake did that. “Thanks for the help. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than you can ever repay.”

“Say hello to your squeeze for me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

We have obtained permission for you to run through Camp Pendleton on the beach. This is an isolated but beautiful area, and you should enjoy having the beach to yourselves much of the time. Near the north end of Camp Pendleton there is a bathing suit optional beach, but you should be used to this by now. You will have to go up to the road to detour around the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. We will post a race official on the beach at the path you should use to exit at the power plant. After passing San Onofre go back to the beach and continue to San Clemente State Beach. You will be leaving San Diego County and entering Orange County at this point.

Drake was up before the wakeup call at six, stretching his sore back muscles. Stretching through the lingering pain. If he were going to stay in this race, he wanted to do more than cover the distance; he wanted to compete. Even if they could narrow the time differential that the other teams were beating them by each day, that would make him feel he was accomplishing something.

His body felt a little looser. The good news was that after three days of running he hadn’t suffered any new problems. Actually, to say that they were running was wishful thinking-their average pace hadn’t been more than that of a brisk walk.

He put on his running clothes and then a sweat suit to ward off the morning chill. As he was about to leave the room, he noticed the note he had scribbled to himself in the middle of the night. Nighttime ideas disappeared like the stars when the sun rose. Now if he could only read it. He finally decided it was the letters BB. For “bulletin board.”

He took the threatening note from the envelope in the suitcase Giganticorp had purchased to replace the one burned in the accident and went out to the lobby. He handled the paper with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, belatedly being careful to not leave more fingerprints.

Drake held the note beside the notice on the board that showed the elapsed time of each team. The names of the runners were typed with the times handwritten beside the names. He compared the typed letters of the two documents and noticed immediate problems. The sheet on the board was a Xerox copy, not an original. It had probably been typed in San Jose; copies had been made there. In addition, it had a different typeface than the threatening note. IBM Selectric typewriters had removable type balls. Each ball could have a different typeface. If the note he held had been typed on a Selectric, as he suspected, it might be almost impossible to find the actual typewriter that had done the job.

Melody appeared, also in sweats, looking unkempt, which was unusual for her. She had no makeup on, and her sandy hair had been hastily cinched in a ponytail, but loose strands stuck out of her head in several directions.

Drake tried to make a joke. “You look as bad as I did when you first saw me at Coronado.”

“I couldn’t sleep, worrying about my mum. Fred just helped me call her, but she still didn’t answer the phone.”

“Blade has an agent checking on her. I’ll call him tonight to see if he’s learned anything. The note said she’d be all right as long-”