David Dun - At The Edge

With her were two male lawyers from the Sierra Club legal-defense fund who weren't nearly as sweaty as she was. "Well, what a pleasant surprise," she said. "Look who's here to work out."

He felt exactly like a butterfly about to be stuck to a collector's board with long, sharp pins.

"Yeah, well, I thought I'd start again. Light workout."

"Uh-huh," Maria said. Her two friends hung back, only seeming to let their attentions wander elsewhere.

"I guess I better go get changed."

"Good," she said in a tone that sounded like anything but good.

It took him about ten minutes. Maria was still by the juice bar. Her two friends had disappeared.

Corey parked two cars over from the Mercedes. After turning off the key, she sat and stared in her lap. Fear bowed to rage. But now the fear was sometimes so strong that she hadn't enough rage. The German and the Japanese, they swirled in her mind. How much better it was when she had been alone, feeling next to nothing. Back then, more than anything, she wanted to kill Dan Young. Now maybe she wanted to kill the Japanese even more-it happened the second he had beaten her and called her a student. In that moment she had felt her life's redemption might lie in killing the small man. It was a moment of clarity.

Shit, what am I thinking about? If the Japanese came, she would kill him. If the German wasn't pleased, he could fuck himself. Snapping her head around, she was certain for a second that the Japanese was behind the car.

Nothing.

Then she glanced to the side again. And there he was. Smiling at her, the shit. Slowly she reached over and pressed the electric window button. He waved. Her eyes bored into his and he pretended not to know her. She raised the gun, drew a bead. She saw his mouth open, feigning astonishment. The asshole thought he was God, that he couldn't die.

Wait! He had a hearing aid. There was no hearing aid on the Japanese. And this one was slight not strong-shouldered. Oh God. She dropped the gun.

"Just kidding," she called out, forcing a smile. She was sweating like a pig. Shaking.

"Not funny," the man said.

For just a second she wondered if she was losing her mind. No, it was a likeness. Just two men who looked amazingly similar. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Flicking on the safety, she worked on herself, telling herself to calm down. Had it been the Japanese, she would have shot him through the head. It was comforting. Calming. He would be dead, lying on the pavement with the back of his head blown off. She would have done it. She could have done it. She had the power.

Amazingly, no one else had seen. If she went to work on the Mercedes, it would be OK. She opened the door, went to the trunk, and got her tools. For show, she raised her hood. No, it would call attention. She lowered it and closed it firmly. Shit, she was wasting time. Forcing herself to focus, she went to the backseat and got out the box and went to the Mercedes. In seconds she was under it, reaching up to the solenoid. It took a couple of minutes to get the right wrench, to get it on and to loosen the small nut.

Quickly she fastened the wires. From the toolbox she took a putty knife and scraped the car's underbody, then taped the heavy pipe to the bottom of the car.

After a quick check of her handiwork, Corey grabbed her tool bag and jumped in her car, almost peeling rubber as she left. More than anything she wanted to watch Dan Young explode. If she stayed, maybe she would actually see him disintegrate. But she dare not stick around. Somebody might notice her, and this time she hadn't bothered with an airtight alibi. She would drive her motorcycle like hell to Crescent City.

Already a woman looking like her would be there, the German had said, charging things, checking into a room. If anybody ever checked, they would conclude that it wasn't humanly possible to get there that fast. It wasn't great, but it would have to do.

Dan went up some stairs that were an architect's dream, complete with painted steel railroad rail, wall murals, and roughened tiles color-coordinated to be part of the murals. Even in a small town like Palmer, there must be money in this, he thought. The stairs led to a large mezzanine looking over the entire racquetball complex. The exercise bikes were located here.

Much to his surprise, Maria followed.

"This club was probably completed after you quit working out, huh?"

"Yeah. Matter of fact."

"What level you gonna ride on?" she said, slipping on one next to his.

"What about you?"

"Twelve."

Without comment he put his on level twelve. She was giving him a hard time. Given his lack of conditioning, he should have been on level six at the very maximum. He knew the machines well and at his peak had ridden on level twelve. There were only twelve levels.

"I thought I'd ride on level twelve, but since you're just getting into shape again, maybe you should try three or four," she said.

"An old farmer once said, 'Any woman can make a racehorse feel like a donkey. But it's a hell of a trick to make a donkey feel like a racehorse.' I'll do twelve."

"Jeez, you've got heart. I'll give you that."

"Yeah. That's my role here."

"Oh, and what's mine?"

"Let me keep it."

Sweat formed on his chin with frightening speed. Burning legs and burning lungs took over his mind. He glanced sideward, hoping for a letup but refusing to give up.

''If you're getting tired, don't keep going on my account,'' she said.

His breaths were deep and he began to think about whether he had capacity left. Sweat dripped onto the bike and he tried to wipe himself with a towel while he kept the pedals turning. After several minutes he dropped the towel, which meant the sweat was an uncontrolled river. Soon his breathing was tortured and then even desperate-sounding. Trying to remember the way it was, making his body like it used to be by sheer force of will, helped a little.

He looked at her again. Almost coming clear of the seat with every revolution, her body weight was barely enough to turn the pedals. There was a slight quiver in her legs. She probably rode on level eight except when she was trying to kill somebody. Now her breaths were moderately labored. He could sense that she hadn't quite counted on this level of stamina.

Blanking out everything, he focused his mind on turning the pedals, nothing else, especially not the pain that he tried to crowd behind a great wall of pride. As he began to ponder what words to use before lowering the level to three, he felt a hand on his arm.

"I'm going to level six."

Gulping for air, he couldn't talk, so he just nodded.

Immediately he steadied himself to punch in six, and as he did so, he felt instant relief. But it was short-lived. Even six was way too hard after level twelve. He knew she could keep it up for an hour if she had to. Nausea was starting to build. Everything hurt now.

"Why don't you put it on level four?" she said. "This is childish."

More determined than ever, he just gasped and rode.

"All right," she said, "you're gonna pop. I'm going to level four."

When he climbed off the bike after twenty-six minutes on level four, he doubled over and couldn't move. She tugged on his arm.

"Weights," she said.

Knowing that for a couple of reps he might do big weight, he adopted an air of studied nonchalance and, after a brief warm-up, loaded the bar to 300 pounds. Everybody around the place was watching when he slid under the weight.

"OK, you've made your point. You're still a tough guy. This is ridiculous. Take off a hundred pounds."

"Pound sand," he said.

''You wanna be friends or not?'' There was a sharpness in her voice. "I baited you into this. Now get out from under there."

Angry at being told what to do, he thought for a minute. He was pretty sure he could do it if she spotted for him. Then he reviewed his priorities.