Стивен Кинг - Elevation

“Okay,” Scott said, “I get it. You’re afraid to take the wager. I thought you might be.”

She was lifting her other leg now, but she dropped it. “Jesus shined-up Christ on a trailer hitch. Fine. It’s a bet. Now leave me alone.”

Smiling, Scott put out his hand. “We have to shake on it. That way, if you back out, I can call you a welsher right to your face, and you’ll have to suck it up.”

She snorted, but gave his hand a single hard grip. And for a moment—just one small glimmer of a moment—he saw a hint of a real smile. Only a trace, but he had an idea she had a fine one when she really let it rip.

“Great,” he said, then added, “Good discussion.” He started away, back to the 300s.

“Mr. Carey.”

He turned back.

“Why is this so important to you? Is it because I—because we —are a threat to your masculinity somehow?”

No, it’s because I’m going to die next year, he thought, and I’d like to put at least one thing right before I do. It’s not going to be my marriage, that’s kaput, and it’s not going to be the department store websites, because those guys don’t understand that their stores are like buggy-whip factories at the start of the automobile age.

But those things he wouldn’t say. She wouldn’t understand. How could she, when he didn’t fully understand himself ?

“It just is,” he said finally.

He left her with that.

At ten minutes past nine, only a little late, Mayor Dusty Coughlin stepped in front of over eight hundred runners stretching back nearly a quarter of a mile. He held a starter pistol in one hand and a battery-powered bullhorn in the other. The low numbers, including Deirdre McComb, were at the front. Back in the 300s, Scott was surrounded by men and women shaking out their arms, taking deep breaths, and munching last bites of power bars. Many of them he knew. The woman to his left, adjusting a green headband, ran the local furniture shop.

“Good luck, Milly,” he said.

She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. “Same to you.”

Coughlin raised the bullhorn. “WELCOME TO THE FORTY-FIFTH ANNUAL TURKEY TROT! ARE YOU FOLKS READY?”

The runners gave a yell of assent. One of the high school band members blew a flourish on his trumpet.

“ALL RIGHT, THEN! ON YOUR MARK… GET SET…”

The mayor, wearing his big politician’s grin, raised the starter pistol and pulled the trigger. The bang seemed to echo off the low-hanging clouds.

“GO!”

The ones at the front moved forward smoothly. Deirdre was easy to spot in her bright red shirt. The rest of the runners were packed tightly together, and their start was not so smooth. A couple fell down and had to be helped up. Milly Jacobs was jostled forward into a pair of young men wearing biking shorts and turned-around hats. Scott grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Thanks,” she said. “This is my fourth time, and it’s always like this at the start. Like when they open the doors at a rock concert.”

The bike-shorts guys saw an opening, shot past Mike Badalamente and a trio of ladies who were talking and laughing as they jogged, and were gone, running in tandem.

Scott drew even with Mike and gave him a wave. Mike skimmed him a salute, then patted the left side of his chest and crossed himself.

Everyone believes I’m going to have a heart attack, Scott thought. You’d think whatever antic providence decided it would be interesting to make me lose weight could have at least buffed me out a little, but no.

Milly Jacobs—from whom Nora had once bought a dining room set—gave him a sideways grin. “This is fun for the first half hour or so. Then it’s heck. By the 8K mark it’s hell. If you make it through that part, you catch a little following wind. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes, huh?” Scott said.

“Right. I’m hoping for that this year. I’d like to make it all the way. I’ve only managed that once. Good seeing you, Scott.” With that she picked up the pace and pulled ahead of him.

By the time he passed his own house on View Drive, the pack had begun to spread out more and he had running room. He moved steadily and easily at a fast jog. He knew this first kilometer wasn’t a fair test of his stamina, because it was all downhill, but so far Milly was right—it was fun. He was breathing easy and feeling good. That was enough for now.

He passed a few runners, but only a few. More passed him, some from the 500s, some from the 600s, and one speed-devil with 721 pasted to his shirt. This comical fellow had a spinning whirligig mounted on his hat. Scott was in no particular hurry, at least not yet. He could see Deirdre on every straight stretch, maybe four hundred yards ahead. Her red shirt and blue shorts were impossible to miss. She was taking it easy. There were at least a dozen runners ahead of her, maybe even two dozen, and that didn’t surprise Scott. This wasn’t her first rodeo, and unlike most of the amateurs, she would have a carefully thought-out plan. Scott guessed she would allow others to set the pace until the eighth or ninth K, then start pulling ahead of them one by one and not take the lead until Hunter’s Hill. She might even make it exciting by waiting until downtown to put on her final burst, but he didn’t think so. She would want to win going away.

He felt the lightness in his feet, the strength in his legs, and resisted the urge to speed up. Just keep the red shirt in your sights, he told himself. She knows what she’s doing, so let her guide you.

At the intersection of View Drive and Route 117, Scott passed a little orange marker: 3K. Ahead of him were the bike-shorts guys, one pounding along on either side of the yellow centerline. They passed a couple of teenagers, and Scott did likewise. The teenagers looked to be in good shape, but they were already breathing hard. As he left them behind, he heard one of them pant, “We gonna let an old fat guy get ahead of us?”

The teens sped up, one passing Scott on either side, both breathing harder than ever.

“Seeya, wouldn’t want to be ya!” one of them puffed.

“Go with your bad selves,” Scott said, smiling.

He ran easily, eating up the road with long strides. Respiration still okay, ditto heart-rate, and why not? He was a hundred pounds lighter than he looked, and that was only half of what he had going for him. The other half was muscles still built for a man carrying 240.

Route 117 made a double curve, then ran straight beside Bowie Stream, babbling and chuckling along in its shallow, stony bed. Scott thought it had never sounded better, the misty air he was pulling deep into his lungs had never tasted better, the big pines crowding down on the other side of the road had never looked better. He could smell them, tangy and bright and somehow green. Every breath seemed deeper than the last, and he kept having to rein himself in.

I am so glad to be alive on this day, he thought.

Outside the covered bridge crossing the stream, one of those orange markers announced 6K. Beyond it was a sign reading HALFWAY HOME! The sound of feet thundering inside the bridge was—to Scott, at least—as beautiful as a Gene Krupa drumroll. Overhead, disturbed swallows raced back and forth under the roof. One actually flew into his face, its wing fluttering his brow, and he laughed aloud.

On the far side, one of the bike-shorts dudes was sitting on the guardrail, gasping for breath and massaging a cramp in his calf. He didn’t look up as Scott and the other runners passed. At the junction of Routes 117 and 119, runners were clustered around a refreshment table, gulping water, Gatorade, and cranberry juice from paper cups before going on. Eight or nine others, who had blown themselves out on the first six kilometers, were sprawled on the grass. He was delighted to see Trevor Yount—the bullnecked Public Works guy with whom Scott had had the confrontation in Patsy’s—was among them.