Kim Robinson - Fifty Degrees Below

“Okay.”

Off they ran, Caroline fast on Frank’s heels. He ran up Ross to site 22, then turned up the trail that ran to the Nature Center, hurrying the pace so that they would gain some time. Behind him he heard the faint crackle of the pursuit.

They crossed the frisbee golf course, and then Frank really pushed it. At a certain point her husband wouldn’t be able to keep up. Once you were winded the will counted for nothing, you had to slow down. As animals he and Caroline were stronger, and out here they were animals. Down the narrow fairway of hole five, leading her between the trees to the left so they wouldn’t be seen. Running almost as hard as he could in the dark, Caroline right behind.

Then he was in site 21 and the bros were all standing around, wide-eyed and agog at the sight of them. Even in the midst of his adrenaline rush Frank saw that he would never hear the end of this.

He gestured to Caroline, helped her out of her jacket.

“Hi guys.” He met Zeno’s eye. Now more than ever Zeno looked impressive, like Lee Marvin in his moment of truth.

“Thanks,” Frank said, tossing the jacket at him in their usual aggro style.

“Where do you want me to go again?”

“Delhi Dhaba. Drop the jacket in the laundromat next door and get the fuck out of there.”

“Sure thing.”

“The rest of you wait a second and then wander off. Stick together though.”

“Yeah man.”

“We’ll beat the fuck out of him.”

“Just keep moving. Thanks boys.”

And with that Frank took Caroline by the hand and they were off again into the dark.

Running down the hole seven fairway he pulled off his down jacket, then passed it back to her. “Here, put this on.”

“No I’m okay.”

“No you’re not, you were shivering already.”

“What about you?”

“We run the course out here in T-shirts all the time. I’m used to it. Besides you’ve got to keep on going after this, right? Whereas I can go home.”

“Are you sure this isn’t chipped too?”

“Yes. I’ve owned it for twenty years, and no one else has been anywhere near it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She pulled it on as they jogged, and then they started running at full speed again.

“You okay?” Frank said over his shoulder.

“Yeah fine. You?”

“I’m good,” Frank said. And he was; his spirits were rising as he got on the ridge path and led her north on it. Frozen mud underfoot, frigid air rushing past him; there was no way anyone without chips to aid them could track them for long when they were moving like this.

He passed hole eight and turned up cross trail 7, and soon they were out onto Brandywine, and rising to Connecticut.

Just short of the avenue, where there was still some darkness to huddle in, he stopped her, held her. As they hugged he felt for the Acheulian hand axe, there in his jacket pocket against her side.

“What is that?” she asked.

“My lucky charm.”

“Pretty heavy for a lucky charm.”

“Yeah, it’s a rock. I like rocks.”

They stood there, arms around each other, poorly lit by a distant streetlight. Her face twisted with distress; why couldn’t it be simple? her look seemed to say. Why couldn’t they just be here?

But it wasn’t simple.

“The Van Ness Metro is just down there,” Frank said, pointing south on Connecticut.

“Thanks.”

“And where will you go?”

“I’ve got a place set up.” Then: “Listen, I heard what you said to those guys, but don’t you stick around and mess with him,” she said, waving to the east. “He’s dangerous. He really is. And we don’t want him to know you had anything to do with this.”

“I know,” Frank said. They hugged again. Briefly they kissed. He liked the feel of her in his jacket.

“Here,” she said, “you should take your jacket back. I’m going to get in the Metro, and then I’ll be into my little underground railroad setup, and I won’t need it. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He took the jacket from her, put it on, put the hand axe back in its pocket. “Where will you go?”

“I’ll contact you as soon as I can,” she said. “We’ll set up a system.”

“But—”

“I’ll let you know! Just let me go—I have to go!”

“Okay!” Frank said, frustrated.

Then she was off. Watching her turn the corner and disappear he felt a sudden stab of fear. God damn this guy, he thought.

He walked north to Delhi Dhaba and passed it, glanced into the laundromat next door. It was almost empty, only a couple of young women folding clothes together at the tables, no doubt UDC undergrads. Caroline’s black ski jacket was already there, hanging from the open door of a dryer. No sight of Zeno or any of the rest of the bros. Frank walked down to the corner and stood at the bus stop, then sat on the bench in its little shelter, consciously working to slow his breathing and pulse.

Ten minutes passed. Then three men in black leather jackets approached the laundromat, hands in their pockets. One, a tall, heavyset blond man, appeared to be checking a very heavy watch. He looked at the other men, gestured inside the laundromat. One turned and settled at the door, looking up and down Connecticut. The others went in. Frank sat there looking across the street away from them. The man guarding the door registered him along with the three others waiting at the bus stop, then he turned his attention to the various people walking up and down the sidewalks.

The two men reappeared in the doorway, the blond man holding Caroline’s jacket. That was him, then. Frank’s teeth clenched. The three men conferred. They all surveyed the street, and the blond man appeared to check his watch again. He looked up, toward Frank; said something to the others. They began to walk down the sidewalk toward him.

Shocked at this turn of events, Frank got up and hustled around the corner of Davenport. As soon as the buildings at the corner blocked their view of him he bolted, running hard east toward the park. Looking back once, he saw that they were there on Davenport, also running; chasing him down. The blond man ran with his right hand in his jacket pocket.

Frank turned on Linnaean, running harder. East again on Brandywine, a real burst of speed, unsustainable, but he wanted to get into the trees again as soon as he could. As he pounded along, gasping, he thought about the man spotting him by way of his wrist device, and decided that his down jacket must be compromised now too. Caroline had worn it, she had been chipped with a tick, these ticks were probably not used alone but in little swarms; she could have had some in her hair, who knew, but if one or more had fallen or migrated from say her hair onto his jacket, he would be chipped himself. That had to be it.

Or maybe he had just been chipped all along.

He flew down the slope to site 21, found it empty, the neglected fire still flickering. Off with his jacket, off with his shirt. The frigid air hit him and he growled. He took the hand axe out of the jacket and put it into his pants pocket.

He ran up into the mass of trees west of the site, stopped and rubbed his hands over his neck, gently and then roughly; felt nothing. He ran his hands through his hair again, leaning forward and down, pulling at his locks and shaking his head like a wet dog. Tearing at his scalp. Best he could do. Now he had to move again, just in case; he circled around the site and ducked behind one of the big flood windrows, crouched and got a view of the picnic table, between two branches.

He heard them before he saw them, all three men crashing down Ross into the site. They stopped when they saw his jacket and shirt, turned quickly and looked around them, surveying their surroundings like a team that had done it before. Frank felt the tousled hair rise on the back of his neck. His teeth were clenched.