Racing the Rain (35 page)

Top three is fine
, Cassidy thought,
but this is still a race.

It was a race to everyone except Mizner, who didn't so much as peek behind him. He strode along with silky strides, far enough ahead that Cassidy couldn't even hear his foot strikes.

Cassidy's pack included the Jim Lee kid he'd beaten twice. There was also a short, very fit-looking blond kid named Brantly. When it didn't look as if they were even going to try to catch Mizner, as the gun cracked at the three-quarter mark, Cassidy broke away and tried to run him down. They had gone through in 3:24, the fastest three-quarter split Cassidy had ever run. He had no idea what Mizner had run. He was too far in front to hear the splits.

Cassidy gained ten yards back by the 220 mark of the gun lap, but at that point Mizner started kicking and ran away from him. Cassidy tried to put together a kick of his own, but that strained feeling in his legs told him that he was right at the red line already. He looked quickly behind him to make sure the other two were well back, then tried to stride as efficiently as he could through the last 220.

Mizner ran 4:23.4 and was so unfazed by his effort that he kept running past the finish line and on to a victory lap. Cassidy finished and stayed in the hands-on-knees position so long an official had to come gently shoo him off the track so they could start setting up for the 440 relay.

Mr. Kamrad came running up to show him his stopwatch, but Cassidy had been watching the scoreboard clock as he finished.

“Great effort! How does it feel to be under 4:30?” Mr. Kamrad said, still excited.

Cassidy just signaled with a wave that he couldn't talk, and allowed Demski to lead him away, stumbling and rasping for air. The postrace fog bank had rolled in, clouding everything in his field of vision, though he knew it was just an artifact of oxygen debt.

“F-f-four twenty-eight one,” Demski whispered. Mr. Kamrad had given Ed his stopwatch with the time still on it. “Good f-f-frickin' running, man.”

Cassidy just shook his head, still gasping.

Mizner stopped by, smiling, looking like he'd been out for a jog. Cassidy tried to buck up, but he was still just blown out. He could hardly stand up straight. Still, he managed a smile.

“Guess I'll see you in Kernsville,” Mizner said, shaking hands.

“You bet!” said Cassidy.

As if he couldn't wait.

T
he bus ride back from Hialeah had been raucous, with the majority of the team now finished with their season, and it was clear that they were mostly relieved. They wouldn't have to go through the meat grinder of the state meet next weekend like Cassidy, Demski, and Stiggs. But Stiggs was returning with a 6-4
³
/
₄
PR in the high jump and Demski likewise had realigned his place in the numerical universe with a 1:59.5, his first time under two minutes. Cassidy was taking home a PR, too, but no one would have guessed it to look at him.

The three of them sat in the back of the bus with Mr. Kamrad, talking about the upcoming week.

“Stiggs, you'll do your usual routine Monday and Tuesday. Then I'll have you do tapering workouts for the rest of the week. You won't have to compete until Saturday morning, so your last day of hard jumping will be Wednesday. I'll get you out of class early so you can take a few easy jumps and limber up before we leave for Kernsville.”

“Right-o,” said Stiggs, still glowing from his PR. He had had one really good attempt at 6-6 and was still riding high from it. There were rumors that Coach Cornwall from Southeastern University had been at the meet. Stiggs would have liked nothing better than to get scholarship offers in two different sports.

Despite their late arrival back at the school, the girls would be waiting for them in the parking lot, and Stiggs would drive them to the Steak 'n Shake, to either celebrate or mourn, depending on how the meet had gone.

Cassidy felt like mourning in either case. He couldn't shake a pervasive sense of dread, even as Mr. Kamrad seemed to grow more animated discussing the coming week.

“You two,” said Mr. Kamrad to Cassidy and Demski, “I have a very specific taper program from Archie for you, and we are going to follow it to the letter. Quenton, you have a preliminary round Friday morning. They have to trim the field by a few guys, but I don't expect it will be too bad. The guys from some of the other regions, particularly the panhandle, won't be very tough. Ed, your prelims are Friday afternoon. Same deal. Shouldn't be hard at all. We'll take a station wagon up Thursday after practice. Trapper might come up later.”

“Really?” said Cassidy, his mood lifting.

“He said he would if he could get someone to feed his menagerie.”

Having Trapper along would be welcome in such an intimidating environment as the state meet, and it allayed Cassidy's sense of dread for a while. But by the time they hopped in the Rambler with the girls and got to the Steak 'n Shake he was back in the doldrums.

Stiggs and Jerri were playing grab-ass across from them in the booth, and Cassidy would have liked to have borrowed some of their energy, but he couldn't even fake it.

“What's the matter, bambino?” said Maria. “You don't look like you just won a big race.”

“I didn't win,” said Cassidy. “I was second. And not a close second.”

A batik headband held her dark hair back prettily and she smelled to Cassidy like some kind of fragrant light dessert, like a vanilla baba. Cassidy thought that if he could just rally a little bit, he would surely be in love with this girl. He took her hand, but she shook it loose and held it against his face.

“Okay, you don't have a fever. You made the top three and Stiggs did, too,” she said. “And Ed. So this is a celebration, right? Not a wake?”

“You're absolutely right, bambina. I'll get with the program here any time now, I promise,” Cassidy said. His smile felt like it would crack his face.

* * *

Cassidy slept like a fourth-dynasty pharaoh.

His mother checked on him several times, standing at his door but not saying anything. He felt her presence, but he was still gliding just beneath the surface, occasionally porpoising up and down for a few seconds and then plunging back into the deep water of real sleep.

Finally, at almost high noon, he dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a clean pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt.

His mother actually looked relieved to see him upright but didn't say anything at first.

“What time did you get in last night anyway?” she said finally. He sighed at this universal parental query. She put a chicken salad sandwich in front of him and a glass of iced tea.

“Just after one. We had to run Maria home and Jerri back to her car at the school.”

“Honey, I . . .”

“I was just a little late,” he said, going into defensive mode. “It was a long drive back, and—”

“No, it's not that,” she said, sitting down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing in the least bit usual about this, and he was instantly on alert.

“There's some news,” she said. He hadn't seen that look on her face since they got the telephone call that told them his grandfather was dead.

He was trying to control his unease, and the recent dread he thought he had slept away was back. He looked at his mother, waiting. He was sure her eyes were glistening.

Finally, she took a deep breath and reached back to the sideboard and retrieved the
Citrus City Sentinel
.
She opened the A section in front of him, and the headline caused a sharp, physical pain in his chest.

Trapper Nelson had been arrested for the murder of a moonshiner named Lew Gene Harvey.

F
or once he escaped church.

Joe Kern had called and asked if he could come by. His mother greeted Joe and left to attend services herself. His father was on TDY at a DEW Line radar station in Thule, Greenland, where, he often proclaimed, “There's a woman behind every tree.” It never got old, that one.

Joe Kern had been “Uncle Joe” since Cassidy's earliest memories. His father and Joe had been childhood friends, little heathens growing up wild back in the Depression. It was Uncle Joe who taught Cassidy how to use a Hawaiian sling, how to shoot a set shot, and how to throw a butterfly net. Now he was sitting in their living room on this Sunday morning, wearing a dark blue flannel suit, which meant he was probably meeting clients later. He wasn't known to be a churchgoer.

“Quenton, you probably know that Mr. Kamrad called me, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, I'm not here to try to talk you into or out of anything. My purpose is to try to tell you a little bit about what is going on, so that you can make up your own mind.”

Cassidy nodded.

“You know, of course, that I'm representing Trapper in this case. First, let me give you some background on what the procedure is. This hearing on Friday is called a preliminary hearing. Its purpose is just to determine if there is probable cause to require a jury trial. The prosecutor presents a little of the evidence to the judge, enough to convince him that there could be a case against the defendant, Trapper. It's about the lowest standard of proof in the whole judicial system. He doesn't really even have such a hearing if he thinks his case is strong enough.

“Lots of times the defendant will just waive the preliminary hearing if it's a foregone conclusion anyway, but we won't do that because we'd like to see what kind of evidence they might produce later at trial. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, the first thing is, this part of the procedure is not really very important, okay?”

“Okay.”

“The second thing is—and he was very clear about this—Trapper says that the last thing in the world he wants is for you to miss your meet because of that hearing. He understands that you are completely behind him one hundred percent and he really, really appreciates that—Quenton, the man was practically in tears—but he said for you to please go ahead and run the race and he promises that everything will be all right. And Quenton, something else. How long have you known me?”

“All my life.”

“That's right. And I haven't ever told you anything that wasn't true, have I?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, I'm telling you this now. You have my solemn promise that everything is going to be okay with Trapper. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, sir. I know that you are a great lawyer. But I know something else, too.”

“What's that?”

“I know Trapper didn't do it. I've heard what they're saying, that Trapper and his brother Charlie never were any good. How Charlie made all those threats to Judge Chillingworth before they sent him off to Raiford, and now he's been paroled and supposedly he came back and he and Trapper are up to their old ways.”

Joe Kern sighed. “I know. I've heard that nonsense, too.”

“But, Uncle Joe, Trapper would never do anything like this. He just wouldn't.” Tears were welling now, and he couldn't help it. He also didn't care. He wasn't bawling, but his eyes were flooding.

Joe Kern brushed his eyes, too.

“I know, Quenton.”

“Trapper has never been involved in anything illegal in his life, if you don't count a little poaching. Heck,
I've
taken a crawfish or two out of season, we all have. Trapper's never had anything to do with moonshiners. I've only seen him drink one beer in my whole life! I worked for him all summer long. If he had anything to do with moonshiners, I'd know about it.”

“I know.”

“Uncle Joe, I just can't imagine Trapper walking into that courtroom and looking back and not seeing me there. The man
saved my life.
” His eyes filled again. He couldn't help it.

Neither could Joe Kern. He took a deep breath and stood up, dropping a clean handkerchief into Cassidy's lap.

“I told them this wouldn't work,” he said, his voice raspy.

“I
really don't know why we're doing this. I made my decision,” said Cassidy. They were standing on Edgewater's deserted track, with just the security lights from the school providing illumination.

“Come on, no one knows what the future holds. It's not going to hurt anything to follow Archie's program for the last week. Did you sleep okay last night?” said Mr. Kamrad.

“I'm not used to having energy, so it took awhile to get to sleep. Then I had dreams . . .”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, first I dreamed that they announced last call for the mile, and I couldn't find my way into the stadium. It was like someone had hidden the competitors' entrance. I was getting frantic.”

“Well, that one's pretty easy to figure out.”

“Yeah. Then I dreamed I was in a race and someone was just in front of me in the last lap. I pulled out and started to kick and I just couldn't make my legs go faster. I was desperate, trying to grab on to something and propel myself with my arms instead. It was, I don't know . . .
maddening.
”

“Well, that's another generic athlete's nightmare. The rowers have those, too, if that helps.”

Cassidy jogged off to finish his warm-up, a mile of straights and curves. San Romani had been very explicit about these last few days, with this near all-out three-quarter time trial on the Tuesday before the Saturday event. Mr. Kamrad explained that the idea was to get some rest earlier in the week, then stress his body with an almost-race effort so that with a few more easy days his body would be at the peak of its bounce-back from the time trial just in time for the race. But it was a whole tapering regimen that also included some light jogging, some sharp, short intervals later in the week, all carefully thought out to get a runner to his absolute peak for a big race. It seemed perfectly rational to Cassidy, he just couldn't see the point. As important as this race had seemed to him before, it now paled next to the fact that they were trying to send Trapper Nelson to the electric chair.