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—”
“I know what the note said. Since we don’t know who wrote it, how can we trust it?”
Good question. Melody was understandably upset. If they didn’t receive any information by this evening, Drake was ready to call in the heavy artillery.
***
“Some researchers invented Gatorade for the University of Florida football team. It replaces carbohydrates and what they call electrolytes—stuff that you lose during vigorous physical exercise. Try it.”
Drake took a swig of Gatorade, finished his banana, and watched Melody shove a mixture consisting of peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s into her mouth.
“I have no problem trying Gatorade, but just be thankful that I suggested we carry the bananas and gorp in our pouches, along with drinks. You whined that it would add too much weight. Aren’t you glad now that we’re all alone away from civilization that we’ve got the food?”
The pouches were held in place by straps around their waists and weren’t really that inconvenient. Some people called them fanny packs, but because “fanny” was a dirty word in England, referring to the female genitals, Drake was careful not to. Liquid was the heaviest thing in a pouch, at a pound for every pint they carried. The food didn’t add that much weight, and Drake was thankful that Melody had insisted they carry it, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He had struggled through marathons before without eating anything and drinking only water. This race was teaching him that it was smart to refuel along the way.
He was also glad that Melody’s mood had improved after they started running, as it almost always did. He was worried about her mother just as she was, but there wasn’t much they could do about it at the moment.
They had picked up their pace today, and the stop to eat and drink was momentary, although Drake did a few bends from the waist to try to keep his back loose. If it weren’t for the pain that still radiated down his legs from his back, on occasion, his legs would be in good shape. His feet hadn’t suffered at all, aided by the fact that much of their running had been on the beach. Melody didn’t seem to have any physical problems. Drake couldn’t recall that she had ever complained about ailments when they ran together in England.
They finished their snack and set off again, upping their pace a little more. The lapping of the waves on the beach and the squawking of sea birds provided background noise, so they didn’t feel completely alone. Drake enjoyed the isolation, however. After some of the things he’d seen human beings do, he appreciated having breaks from most of them. Memories flitted through his brain, but softly, not having
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—”
“I know what the note said. Since we don’t know who wrote it, how can we trust it?”
Good question. Melody was understandably upset. If they didn’t receive any information by this evening, Drake was ready to call in the heavy artillery.
***
“Some researchers invented Gatorade for the University of Florida football team. It replaces carbohydrates and what they call electrolytes—stuff that you lose during vigorous physical exercise. Try it.”
Drake took a swig of Gatorade, finished his banana, and watched Melody shove a mixture consisting of peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s into her mouth.
“I have no problem trying Gatorade, but just be thankful that I suggested we carry the bananas and gorp in our pouches, along with drinks. You whined that it would add too much weight. Aren’t you glad now that we’re all alone away from civilization that we’ve got the food?”
The pouches were held in place by straps around their waists and weren’t really that inconvenient. Some people called them fanny packs, but because “fanny” was a dirty word in England, referring to the female genitals, Drake was careful not to. Liquid was the heaviest thing in a pouch, at a pound for every pint they carried. The food didn’t add that much weight, and Drake was thankful that Melody had insisted they carry it, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He had struggled through marathons before without eating anything and drinking only water. This race was teaching him that it was smart to refuel along the way.
He was also glad that Melody’s mood had improved after they started running, as it almost always did. He was worried about her mother just as she was, but there wasn’t much they could do about it at the moment.
They had picked up their pace today, and the stop to eat and drink was momentary, although Drake did a few bends from the waist to try to keep his back loose. If it weren’t for the pain that still radiated down his legs from his back, on occasion, his legs would be in good shape. His feet hadn’t suffered at all, aided by the fact that much of their running had been on the beach. Melody didn’t seem to have any physical problems. Drake couldn’t recall that she had ever complained about ailments when they ran together in England.
They finished their snack and set off again, upping their pace a little more. The lapping of the waves on the beach and the squawking of sea birds provided background noise, so they didn’t feel completely alone. Drake enjoyed the isolation, however. After some of the things he’d seen human beings do, he appreciated having breaks from most of them. Memories flitted through his brain, but softly, not having
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