At The Edge

21

Dan slouched into his chair and stirred the papers on his desk. He couldn't stop thinking about Maria. While he drank his coffee and waited for some brilliant plan for reconciliation to reveal itself, he thought about the Highlands and all his projects for the day.

He felt tired in his mind. When Tess was alive, it used to be that late on Saturday morning after his trip to the office he would get recharged by an intense physical workout. Get the blood flowing, the arteries expanded, and turn his body into a physical machine that glowed warm and healthy. Now he was starting to feel weak in every respect. His exercise routine was turning into a few halfhearted push-ups and a little jog. The alcohol had done that. He knew he could work smarter, do more, think clearer, if he went back to his old habits. Before he started in on the afternoon's sleuthing, he would work out. Like the old days.

A little less angry after an hour of trying to parse through the mysteries of the Highlands, he tried chasing down Maria. First he called the local Environmental Center, where the woman's voice turned cold when he identified himself over the telephone. They hadn't seen Maria Fischer all day. He tried Maria's room at the Palmer Inn three times about ten minutes apart and got no answer. Just when he was about to go out the door, he called one more time.

"Hello," she said crisply, surprising him.

"I'd like to talk. We have things to talk about."

"So talk." Her voice sounded worse than distant, harsher than cold.

"Maybe we could meet for a cup of coffee."

David Dun

At The Edge

"Oh yeah, and then dinner, then coffee at your house. Lose the line, lose the gimmicks. What do you want?"

"I want the friendship back."

"Good luck." There was a click and she was gone. What a hard edge that woman had on her. At least she didn't deny that there was a "friendship" of sorts. He decided to view that as a start.

It took twelve minutes to drive home from his office, one minute longer than usual. Pepacita looked positively shocked when he began rummaging through the boxes in his closet for his gym shorts and jockstrap. After more than two years, some of the elastic stretch was gone. The shorts would fit but barely. Disgusting. He had thickened a little around the middle.

"Wanna go?" he asked Nate, who had been standing by watching with a somewhat doubtful eye.

"I think this is gonna be like Mrs. Ogletree singing 'The Star-Spangled Banner,' Dad."

"And what is that like?"

"She wheezes and we all wish she'd stop."

"Well, thank you, son. Didn't know I was that bad off."

"Well, you aren't fat like Mrs. Mullins."

"Another vote of confidence."

"You used to be really buff."

He stood straight and pulled his stomach tight. "I'm not that bad. You could shoot baskets while I work out."

"There's a bunch of tall guys that'll just grab the ball."

"Life is full of tall guys."

"I don't have to play with 'em."

Finally he had his old white socks, shoes, and sweat clothes free of the boxes. Realizing he hadn't called his mother for a week, he picked up the phone and found her in the house reading. By the time he finished a somewhat halting explanation of Maria Fischer, twenty minutes had passed. On his way to the gym, he spent another fifteen minutes on the cell phone talking with his sister, Katie, trying to avoid her somewhat pointed questions about Maria. He refused to allow any hint of desperation in his tone.

Feeling slightly exhilarated at the prospect of a workout, he pulled into the parking lot of the health club with building confidence. Then he saw the clientele going and coming. Out of eight people in the lot, one had a beer belly and most didn't look all that athletic. Still, there was that one hard-body guy. By the time he got the car lined up for the narrow parking space, everybody was in the building or gone- save one couple. They were leaving and looked beat, especially her, but the way she leaned on her guy had a warmth to it and he remembered what he missed.

Corey watched Dan pull into the health-club parking lot. Frustration at not being able to get to the Mercedes and blow his ass to hell had turned to fury. On her seat under a newspaper was her silenced Colt. As she watched Dan Young walking out of the back of the lot, she gripped the gun and fingered the trigger. Shoot the bastard. For a second her knee shook, her mind perched on a razor blade of indecision.

People had faded away into the club. There was only a couple in the lot. If they drove off, she could just blow him away. She could actually do it and be done in thirty seconds. She released the brake, rolling forward. Then she stopped abruptly. Am I losing it? We didn't plan this. She and the German had discussed a bomb at length. He had given her the concept.

She snapped around, expecting to see the Japanese bastard. God, he had unnerved her. Something had happened to her. No shrimp shit of a man like that could make a plaything out of her. Those placid eyes. She strained to remember every tiny detail, to understand why her kick hadn't broken ribs. The next time her gun would be ready. The little shit couldn't move faster than a bullet.

She put her head on the wheel and took a deep breath. There were no Orientals. He hadn't followed her. To reassure herself, she carefully looked over the cars, behind her, to both sides. She needed to get a grip and follow the plan. Glancing in the backseat, she saw the box with the bomb. It was simple. You wired it to the solenoid and it blew up when you started the car. She knew exactly what she had to do. Slowly she rolled forward right past the Nazi Dan Young.

"I'm going to blow you straight to hell," she said aloud.

Dan still had plenty of meat on him, but after 2 1/2 years it had begun to undergo a slight metamorphosis. He was living with the beginnings of transformation from muscle man to slack man, and the consequent globules of adipose tissue that formed on the abdomen wall. And the loss of his wind. After over two years of marginal exercise, the first thing to go was cardiovascular stamina. Now he knew that a two-mile jog would have him puffing as if it were a five-mile run of three years ago. When Tess was alive, he did five back-to-back seven-minute miles.

In the entrance the place had a trendy juice bar complete with a hard-body female blonde to inspire effort and pour drinks. Beyond that were overstuffed couches in front of large-windowed racquetball courts. You didn't play in these unless you were good, or you just didn't give a damn.

He'd need to get a towel, he reasoned, and probably look for a locker, although he wasn't clear on how that worked. They'd moved into this newer facility and absolutely everything had changed since the last time he worked out.

The blonde was serving some vegetable-juice blend to three guys, obviously regular patrons, with Baywatch bodies. "Excuse me. I'd like to work out," he said to the blonde.

"Well, you've come to the right place."

"Good."

"You look in pretty good shape," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "Here's your towel; here's your lock." As she was talking, Maria Fischer came around the corner, apparently headed for the carrot juice. She wore a simple but elegant black, gray, and white suit, complete with leggings and really good court shoes.

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.

"Take off fifty pounds," he said.

"Seventy-five, and it's a deal," she said.

They took off the weight.

"Maybe we could call it a draw," he said.

She nodded.

What followed was a steady barrage of ''push, push, push, and harder." His muscle turned to jelly and every part of him shook with the effort. But he knew he was still impressive.

When they were done, and it was time to shower, she stood by him, as if pondering something.

"So what does our smart-ass farmer have to say now?"

" 'If you've acted like a donkey and you still feel like a racehorse, don't forget to thank her.' "

She smiled.

"Before I go home to my Sherlock gallery, let's go have a bite and talk," he said. She hesitated. Unconsciously, he held his breath.

"OK," she said.

After he showered, he went to the front lobby and sat on the leather couch, waiting. He was looking out through the glass doors and saw what looked like a familiar face and red head of hair. It was Lynette. Although he knew she worked out, he couldn't quite picture her in this place.

"Hey, you," he said as she came through the door.

"Well, look who's here. I thought that was the Mercedes, but honestly I couldn't believe you would be here. And if you were, I thought you'd be in your truck. The Mercedes was supposed to go to the shop. You had a Saturday appointment at one o'clock."

"Oh God." He slapped his forehead in disbelief.

"You could still take it. They're used to you."

"Maria is in the dressing room and we're gonna get a bite and I'm going to invite her over and she's kinda-" He waggled his hand like an airplane on a bumpy ride.

"Let me run it over. It's five minutes and I'll get one of the guys to give me a ride back here."

"Could you?"

"Why not? I'll just be doing it next week if I don't do it now, and it's a lot farther from the office."

Dan was looking out the window and waiting for Maria when he watched his good friend die.

Maria bent over to tie her shoes and was telling herself not to be giddy. Dan still hadn't promised to cease on the Highlands. Not one step had been taken toward a resolution and she could feel herself, despite her stubborn will, ready to keep talking to him-as opposed to shutting him off and letting him suffer. It was a fact that Dan suffered quietly but couldn't hide it. In the battle of the sexes, it was an endearing weakness.

Then the building shook and a concussive shock wave frightened her to the core. There had been a massive explosion. For a second every woman in the dressing room was dead silent. Then there was pandemonium. Instantly she thought: "Bomb." Then she thought "Dan." She ran from the dressing room, knocking into another woman. Along with a small herd of others, she came around the corner to the juice bar.

"Oh God," she moaned when she saw him. It was after she threw her arms around him that she realized Dan was staring out the window with tears running down his face. He didn't speak. Out in the parking lot the Mercedes was blown in two. The explosion hadn't occurred until the car was pulling out of the lot onto the street in front of the club. There was an ache in Maria's heart as she watched Dan's face.

"Who?" she said.

But he didn't speak. His face shook. ''Lynette," he finally gasped, then moved toward the door.

"No," she said, holding him back. "Don't go out there. Come over here." She pulled him toward a couch facing away from the window. "I'll bring the police here."

"I should-"

"No, no. Trust me on this. I'll go."

An officer came inside and took a long statement from both of them. They referred the officer to the sheriff for all the background on the Highlands when he was asked if there was a reason someone might want to kill Dan. It might be the man who had been seen at the courthouse, they explained. They understood that police sketches were being made. And finally both Dan and Maria repeated their prior suspicions of one Corey Schneider.

The officer offered Dan police protection and Dan, as she knew he would, adamantly refused.

After the officer left, Maria saw a most amazing transformation in Dan. It was as if he had gathered up the parts of his mind and put it back together, but missing a piece. It wasn't quite right, she could tell. Still he seemed calm, focused, and almost unaffected by what had just happened.

"I need to protect Nate. Could you take him to your parents'? Katie's place may not be safe. And my mother's ranch is somewhat isolated, but it would be easy for them to find him and then to take him. They wouldn't think of your mother."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going into the Highlands, but I'll need your help."

She thought for a few moments. This was crazy. But so was the grotesque pile of rubble and flesh in the parking lot.

"Only if you promise me not to do this on your own and you swear you will wait until I get back from delivering Nate."

"I'll wait," he said.

"You won't do anything."

He nodded in reply.