She told herself that she was letting her paranoia get out of control, that Kioki Santoya’s death was just a terrible, but meaningless, coincidence. But as she came to the turnoff to Makawao, she knew she had no choice Michael had track practice this afternoon He should still be out on the field. If he was there, she would continue on to Kihei. If he wasn’t ….
Her skin crawled and her heart pounded as she tried to reject even the thought that what might be happening to Michael was what had already struck Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby.
As the school came into view, she slowed the Explorer, pulling to a stop as close to the track as she could get. There were a dozen boys standing along the track on the opposite side. For a moment Katharine couldn’t make out Michael at all. Then she saw him, crouched low, his feet braced against a pair of starting blocks. A man she assumed must be the coach was holding his hand high in the air, and then, as the man’s hand dropped, Michael took off, pushing off the blocks and sprinting down the track, the other boys cheering him on.
As she watched him run the hundred meters, Katharine felt at least part of her fear finally begin to diminish.
No matter what had happened — no matter what might have been done to Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby and Kioki Santoya, Michael was safe.
In fact, it looked to her as if he was in better condition right now than he’d ever been in his life.
As she pulled away from the curb she barely noticed the dusty sedan that had been parked ahead of her.
She certainly didn’t notice that the man sitting behind its steering wheel had also been watching Michael.
Watching him even more carefully than she.
Michael released the breath he had unconsciously been holding as he watched his mother’s car pull away from the curb and head toward the Haleakala Highway. At least she hadn’t gotten out of the car — that would have been all he needed! It had made him self-conscious enough when the rest of the team stopped practicing and lined up along the track to watch him run, but if his mother had actually gotten out of the car and come over to watch, too
Just the thought of it made him flush with embarrassment.
On the other hand, if she’d stayed around and watched, then at least he’d have had a chance of convincing her he was telling the truth when he told her about the records he’d set today.
Though the times were unofficial, he’d broken the school records in the fifty-, hundred-, and two-hundred-meter sprints, and though he’d had to go inside and breathe a little more ammonia before the last run, he still felt really good. As his mother’s car disappeared around a bend, he turned his full attention back to the track.
Even after having beaten every sprinting record for the school, he still felt totally terrific So terrific, in fact, that maybe he’d just try some of the longer runs.
He set out down the straightaway, pacing himself carefully to make it all the way around the quarter-mile loop of the track. Settling into a comfortable jog, he wasn’t even breathing hard as he turned into the first curve. He held his pace steady until he came into the long straightaway on the opposite side of the field from the bleachers, but then put on some speed as he started down the backstretch.
A month ago — even a week ago — he would be feeling it by now. His breath would be getting shallow, and his legs starting to burn, and by the time he got to the far end, he’d have to slow down to a walk, if he didn’t collapse onto the ground, gasping and panting until his breath finally returned to normal Today, though, there was no pain in his legs and his breathing was still regular, though he was finally starting to feel the effects of the stress he was putting his body under.
Mostly it was just the beginning of a slight heaviness in his chest. It didn’t hurt, really. It was just a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
Moving into the turn, he stepped up the pace a little more; whatever was going on in his chest would go away if he just ignored it. Shifting from the jog into a fast trot, he came out onto the stretch in front of the empty grandstands. As his gaze swept across the bank of empty seats, Michael imagined them filled with cheering people, and once again he upped his pace, the fast trot giving way to a lope that was easier on his legs but required more work by his lungs.
He made it around the second lap, and finally he was starting to feel a little heat in his legs. And his chest was hurting, too, but it wasn’t the same as the asthmatic agony he’d grown up with.
This felt like the healthy pain of exertion, and he was sure that if he didn’t give in to it — if he just kept his pace steady, or even increased it a little — he might break right through the pain and, for the first time, experience the high he’d heard long-distance runners talk about since he was a little kid, but which he had never felt himself. As he finished the third lap, his coach fell in beside him.
“What’s going on, Sundquist? You said you couldn’t do distances.”
Michael flashed the coach a quick grin. “Just feel like running, that’s all.”
Peters shot him a quizzical look. “You been taking something?”
Michael felt an instant stab of guilt. What should he say? Should he lie? But ammonia wasn’t a drug! It was nothing but cleaning fluid.
All the warnings he’d read on the label flashed through his mind. But if it was really as poisonous as the label had claimed, how come he was still feeling so good?
Except that suddenly he wasn’t feeling so good.
The breakthrough he’d been expecting — the surge of pheromones that he’d been sure would wash the pain from his chest, giving him a second wind that would send him sprinting around the last quarter of the mile run he’d set out to do — hadn’t come.
Instead, the pain in his chest was worse, and now the burning in his legs was starting to feel like fire.
The ammonia! That was it!
It had to be!
The pain was increasing by the second now, and he felt himself falter.
Keep going. If you can just keep going, you can get through it!
The coach, still keeping pace beside him, spoke again. “What’s going on, Sundquist? You don’t look so good.”
So the pain was starting to show in his face now. If he got caught — if the coach found out what he’d been doing in the cleaning closet — he’d get kicked off the team for sure!
Run, he told himself. Just keep on running. It’ll be okay!
But as he turned into the curve leading to the backstretch, his stride was way off and he could feel himself losing the pace.
His breath was getting ragged, too, and now every time he expanded his lungs, it felt as if knives were thrusting into his chest.
Stumbling, he lost his pace completely, regained it for a couple of steps, then stumbled again. This time, knowing he was going to fall, he veered off onto the grass of the football field, and finally collapsed onto the ground.
“Sundquist? Sundquist!” Jack Peters was crouching beside him now. Michael was lying on his back, and as he stared up into the sky, he saw it darken, lights darting around the edges of his vision, as though he was about to black out.
Or die.
No! He couldn’t be dying. Not now! Not after he’d just been feeling so good, and running better than he’d ever run in his life!
He had to get back on his feet, keep going, get through it. He rolled over, tried to pull himself into a crouch, and flopped back onto the ground. Then he felt the coach’s hands on his shoulders, turning him back over.
“Just lie there,” he heard the coach say. “What is it, Sundquist? What happened?”
Darkness was closing in on him now, and no matter how hard he tried to catch his breath, he couldn’t seem to get any air.
Then he felt another pair of hands on him and heard another voice.