Harlan's Race

and fell gently, humped by the passing swells. On the hot, humid breeze, that stench of the rotting meat drifted to my nostrils. I closed my eyes, and remembered my own war to turn the tide of life, to call it back to me.
    That life that was ripped from me on September 9,1976, at the Montreal Olympic Games. The day that Billy died.
    TWO
    September 9, 1976 Montreal Olympic Games
    Of all the things about the day Billy was killed, I most remember that butcher smell on my clothing. I had run the fastest sprint of my life, to where Billy had fallen, in the closing yards of the 5000-meter run. I was kneeling right on the track, in lane 1. He lay on his back, with his bleeding head in a widening pool. His long legs sprawled out on the track.
    People jostled around me. The U.S. team doctor, Parker, an ex-Army medic, who had already told me it looked like a bullet wound. Canadian police and stadium security. My head bodyguard, Harry Saidak, and my young assistant, Vince Matti. Through them, I glimpsed the paramedics racing toward us with the gurney. But I’d gotten to Billy first. I had a right to be there with him. Beyond all the uproar about my relationship with Billy, I was his coach.
    “No pulse,” Parker said. “No respiration.”
    “Hang on, hang on,” I said to Billy, gripping his hand.
    “Come on ... stay with us,” Vince told him, kneeling by us.
    But Billy’s hand was limp. The glow of spirit was already fading from his half-shut eyes. His tongue was forced out grotesquely. Parker parted Billy’s hair, exposing the tiny entry-hole of the bullet in his right temple. Exiting, the bullet had blown open his left temple. The blood was thick and dark red — the color of deep oxygen debt. His brains were a currant jelly soaking his hair. The smell was a wet, fleshy slaughter smell.
    Bits of gray bone had lodged against my gold wedding ring. The matching ring glinted on Billy’s hand, now limp on the track.
    My lover had always held his head strong and proud, like a young roadrunner speeding free just ahead of a shotgun blast. His brown curls were supposed to be plumes, with the wind of his own speed lifting them. His blue-gray eyes should be open, looking at me with their fierce love of life.
    “Harlan, you okay?” my bodyguard asked, gripping my arm. Harry's voice quivered with helpless rage.
    “Yeah,” I said automatically.
    Vince helped me and the others lift Billy to the gurney. My assistant looked dazed. One of Billy’s spiked shoes slid off in his hand. In the stands by the final turn, the crowd was suddenly screaming and stirring, as if something had just happened over there.
    Then the announcer’s voice was echoing through the vast stadium.
    “— THE GUNMAN IS IN CUSTODY. HE HAS BEEN DISARMED. WE REPEAT. REMAIN CALM ... STAY SEATED.”
    The paramedics were loading the gurney into the ambulance. Legally, they had to do their drill — get Billy to an emergency room. But I knew it was too late. As a Marine, I’d been too young for Korea, too old for Vietnam. But I’d heard the old guys talk about wounds. Nobody can live with half their brain shot away.
    “Let’s go,” my bodyguard said quietly.
    He hurried Vince and me off the track. As my assistant and I jogged along, Vince was clutching Billy’s spiked shoe against his chest, and tears streamed down his face. He had a tender, young heart, and Billy was his best friend. Mine was the steel heart — it took a while to melt down.
    “Unscrew those spikes,” I said. “They’ll hurt you.”
    Vince fumbled in his pocket for the little spike screw. He got the spikes out, dropped one, picked it up, and fumbled them into his pocket.
    Up there in the stands, the rest of our family were either sitting frozen, or trying to fight through the crowd. Billy’s father, John Sive. Betsy Heden, the young lesbian who was Billy’s best woman friend. Joe and Marian Prescott, founders of the college that supported Billy’s Olympic bid. And writer Steve Goodnight and his lover, Angel. Three more bodyguards were with them.
    Outside the stadium, those ambulance sounds were fading away.
    At the crowded stadium gate, I saw Marian and Betsy with Harry’s bodyguard partner, Chino Cabrera. The two women threw their arms around me and Vince, while Chino gave Harry a quick report. The rest of the family were hurrying to a rendezvous point outside.
    “Harlan, aren’t you going with Billy?” Marian panted.
    Then she and Betsy saw the red mess on my