Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

problem.
    “It’s easier … in the fall … when the leaves are off the trees. No matter … you do want to pay attention,” Alfred said as he continued to lead the way. At one point the trail opened up in a clearing and Alfred slowed to a stop as Malcom caught up. “That’s amazing,” huffed Malcom. “I run trails … at home … all the time. We have sixty-five acres … out behind the B&B … and there are some hills … but none like that. Who knew.”
    “That’s about the longest hill, and there are some fairly flat fire roads coming up, but it isn’t the last hill either,” said Alfred, his breathing already returned to normal.
    “Thanks for the heads-up.”
    “Ready?”
    “Let’s go.”
    In spite of the fact that it was late afternoon and the trees provided great shade cover, it was hot and both men were drenched in sweat. Alfred had neglected to tell Malcom about the stretch of road that cut through a low, swampy area that had been flooded from the work of some beavers. It was maybe less than fifty yards in total, but the water was ankle high and there was no way not to get wet. Malcom hesitated before following Alfred across, swearing under his breath. Alfred was waiting for him on the other side and immediately offered an apology. “I thought it would be dry … It was two weeks ago … I guess the beavers have been busy.”
    “Not your fault … I’m just not a fan of running in wet shoes … although, it did feel pretty good.”
    After the water, Alfred slowed the pace a bit, and as they ran along he became quite chatty. He began asking more about the Inn. Malcom was flattered by Alfred’s interest and answered his questions as best he could. He began to seem less strange, and Malcom thought about what a great equalizer running was. Even though abilities might differ, runners ran because they loved it, and out there, whether on roads or trails, they all shared the same experience, which was a large part of what made running unique.
    Yet when Malcom began telling Alfred about the quilts, Polly’s book, and the letters that inspired it, he sensed another odd change. Alfred’s questions became more pointed, more like an interrogation than casual interest. As he pressed for more details, Malcom began to feel uneasy. He tried to pick up the pace whenever he could, hoping that Alfred’s interrogation would cease. This worked initially, but then, as soon as it was possible, Alfred began again. It was as if Alfred was using the lulls to digest what he had just learned, only to return with a new set of questions.
    They had been out for nearly an hour and a half and Malcom was feeling the miles in his legs when they came off a particularly challenging section of single track. His heart was pounding and he needed a moment. “Al … .” That was all he got out, then he stopped.
    Alfred, hearing his name, turned and looked back. He was already about a hundred yards away from Malcom, and all he could see was Malcom walking in small tight circles.
    Alfred called out, “You okay?”
    He didn’t hear Malcom’s response, but he did see him give a wave, so he turned and loped back.
    As Alfred slowed and walked the last ten yards, Malcom huffed, “Sorry.”
    “You okay?”
    The way he asked the question and the look on his face made Malcom wonder if maybe Alfred was deliberately pushing the pace to test him. He hesitated a moment before answering. “Yeah. That last stretch of single track was tough and I just needed a minute. I’m good to go now.”
    Alfred didn’t say anything else. All he did was turn and begin running again, leaving it up to Malcom to catch up. The pace eased a bit, but it remained deliberately honest.
    They spent the remaining thirty minutes running in silence, with Malcom running just behind and off Alfred’s right shoulder. Mal could have run next to him, since there were no more single-track trails and the fire roads were plenty wide, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that he had felt with Alfred’s questions earlier, and then the look and way he had acted when Mal had stopped to catch his breath. Somehow, he felt safer a bit behind. They ran on, their breathing and gravel- crunching footfalls becoming one in a perfectly wordless sync.
    It wasn’t until they made the turn back onto the school’s athletic fields that there was any interaction between them. Alfred slowed, turned his head toward Malcom, and asked how he had enjoyed the run.
    “It was