Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

sure that Malcom wasn’t breathing, he removed Malcom’s bib, pinned it on his own singlet, and made sure there was no other identification on the body. After smashing Malcom’s headlamp and with the stick in hand he returned to the race. Many miles later the stick was discarded and “Malcom” went on to finished his first trail marathon. His ankle was sore and he was limping slightly, but he finished.
    Thinking back, he smiled in triumph. Alfred would have been proud. He was always thought of as the better one, but he wasn’t. Now he would show them. Years of anxiety and torment over the injustices that his family had suffered were soon to be righted. He had done what he had to do and there would be no stopping him. He had what he needed, the letter and the quilt were his to keep, and now all that remained was for him to put the pieces of the puzzle together and his family name would be restored. He moved his foot. There was pain, but it was a good pain.
    After finishing, he watched as rescue people arrived, and he listened to all the rumors and stories. No one had a clue that the terrible accident was anything but. It was so simple to take Malcom’s bag, walk to his car, and drive off.
    The first thing he did when he arrived back at his store was to drive the car around back, out of sight from the street. It took him less than an hour to clear enough space in the garage below to fit the car in. Before covering it with a tarp and burying it under boxes, he stashed Malcom’s bag in the trunk and went through the car one last time. That was when he found the note. It was handwritten, on paper with purple flowers adorning the edges. At the time he shoved it in his pocket without really reading it carefully. There wasn’t a lot of time left for him to bicycle back to where he left his truck before the race. Soon the race would be over and he didn’t want his truck to be anywhere near there.
    Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, he reached over, picked up the note from the nightstand, and read it again.
Mal,
Good luck at the race. I miss you. Call me before you start home and don’t forget to stop at Ben’s on the way back and pick up the quilt from Max. It’s important. She’s expecting you.
Don’t be late. Love you,
Polly
    He was confused. That’s when his hand began shaking and a strange feeling washed over him. Had he been deceived? What was this quilt that Malcom was supposed to pick up? Did it have anything to do with his quilt? Could he have taken the wrong one? No. Malcom wanted the one he had back. He had the right one, didn’t he? As he sat and mulled this over, his confusion grew. He had to find out. He would have to get that other quilt.
    He reread the note again. Ben’s? Max? At first the names didn’t mean much to him, but then he remembered. He had been in Portsmouth not so long ago, checking out more antiques, and he had stopped at Ben’s on the way home. He had sat out on the deck with his lunch, reading Polly’s book. “ That must be where I left it, ” he thought. That made sense.
    He didn’t know who Max was, but he guessed that she probably worked there. He would find out soon enough. He read the note one more time. As he finished, he slowly clenched his hand into a tight fist, crumpling the note in the process. He dropped it on the bed as his mind grappled with this new complication to resolve.

CHAPTER 55
    LIEUTENANT MALLOY SAT at his desk, coffee within reach, and began his day by looking over his notes on the John Doe found yesterday at the race. What he didn’t know said as much as what he did know, which was little. He didn’t know was who he was and why he was there. No one recognized him. He had no ID and everyone who had signed up for the race was accounted for. Plus there were no leftover vehicles after the race. How did he get there? If he drove himself, where was his car? If someone dropped him off, why wasn’t someone looking for him?
    The medical examiner noted that rigor mortis had already set in. Assuming that he had been running, the time for it to set in was probably less than the usual three to four hours. Along with the state of the bruising and the freshness of the cuts on the body, his best guess was that death had come just before dawn.
    There was no indication that the victim was anything but the beneficiary of some unbelievably bad luck. He probably tripped, fell, and hit his head on the tree where he was found. Malloy looked up from his notes.