Run into Trouble

head hurt.
    ***
    The one thing Drake insisted on was that the taxi driver get the medical treatment he needed and a brand new car, even if Drake, himself, had to pay for it. Why should he suffer when he hadn’t been the target of the attack? He was collateral damage, as the military liked to say.
    “It’s all being taken care of.”
    Fred Rathbun had introduced himself as the race coordinator while he and his assistant, a man with a name that sounded like Peaches, helped Drake and the taxi driver into their car and drove them to a hospital in Chula Vista. After spending a lot of time on a pay phone in the lobby, Fred joined Drake in the emergency room where he waited for his x-rays to be developed.
    “Giganticorp is going to cover all his expenses and pay him a salary while he recuperates. And we’ll buy him a brand new taxi. Of course, we’re also covering your expenses since you’re a participant in Running California.”
    Was a participant. Giganticorp, the sponsor of the ambitious race from the Mexican border to San Francisco, had been difficult for Drake to obtain information about. It was privately owned but apparently wealthy enough to easily afford the million dollar prize that would go to the winning team. That was enough information for Drake who was a capitalist at heart. He viewed free enterprise as a good thing. He had been working as a real estate agent for several years.
    Fred wore a business suit, white shirt, and tie. His clothes made him look more like an IBM sales rep than a race coordinator. He smelled of some kind of aftershave. As an employee of Giganticorp, he was first and foremost a businessman, but race coordinators, in Drake’s experience, usually looked as if they could run a race. Fred looked like the conception of an artist who liked circles. His body was round, his face was round, even his short haircut was round.
    “Do you have any idea who hit you?” Fred asked.
    The question was phrased in an interesting way. Not “Did you get a look at the truck?” or “Did you get a look at the driver?” How much did Giganticorp know about him? Probably not as much as he imagined.
    “It was a pickup truck. I didn’t get a look at the driver. I don’t even remember the color. It looked pretty much like any other pickup truck, except that I caught a glimpse of the front bumper before it hit us, and it appeared to be larger than usual—perhaps reinforced.”
    “Hmmm.” Fred wiped his sweating face with a large handkerchief. “So you don’t have any idea who it was?”
    It occurred to Drake that he’d better be careful in dealing with Fred. He might look like Humpty Dumpty, but looks could be deceiving. “I’m not on any list that I know about.”
    “I understand that you used to work for the government on some sensitive projects…”
    Fred made it an incomplete sentence that Drake would feel he had to complete. He resisted the impulse.
    “Yeah. That was a while ago.”
    “Do you want to file a police report?”
    Drake hadn’t gotten that far in his thinking. The taxi driver was being taken care of. He was being taken care of. He wouldn’t be able to give the police enough information to help them find the culprit. If this were the work of a former enemy, the police would be powerless, anyway. But why would they come after him now? Because the race would undoubtedly generate publicity? Because his name might be in the papers? It didn’t make sense.
    “I don’t think talking to the police would accomplish anything.”
    Fred nodded. “The red tape would hold up the race.”
    A thought tugged at Drake’s brain. Something about the collision. Just before he had ducked his head, he had noticed something about the truck. Or heard something. That was it. The noise of the engine had lessened. The driver had backed off the gas pedal—perhaps even put on his brakes. He hadn’t hit the taxi as hard as he could have.
    What did that mean? Drake decided not to mention it to Fred.
    “Isn’t the race supposed to start in…” Drake looked at his watch “…about an hour?” By some miracle, his watch was still working. It was coming up on noon. As he recalled, the race was scheduled to start at one.
    “The start has been postponed until tomorrow morning. Casey is with the other runners now, explaining it to them.”
    The race was already being delayed because of him. “I’m sorry I screwed it up. Are you going to be able to replace me?”
    “Replace you? Of course not.